WizBaba

International Development. Economics. Growth Enthusiast. Happy Bloke. Arsenal.

[Champagne DT @ChampagneDT]

Economics will struggle to have their “ICAN” equivalent, because it is too subjective to have a consensus on ideas.

Two chartered accountants would agree on how to prepare a balance sheet.

Two qualified economists would have opposing views on monetary policy and interest rates.

[Dr Aloy Chife @ChifeDr]

I’m 61, and not yet in active retirement.
3 years from now, my last child will depart for college.

At that juncture, the inimitable Iyom Electrik (aka “Fine Girl”, “Odogwu nwanyi”), and I will have a choice to make; and it will be a binary choice.

1) Return to our Estate in Anam and build the largest fish farm in Igboland. Farming and writing philosophical treatises.
But this choice carries a contingency; a dramatic improvement in security. If this fails to materialize, we will deed the Estate over to the Catholic Church to repurpose as a high school.

2) Buy a Villa or Finca in Andalusia or Porto, somewhere along the Duoro River. Immersing ourselves in the culture and farming and writing philosophical treatises.

One seeks a life of humble obscurity. Nature, music, poetry, lyricism and knowledge in contradistinction to monumentality, and power. For indeed, “Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas," ("Happy is the one who has been able to understand the causes of things").

Many friends and colleagues, amongst them plausibly the nation’s best and brightest, called it quits years ago. Seeking freedom from the oppression of a sunken place. Camus was right. A life so close to the wall is a dog’s life.

Their surrogates are the politicians and the purblind “elite” or moneyed peasants; encrustations of barnacle and weed upon the underbelly of the Leviathan, the Nigerian State. The lower forms of life, long seized control of a benighted people. A genus that turns the suffering of the average Nigerian into spectacle.

The people themselves chained in a dark, underground Plato’s cave and looking straight ahead at a blank stone wall and nourished on an infernal diet of tribalism and religion, are caught between passivity and complicity. They are no bargain. Their suffering is not redemptive.

And the intellectuals? The enablers. “Everywhere belle face”.

Time they say, is a precious thing. And I have always liked the dictum: “Time is a fugitive”*

So you see dear Nigerians, I am a candidate in this election. Vote wisely.

* (Literal, the Latin, “Tempus fugit”)

[WizBaba @InZpiredwiz]

I think God's plan is a mystery and culture matters too. There's a high possibility that what happened to him wouldn't happen, if he was in our environment. I can also say that with him in our team, we could have won the league before now. We are all speaking from hindsight.

[Leo Dasilva @SirLeoBDasilva]

You know what’s crazy?
Arsenal bought Trossard because we could not close on Mudryk.
Trossard basically won us the league with his goal at Westham.
Mudryk is still appealing a ban.
Sometimes you have to trust Gods plan and not your plan.

[Kafaji Comps @KafajiComps]

Myles Lewis-Skelly speaking at Hale End’s farewell event for Per Mertesacker ❤️

[Dr Moeketsi @AusBassie]

Day 140

[🥤𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬 @_Afcbanks]

He was so sure about the project and see where we’re now

Arteta will always be the BEST Arsenal manager ever ❤️

See you next week

[Ó L Á M Í L É K Á N 🧊🧊🧊 @__Sanusi__]

This Video Will Go Down As one of the Best Video Arsenal Ever Made 🤍❤️😮‍💨

[HandofArsenal @HandofArsenal]

Please comment below Arsenal fans with your memories / feelings / videos / pictures of last night - today. We did it!

Will try get them across to the lads ❤️

[Aaron @elnnenym]

Whatever he said. ❤️❤️

[WizBaba @InZpiredwiz]

My FC... I love you Arsenal. Thank you 🙏😊

[Arsenal @Arsenal]

This belongs to all of us.

[Arsenal @Arsenal]

This belongs to all of us.

[Dr Joe Abah, OON @DrJoeAbah]

A little while ago, my brother @pokigbo invited me to join a small book club of select people. Every month, we read a topical book, meet at his lovely home, discuss the book for two hours, and then enjoy a sumptuous dinner prepared by his beautiful, intelligent wife.

Last Saturday, we met in his home to discuss the book ‘How China Escaped The Poverty Trap’ by Yuen Yuen Ang. Remarkably, we were joined online by the author herself and in person by the Chinese Ambassador to Nigeria who shared his lived, empirical experiences of China’s transformation. I actually gave up watching a crucial Arsenal match and braved the Abuja rain to join. 😀

What I found most remarkable about the book was how China used what it already had, including imperfect institutions, to lift their people out of poverty. They did not wait until they had “strong institutions” or to eliminate corruption, before they led their people to prosperity. It was growth and economic prosperity that led to stronger institutions, not the other way round.

They used what could be called ‘Directed Improvisation’ where Beijing set out a vision and then allowed the provinces to innovate and compete among each other. Anything that worked in one province was encouraged and replicated elsewhere. It was humbling that cities like Shenzen alone had double the GDP of Nigeria! And there weee many more cities!

It was a refreshing break from the mud pit that Twitter can be.

And no, you cannot join because he carefully curated who he invited, and each participant brought a particular perspective that complemented others'. From policy makers to academics to senior government officials (current and former) to young men and women.

Although you can’t join this particular book club, you can start your own book club, since I’ve shared his template with you. 😀

I look forward to next month’s book, the informed discussions and intellectual sword crossings, and the lovely dinner and good wine. 😀

[Igor Buinevici @Igor_Buinevici]

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[WizBaba @InZpiredwiz]

@london_Akan @grayshurz Currently in season 7... Carrie is so annoying 😠

[WizBaba @InZpiredwiz]

Just to be sure and to re-confirm:

Were you the same child that was expelled from crèche and fought a goat?

If yes, then no surprises 🤗

[Ọgá HR: the african workforce guy 🇳🇬|🇷🇼 @MeetJMB]

my mum did everything to convince my dad that I was possessed, but he always dismissed it as nonsense talk. to him I was just a restless child.

until the day they all saw me fight with monkey they brought for demonstration at the Kawo Motor Park!

my papa no believe him eyes!

[WizBaba @InZpiredwiz]

@thearsfamily97 I love your take. Beautifully expressed.

[Arsenal @Arsenal]

A surprise Mother’s Day visit for Cristhian Mosquera ❤️

Have a special Sunday celebrating, Gooners 🫂

[AI Panda @AIPandaX]

Skip the Netflix Tonight, Instead Read these Articles To Get Into 1% In Life.

[JP Attueyi @jpattueyi]

Every Sunday at exactly 3:17 p.m., my father called me.

Not 3:15.
Not 3:20.
3:17.

It started a month after he retired.

At first, I thought it was boredom. Then habit. Then aging.

But it never changed.

If I picked up, he’d say the same thing:

“Are you home?”

If I said yes, he’d reply, “Good. Just checking,” and hang up.

If I said no, there’d be a pause.

Then he’d say, “Alright. Call me when you’re back.”

That was it.

No small talk. No updates. No “how are you?”

Just… checking.

My wife thought it was sweet.

I thought it was strange.

One Sunday, I decided not to answer.

I was home. I just let it ring.

At 3:18 p.m., he called again.

I ignored it.

At 3:19 p.m., my wife’s phone rang.

She frowned. “It’s your dad.”

I gestured for her not to answer.

The phone stopped.

At 3:21 p.m., the landline rang.

No one even has that number.

We stared at it.

It stopped after five rings.

At 3:24 p.m., someone knocked on the door.

Three sharp knocks.

Not aggressive.

Precise.

I opened it.

My father stood there.

Calm. Neatly dressed. Slightly out of breath.

“Why didn’t you answer?” he asked.

“I was busy.”

He looked past me into the living room.

“You’re home.”

“Yes.”

He nodded slowly.

Then said something he’d never said before.

“Good.”

And he left.

That night, I drove to his house.

I needed to understand.

He lived alone since my mother passed. Same house I grew up in. Same curtains.

He opened the door before I knocked.

“You came,” he said.

“Dad, why do you call every Sunday?”

He studied me for a moment.

“Come in.”

We sat at the dining table.

He didn’t speak immediately. He rarely does.

Finally, he stood up and walked to a locked drawer in the hallway.

He pulled out a thin folder.

Inside were newspaper clippings.

House fires.

Robberies.

Gas leaks.

Carbon monoxide deaths.

All circled in red.

“Every single one,” he said quietly, “happened on a Sunday afternoon.”

I blinked. “That doesn’t mean..”

He held up a hand.

“When your mother died, I was in the garden.”

I swallowed.

“I was ten feet away. Ten feet. She called once. I didn’t hear her.”

Silence stretched between us.

“I promised myself,” he continued, “that if something ever happened to you, I would not be in the garden.”

My chest tightened.

“So you call me to make sure I’m alive?”

He looked at me steadily.

“No.”

A long pause.

“I call to make sure you answer.”

I frowned. “What’s the difference?”

He leaned back in his chair.

“If you answer, I know you can.”

The words didn’t land immediately.

Then they did.

“If you couldn’t answer,” he continued calmly, “I would already be driving.”

My stomach dropped.

“You’ve been ready to come over every Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“Even when I said I wasn’t home?”

He nodded.

“I wait ten minutes. Then I check.”

A cold realization crept up my spine.

“Dad… how many times have you come?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he looked toward the window.

“Six.”

Six Sundays.

Six times he drove to my house.

Six times he must have stood outside.

Watching.

Making sure.

I tried to laugh it off.

“That’s extreme.”

He didn’t smile.

“You think emergencies schedule appointments?”

We sat there in heavy silence.

Then I asked the question that had been building all evening.

“Why 3:17?”

For the first time, his composure cracked.

“That’s the time on the hospital clock,” he said softly, “when they told me she was gone.”

The air left my lungs.

He wasn’t checking on me.

He was trying to outrun a minute.

Every Sunday.

For years.

I drove home that night differently.

The following Sunday at 3:16 p.m., my phone was in my hand.

At 3:17, it rang.

I answered on the first vibration.

“Hi Dad.”

There was a pause.

Then, for the first time ever, he said something new.

“I know.”

And he hung up.

[New Singaporean🇰🇪🏇🏿 @NewSingaporean_]

The opening line of Pride and Prejudice is one of the most iconic and unforgettable opening lines in English literature.