In the early days when Abuja was taking shape, I visited the city to see an aunt and satisfy my curiosity. Rumours were making the rounds that it was an emerging and promising city of bright lights.
Many young people from Jos who had relocated there already reflected what appeared to be prosperity. Whenever they returned home, they exuded wealth, wore beautiful clothes, smelled good and handed out money as if it were paper.
During that visit, my aunt and I came across one of them at a deserted junction looking her worst. She was almost unrecognisable. She offered to take us to see other Jos girls living in the same neighbourhood.
She led us through rough roads and rocky surroundings. As we climbed higher, makeshift wooden structures began to appear. She stopped in front of one building, then another, calling out familiar names.
After a while, familiar faces began peeping out. My eyes almost popped out. I could not reconcile the image those same girls had presented when they visited Jos a few months earlier for Christmas with the harsh reality before me.
They were not happy to see me. It also seemed strange that people who claimed to be working in Abuja were still in bed at that hour. One of them eventually burst the bubble and told us that some would soon go out to dress chickens for roasting, while most would be picked up later in the night by their customers.
The hard truth slowly sank in.
Indeed, all that glitters is not gold. We had assumed they were better off because of the image they projected during Christmas celebrations and weddings.
It was all a lie. Their living conditions were terrible. The structures were temporary, and they could be forced to leave at any moment as development moved closer to the area.
The reality behind appearances
A similar experience confronted me when my cousin and I travelled to Kalong in Shendam Local Government Area. After dropping my belongings at our family house, I went to my cousin’s home. We spent the day chatting and observing the beehive of activities in their compound.
Her mother ran a thriving business selling local alcohol and side dishes. Customers came and went while my cousin’s mother and her sisters attended to them. They served moringa kwodo — cooked moringa leaves mixed with groundnut cake powder, tomatoes, pepper, and onions — alongside peppered pork, stick meat and remnants of burkutu, the locally brewed millet or sorghum alcohol sold during the day.
Since it was late, I decided to spend the night there. I was given the honour of sleeping on the bed. Shortly afterwards, strange bites woke me up. Mosquito bites I could tolerate, but these were different. They attacked every part of my body, even beneath my clothes.
Mosquitoes hovered in dozens, producing their familiar irritating buzz, but they were not the worst problem. The invisible creatures biting me made my entire body feel as though it were on fire.
Soon, a foul smell forced me to sit up. I looked around the room. The bed was an old iron frame originally designed to be canopied, but instead of curtains, dirty clothes hung carelessly around it. The room was tiny, barely large enough to accommodate the bed, with only a narrow space left for storing clothes and allowing going in and out.
On that little floor space, about five people, including a mother and her baby, were sleeping. There was hardly enough room to stand.
Life in conditions no one should accept
Someone lay beside me, oblivious to the bites and the smell. As I watched, rats scurried around the room, crossing over sleeping bodies that seemed too exhausted or too accustomed to the situation to notice.
My eyes soon found the source of the offensive odour. The baby had soiled himself. When he finished, he let out a loud cry. His mother woke up groggily, checked him and immediately discovered the cause.
She picked up a rag, cleaned the child, then used the same rag to wrap the excrement before pushing it underneath the bed.
Sadly, that marked the end of my sleep.
By 4:00 a.m., the compound had come alive. By 6:00 a.m., the aroma of delicious meals filled the air. Outside, the compound was remarkably neat, and farmers were already making their way to the fields.
When I asked where I could relieve myself, I was directed to a neighbour’s latrine. It was common knowledge that many villagers preferred using the bush, where pigs often waited to feed on human waste.
What remains worrying is that, to this day, many villagers pay little attention to their living quarters while placing enormous importance on what they eat. They eat well but often pay little attention to the condition of their homes, their sleeping arrangements or the number of people sharing a room.
Many houses still lack bathrooms and toilets. Where bathrooms exist, they are often makeshift structures enclosed with old zinc sheets or raffia.
A grassroots sanitation challenge
This is not simply a matter of poverty. As I pointed out earlier, many of these families can afford good food. During Christmas celebrations, some villages celebrate more extravagantly than many urban communities, slaughtering cows, goats and chickens purchased through adashi contributions and other communal arrangements.
If government truly wants to end open defecation, the campaign must begin at the grassroots. Villagers need to be educated on the benefits of having toilets within the confines of their homes and the importance of healthy sleeping conditions. Good sanitation and decent living environments contribute significantly to longer and healthier lives.
Unfortunately, this situation remains common in many Plateau communities, perhaps more than in many other parts of Nigeria. It is often justified as an expression of hospitality and openness to relatives, even when it means several people sleeping in cramped conditions.
However, such arrangements are unhealthy.
Community leaders should be engaged to educate their people about proper living conditions. Land is generally available, and building costs are relatively low. Families should be encouraged to construct larger houses with more rooms, while toilets and bathrooms should be regarded as essential parts of every home rather than optional additions.