The Nigerian Boss Problem — And Why I Write From Stockholm
Let me tell you something about a certain kind of Nigerian authority figure that I have encountered my entire adult life — and that I still encounter today, right here on social media, from people sitting in the dark cursing NEPA with a dodgy internet connection and a nagging wife.
During my National Service at the National Assembly, I worked under an Ambassador — a man who took visible, almost sensual pleasure in taking a red biro and drawing lines through every speech and report I submitted. Not because my work was poor. Because I was young, educated abroad, and he could not stand it. He did it in front of me. Repeatedly. As though I were illiterate. As though I were dirt.
One day I told him, calmly and clearly, that I had a return ticket to New York in my pocket, that I had no intention of working for the Nigerian government or any Nigerian company not owned by my father, and that if he destroyed my work one more time, I would walk to the airport and use it.
I was not the only one. Several of us serving our national service in that building were subjected to the same treatment by elected senators and so-called statesmen who believed that belittling young educated Nigerians made them look larger. It did not. One colleague was so fed up he nearly came to blows with Senate President Joseph Wayas — and Wayas’s own security detail refused to intervene, telling him to his face that his behaviour was unbecoming of a man in his office. He retreated to his suite to knock back his brandy.
Joe did love his brandy. And the more he drank, the harder it became for him to navigate the long, carefully crafted English words and phrases we had written into his speeches — words we knew, as we wrote them, that he would struggle to pronounce on camera. Watching him splutter through them on television, we his speechwriters would dissolve into laughter. Big men. Big trouble. Big fun.
I learned my lesson about Nigerian bosses the hard way, one final time, when I worked briefly for a man who began as one of the most reasonable, grounded human beings I had encountered — and transformed, within months, into something else entirely. The moment he felt comfortable, the contempt emerged. I endured it until I could no longer bear it, then went to the polo club, had a conversation with a military governor, secured a contract to supply his state with vehicles, made three million naira — at a time when the naira stood one to one with the dollar — walked back into my former boss’s office, placed the contract and the cheque on his desk, and told him precisely where he could go.
I made myself a promise that day. Never again.
And yet here I am — writing, for free, at a level that would not embarrass the pages of The New York Times, about a country I love enough to refuse to stop speaking about — and a certain kind of Nigerian finds me even in Stockholm. They begin their messages not with argument but with instruction. They tell me about my style. My attitude. My tone. They inform me, this arrogant Kio Amachree, this stupid Ijaw man who won’t stop writing about his father, that I need to be corrected.
I sit with my champagne. I play pool. I picture them clearly.
What I would say to anyone tempted to write to me in that register is this: I have been making that choice since I was twenty-three years old, and it has never ended well for the other party. I am not your subordinate. I am not your employee. I am not sitting in your National Assembly waiting for your red biro.
I write because I choose to. I stop when I choose to. And I am very, very far away.
Kio Amachree | Stockholm, Sweden | President, Worldview International
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