Boris Herrmann
6 January 2009
opinion
Lagos — As somebody who not too long ago finished academic studies in Berlin, with fresh memories of overcrowded auditoriums, seminars that never take place and spiritless lecturers, I am of course very interested in how people study in Lagos.
So I type the keywords "Universities" and " Lagos " into Google and watch what happens.730, 000 hits. There are of course some doublets and duds but it is certain that there is a colourful and rich university landscape in Nigeria 's largest city.
The " University of Lagos " (UNILAG), the " Lagos State University " (LASU) and the " Lagos Business School " (LBS) are the quickest to be found by the search machine. The former is federal, the second is operated by Lagos State and the third is private. With this I already have all types of Nigerian academia before me. That's work in comfort.
UNILAG calls itself " Nigeria 's best university" on its homepage. LASU calls itself "one of the most prestigious universities of Africa " on its homepage. The LBS calls itself "one of the 50 best business schools in the world" on its homepage. I stop my online research here without knowing where to find out about the reality.
For logistic reasons I decide to start with the main campus of LASU in Ojo. The area is completely surrounded by a security fence. Behind the gates, grim looking soldiers with rifles cool their heels. A hatchery of free thinking looks different, I think, while my car rolls on the green lawn of the faculty of law.
There, I meet D (name supplied), law student in his third year. D wears an LA Lakers T-shirt and a baseball cap. It's Friday and on Friday the law students of LASU are allowed to wear casual clothing. Every other day, school uniforms are obligatory: Black suit, white shirt for the male students, black skirt, white blouse for the female students. "Maintain Dress Code" reads a sign in the entrance hall of the law building.
I tell D that Germany would have to face a revolution if students were required to come to the universities in uniforms. D responds that one could also maintain one's individuality while wearing a uniform. At least there are all sorts of collars for white shirts, he adds.
There are allegedly about 8, 000 students enrolled at the faculty of law of LASU. I roughly estimate that at best 500 of them could fit into the two story building at the same time. To channel the rush of the people, there are two separate stairways leading to the second floor: one for the lecturers, one for the students.
A tutorial is being held in the big auditorium at the end of the corridor. Unfortunately, I cannot understand what the lecturer wants to say. The classroom has no doorway and next-door rattles a drill machine. The electricians try to fix the lights which haven't been working for months. The library of the faculty on the opposite side has been bare brickwork for ten years.
What the university does with the fees of its students, after all that's N25, 000 per session, the dean of the faculty of law doesn't even know exactly. It is only said that "the money is spent for the benefit of the students." For my own benefit - there is no air conditioning in the law building - I leave the house and drive with D through the campus. We pass rusty car skeletons, a mountain of discarded chairs and a scaffold auditorium.
osite the Christian chapel, in the garden of the mosque are two goats, grazing. But the impression of peaceful co-existence is misleading. D explains that there are several armed brotherhoods on the campus, shootouts occur regularly. Next to the big entrance gate is a signboard: "You only live once, but if you live right, once is enough." When we leave the area, I ask myself how many LASU students would subscribe to this catchphrase.
The Spanish architect, Jess Castellote is waiting for me at a gas station on the express way to Lekki. Together, we drive to the new main building of the Lagos Business School which was planned, built and furnished by Castellote. Already at the luxury parking space I realize that the problems and sorrows of this private school are differently weighted than those of the public universities. "The school should appear as a castle from the outside", says Castellote, looking at the growing bamboo tendrils in front of the facade. We enter the well cooled university lobby where an electronic signboard advertises the next events in the Coca-Cola auditorium.
From the glazed inner courtyard one can look into the glazed stairway and over to the glazed cantina. Castellote's desire was to create a virtually transparent academia, featuring natural light conditions but not natural temperature conditions. Therefore, he adjusted all windows either towards the North or towards the South. The new building of the LBS is an oasis of silence for about 300 prospective managers, consultants and bankers who pay about 15, 000 US-dollars for their exclusive education. The Financial Times rated the LBS in a world-wide business school ranking on place 48.
Since there are hardly any public museums in Lagos , Castellote also started to collect art and to display it at the LBS. In the well cooled canteen, the students take their midday tea under a sculpture of Chris Afuba, or under a painting of Toni Nsofor, in the administration wing hangs a wall carpet of Nike Okundaye and several reproductions of Bruce Onobrakpeya, in the passage to the canteen, Castellote has arranged quite an impressive collection of traditional African jewellery. Somehow, everything here seems to be in order. Even the ratio of women, about 50 percent of the students with superior prospects for careers are female. The only thing missing now is the school being affordable for somebody whose parents do not have super jobs.
The main campus of the University of Lagos is something that a European would rather call a small town. Behind the entrance gate, one can find an AP gas station, a shopping mall, branches of several international banks, fast-food restaurants, carefully tarred roads and a fire brigade with an on-call service. UNILAG is also the only place in Lagos so far, where I saw public waste bins. Somewhat lost, I wander around the university wonder land until after a while I find the faculty of mass communication. That's what I studied myself. This will be the best spot to start my investigation.
Under a signboard reading "Welcome to the Centre of Excellence", I meet 22 year old mass communication student O (name supplied). She lives in the area Ikotun-Egbe and is every day on the road for three hours to make it to the university. Today she came through the urban jungle although there are no lectures. The new semester just started a week ago and the students at the Centre of Excellence are still waiting for their time-tables.
Olushola has therefore all the time in the world to guide me through her faculty building. She shows me a well equipped computer room and a big lecture hall which is divided by partitioning walls into three smaller halls. Abruptly, we run into the director of the institute, Professor Ralph Akinfeleye. He wonders why I haven't introduced myself officially and is a bit annoyed that O only showed me the simple rooms for the pre-degree students. "You should see the classrooms in the upper level, our sound editing chambers and our TV studio", says the professor. There we are.
Once we are upstairs, the lecture suddenly changes into the future tense. "Here we will have our photo laboratory", says Akinfeleye. "And here the seven sound editing chambers, donated by the UNESCO." In another room, which could be an antique shop for time-based media, are stored, among other things, six bags of rice. In the TV studio, open cables hang from the ceiling, next to the door is a bucket full of sand. All the wall clocks in this level display a different time, none displays the correct one. O admits later that in three years of academic studies, she has never entered these rooms.
There is no time to get more opinions. The director of the institute has decided that I am to be interviewed now myself. I am escorted on a direct way to the recording studio of "103.1 UNILAG -FM", Nigeria 's first student radio. While the 12 noon news is read, the surprised looking moderator is handed a note: "Boris Herrmann, German Journalist". Seconds later, we are live on air.
It is not necessarily easy to question somebody live on air of whom a minute earlier one did not even know he exists. The colleague introduces me as a "very important guest from Germany ". I say that I am actually not so important and get a bit lost when I have to give my opinion on the Nigerian cooking. Apart from that, this radio blind date works fairly well.
When I leave the studio, somebody hands me a cassette with the recording of the interview. Back in the car, I realise that out of wondering where to get a tape recorder at home, I completely forgot to search for an end of my story.
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