The Healing Power of Traditional Knowledge and the Laughter of a Genius
In quiet moments, I often ponder how African forebears dealt with the silent assassins that plagued their bodies and souls—conditions such as cerebral hemorrhage, hernia rupture, complications from childbirth, heart attacks, kidney and liver failure, among others. It is fascinating to consider why the Abiku phenomenon, a belief in children who were thought to die and return to the spirit world, seemed to fade after the introduction of hygienic birth practices and Western medicine. These advancements effectively tackled tetanus and other infections that once devastated infants, leading to the decline of the Abiku belief.
Mothers wept rivers of tears, while fathers clenched their teeth, believing the Abiku was a divine curse. Today, where have these spectral children gone? Has the population of Abikus in the afterlife vanished? In the past, Africans sought to appease the gods, but salvation came through human effort and knowledge.
History reveals enough cruelty toward the mentally ill in pre-colonial Africa for me to conclude that our ancestors’ understanding of mental health was as primitive as the treatment of madness in old European or Asian asylums, where patients were whipped rather than treated.
I try to avoid relying on medication, preferring organic food over fast food and water over soda. I believe food should support sustainability and health, not contribute to obesity.
In Nigeria, malaria reigns as the king of sicknesses. One of its ancient remedies is the Dongoyaro tree, known scientifically as Azadirachta indica. Native to India, this tree has leaves and bark rich in antimicrobial, antibacterial, antifungal, antiviral, anti-inflammatory, and antioxidant properties, making it a natural pharmacy. The English, too, recognize its healing powers, calling it neem.
Dongoyaro leaves have been used for centuries to expel internal worms and external lice due to their antiparasitic properties. They also aid in managing diabetes by regulating blood sugar levels and improving glucose tolerance and insulin production. When applied to wounds, the leaf extracts promote healing and prevent infection. They are also effective in treating stomach upsets, loss of appetite, and ulcers.
The leaves can be used in various body and bath care solutions to address acne, eczema, burns, sores, dandruff, dry scalp, and hair loss. Additionally, they serve as a natural insecticide and mosquito repellent.
Clinical research has confirmed the effectiveness of neem, or Dongoyaro, in treating the aforementioned conditions. A study published in 2020 by Usharani Pingali et al. in the National Library of Medicine journal highlights its benefits for diabetes management. Another study led by K. Dhingra in 2017 affirms its efficacy in combating plaque and gingivitis.
The name “Dongoyaro” comes from the Hausa language, where “dongo” means “tall” and “yaro” means “child,” reflecting the tree’s tall and slender form.
Despite being a one-tree pharmacy, the Dongoyaro cannot cure two fevers currently affecting Nigeria. These are not typhoid, malaria, bacterial, or viral infections. They are Coup Fever and Trump Fever—self-inflicted and requiring unique Nigerian cures.
As I am not a doctor, I will not diagnose these fevers. Instead, I will share a story from my school days involving a classmate, Kalu Okoro Nchege, a brilliant but mischievous genius who embodied Nigeria’s richness, nonchalance, and reactiveness.
K.O., as he was called, was a student at Imo State University (now Abia State University) and hailed from Arochukwu in Abia State. He was slim, tall, light-complexioned, handsome, chummy, and more than funny.
Former Governor Rochas Okorocha could have employed K.O. as the official comedian of Imo State instead of creating the Ministry of Happiness and Purpose Fulfilment, which became a source of mockery. K.O. would have brought laughter to Imolites and Nigerians, unlike the budget-driven happiness Okorocha tried to induce.
Happiness, according to science, reduces stress, improves cardiovascular health, boosts immunity, relieves pain, relaxes muscles, and stimulates organs like the heart and lungs. Victor Hugo once said, “Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face.” Research from the College of Medicine at Ohio State University supports this, stating that laughter lowers blood pressure and bad cholesterol, decreases inflammation, and improves blood flow.
Okorocha likely believed that synthetic happiness would make people overlook his administration’s shortcomings, but his son-in-law, Uche Nwosu, lost the governorship election, thwarting his plans.
K.O. typified a cross-section of Nigerian leaders—naughty, calculating, and carefree. While he was careless with schooling, he was extravagant with jokes. His humor often brought laughter to lecture halls, even during unpredictable times of coup and threat.
One day, K.O. entered class late and sat beside a student. He asked, “Bro, di lecturer never come?” The student replied, “E never come.” An angry K.O. blurted, “Oh, why nah? Na so dis lecturers go dey do, person go leave customers come school, lecturer no go come. Which kain rubbish bi dis nah?”
When the students noticed the lecturer had stopped talking, they looked back and found K.O. sitting beside him. The lecturer, Mr John Otu, later became a commissioner for information and state orientation in Ebonyi State.
On another occasion, Professor Nwachukwu Agbada was teaching when K.O. gave an example of a word ending with the ‘sh’ sound: “bash.” The class held its breath, and Agbada, realizing the double meaning, told K.O. to give another example. K.O. said “yansh.”
Agbada retorted that only someone wearing okirika clothes would crack okirika jokes. K.O. whispered that Agbada was the one wearing them, leading to a humorous exchange.
Exam fever was a common fear among students. K.O. would live off-campus, working all day and promising to read all night. He would dip his feet in water, drink coffee, and munch kola nuts. The next morning, he would find his legs still in water, along with the textbook, but his coffee and kola nuts gone.
K.O. would collect clothes from hostels for a fee. One day, a student asked him to wash his clothes, but the student was actually trying to flirt. K.O. laughed it off, saying, “You start again?”
During weekends, I would visit K.O.’s apartment. One day, a couple walked by, and K.O. shouted, “You start again?” The guy spread his fingers in a derogatory sign. K.O. asked, “Am I an oracle?” The guy burst into laughter, waving his fingers as he rushed away with his girlfriend.
“Who bi di guy?” I asked. K.O. replied, “No mind am. Na our junior, but e no dey serious. E no do well for one im courses sometime ago, and im pipu come meet im lecturer, begging di lecturer to give am let-my-people-go pass mark. Dem bring yams, palm oil, goat and fowl.”
A few days later, the lecturer saw the student with another girl and said, “You are chasing women up and down, when you fail tomorrow, your people will bring fowl, goat, yams and palm oil, am I an oracle?”
It is instructive to note that while terrorists ravaged the land, some Nigerian leaders asked, “Where are the cows?” Now, President Trump wants to help fish out the cows; the Nigerian earth is quaking. Since Trump issued his warning, I’ve not heard a word from the boastful terrorist camps. So, mad dog dey fear fire?
There are many more moments of roaring laughter with K.O., the dapper and dashing elite student, whom many feared would not graduate but did so in record time. As K.O., rich in promise and potential like Nigeria, breasted the tape against all odds, I pray that my beloved country would survive all coups and external threats. But K.O. made efforts; he attended classes, photocopied notes, and sat all exams. Nigeria needs to make sincere efforts, tackle corruption, insecurity, unemployment, and collapsed infrastructure; that is when President Trump won’t threaten, that is when the military will remain in barracks.
God bless Nigeria.