Have a kinky addiction to self-flagellation? Visit Nigeria.

I have been so far unsuccessful in luring Tyler Cowan to Liberia. He did, however, express cautious interest in Nigeria. But is it safe? Certainly, I said, far more so than Joburg or Nairobi or (for that matter) New Haven. Just stay away from the Delta.

In a Guardian article, Nigerian novelist Chinua Achebe still urges caution:

Being a Nigerian is abysmally frustrating and unbelievably exciting. I have said somewhere that in my next reincarnation I want to be a Nigerian again; but I have also, in a rather angry book called The Trouble with Nigeria, dismissed Nigerian travel advertisements with the suggestion that only a tourist with a kinky addiction to self-flagellation would pick Nigeria for a holiday. And I mean both.

Another choice quote:

Our 1960 national anthem, given to us as a parting gift by a British housewife in England, had called Nigeria “our sovereign motherland”. The current anthem, put together by a committee of Nigerian intellectuals and actually worse than the first one, invokes the father image. But it has occurred to me that Nigeria is neither my mother nor my father. Nigeria is a child. Gifted, enormously talented, prodigiously endowed and incredibly wayward.

Hat tip to Loomnie.

And Tyler, there’s always Monrovia…