theside of the museum, to a building that looks like a shed. The building, bearing an old sign announcing a “temporary exhibition,” is an adjunct to the museum, dedicated solely to the history of Nigeria’s rulers from the 1914 political amalgamation of the Northern and Southern protectorates to the present day. I think I have had my most dispiriting experience of the day already, but no, there is still more punishment in store for me. The circular shed contains the National Museum’s most famous artifact: the bullet-riddled black Mercedes-Benz in which the head of state General Murtala Muhammed was assassinated during the failed coup of February 1976. This car is the only thing most Lagosian schoolchildren remember about the National Museum. Other than the pocked, gleaming vehicle, the display consists only of a series of wall plaques featuring texts about Nigerian history and photographs of the main protagonists. There are no artifacts, and no documents. The plaques, made of thick card, as in the courtyard, are extremely rudimentary, and they, too, have succumbed to mildew. The photos depict Lord Lugard, Aminu Kano, Obafemi Awolowo, Nnamdi Azikiwe, Tafawa Balewa, and others. The first of the historical texts in the display reads as follows: “In the early part of the nineteenth century, the efforts of various abolitionists gradually brought the obnoxious practice of slavery to an end.”
And that is the depth of it. The Atlantic slave trade, with hundreds of thousands of our compatriots sold, tortured, murdered, was an “obnoxious practice.” This under-whelmingtext was doubtless written by a colonial officer, probably a few decades ago, but someone else keeps it hanging there, year after year, as an official Nigerian response to slavery. As I read the plaque devoted to each regime, my spirit sinks further. The alleged achievements of each military ruler are listed. The historical record—and again, this is the National Museum—is sycophantic, inaccurate, uncritical, and desperately outdated, as if each dictator was sent a form to fill in with his “achievements” and it was left at that. I don’t know how to make sense of what I am looking at. It is as though there is the idea that a national museum is a good thing to have, but no one has the interest or ability to present it properly. History, which elsewhere is a bone of contention, has yet to enter the Nigerian public consciousness, at least judging by institutions like the museum.
The narratives on the three most recent regimes, printed on paper, are tacked near the end of the circular gallery. No one could possibly form a positive impression of Nigeria on the basis of this museum. The worst of the butchers that ran the nation aground are celebrated, without exception. Abacha is there, in his dark glasses. Babangida is there, with his grin. The sequence of posters gives an impression of orderliness and continuity in Nigeria’s postindependence history, and no analysis of the coups and countercoups that were the rule rather than the exception for changes of regime. What, I wonder, are the social consequences of life in a country that has no use for history? It brings to mind thebrusque retort uttered by a character in John Sayles’s film Men with Guns in response to a tourist’s query: “Atrocities? No. No atrocities happened here. That happens in other countries.”
When I step out of the shed, the woman at the front desk is slumped over, fast asleep. The time is 1:00 P.M. I walk out of the museum in bad spirits, and I don’t really recover until I visit a nearby buka for some pounded yam and egusi soup.
FIFTEEN
T here could hardly be a stronger contrast to the National Museum than the MUSON Centre, which I visit later on the same afternoon. MUSON was founded in the 1980s and has since that time come to play a leading role in the musical and theatrical life of the country. The grounds of MUSON—the word is an acronym for the Musical Society of
And that is the depth of it. The Atlantic slave trade, with hundreds of thousands of our compatriots sold, tortured, murdered, was an “obnoxious practice.” This under-whelmingtext was doubtless written by a colonial officer, probably a few decades ago, but someone else keeps it hanging there, year after year, as an official Nigerian response to slavery. As I read the plaque devoted to each regime, my spirit sinks further. The alleged achievements of each military ruler are listed. The historical record—and again, this is the National Museum—is sycophantic, inaccurate, uncritical, and desperately outdated, as if each dictator was sent a form to fill in with his “achievements” and it was left at that. I don’t know how to make sense of what I am looking at. It is as though there is the idea that a national museum is a good thing to have, but no one has the interest or ability to present it properly. History, which elsewhere is a bone of contention, has yet to enter the Nigerian public consciousness, at least judging by institutions like the museum.
The narratives on the three most recent regimes, printed on paper, are tacked near the end of the circular gallery. No one could possibly form a positive impression of Nigeria on the basis of this museum. The worst of the butchers that ran the nation aground are celebrated, without exception. Abacha is there, in his dark glasses. Babangida is there, with his grin. The sequence of posters gives an impression of orderliness and continuity in Nigeria’s postindependence history, and no analysis of the coups and countercoups that were the rule rather than the exception for changes of regime. What, I wonder, are the social consequences of life in a country that has no use for history? It brings to mind thebrusque retort uttered by a character in John Sayles’s film Men with Guns in response to a tourist’s query: “Atrocities? No. No atrocities happened here. That happens in other countries.”
When I step out of the shed, the woman at the front desk is slumped over, fast asleep. The time is 1:00 P.M. I walk out of the museum in bad spirits, and I don’t really recover until I visit a nearby buka for some pounded yam and egusi soup.
FIFTEEN
T here could hardly be a stronger contrast to the National Museum than the MUSON Centre, which I visit later on the same afternoon. MUSON was founded in the 1980s and has since that time come to play a leading role in the musical and theatrical life of the country. The grounds of MUSON—the word is an acronym for the Musical Society of
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