So I'm officially stateside . . .
And it feels like there's been no time lapse. . .
But at the same time I'm very aware of the two and-a-half months that I spent at home. That felt exactly like two and-a-half months.
And although I'm sure as time passes I'll continually unveil new understandings and appreciations of what I've gained from my time away from here, I'd like to keep record of those things that immediately come to mind - those things I miss already and look forward to when next I find myself there.
Here goes (in no particular order):
- the variety of fruit, so natural and fresh it makes what we call 'organic' taste like plastic
- the cultural respect for education
- being called 'aunty' by my students
- calling women 'aunty' and 'ma' because that's what you do to show respect for those older than you
- having enough time to read
- the beach
- plantain chips
- bartering at the market
- gawking at beautiful men
- evenings on the balcony with my father
. . .
God Bless the adaptability of the human spirit.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
. . . for small mercies
So guess who gave me a discount the other day?
That's right, Internet Cafe Girl! She hooked me up on some print-outs. I TOLD you she'd come around (smile).
Although, I wouldn't quite agree that we'll ever make it to 'buddy' status: the other day as I was buying my web-time, after my customary greeting of 'How are you today?' I added that I would be leaving soon and would miss the crew at the cafe.
Her response?
A 'well alright then' press-lipped grin and raising of the eyebrows.
Hey, but still - we've come a long way . . .
That's right, Internet Cafe Girl! She hooked me up on some print-outs. I TOLD you she'd come around (smile).
Although, I wouldn't quite agree that we'll ever make it to 'buddy' status: the other day as I was buying my web-time, after my customary greeting of 'How are you today?' I added that I would be leaving soon and would miss the crew at the cafe.
Her response?
A 'well alright then' press-lipped grin and raising of the eyebrows.
Hey, but still - we've come a long way . . .
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Let Us Pray
There’s a church across the street, or rather their choir, that assails me – ASSAILS me every Sunday morning from 8AM to 11AM. I gotta tell you, if moral salvation depends on the ability to properly intonate, these people are in serious trouble.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Mango! Mango!
An ode to mango – the perfect fruit!
I cannot blame the bats for those which they loot
For when spying one juicy, hanging from my father’s tree
I project into the future; it’s sweet nectar I devour sloppily.
Oh but this morning, such a treasure I did spy!
But when going to capture the bounty noticed something quite awry
It was somehow out of place, not nearly as ripe or plump
Oh my goodness it’s been pilfered! It’s stem now but a mere stump!
Who’s the culprit, who’s the thief, who’s the dasher of dreams?!
Fair enough, let them be, it’s not as bad as it seems
For the tree looks quite pregnant with as many as 15!
I cannot blame the bats for those which they loot
For when spying one juicy, hanging from my father’s tree
I project into the future; it’s sweet nectar I devour sloppily.
Oh but this morning, such a treasure I did spy!
But when going to capture the bounty noticed something quite awry
It was somehow out of place, not nearly as ripe or plump
Oh my goodness it’s been pilfered! It’s stem now but a mere stump!
Who’s the culprit, who’s the thief, who’s the dasher of dreams?!
Fair enough, let them be, it’s not as bad as it seems
For the tree looks quite pregnant with as many as 15!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
The Ivory Standard
When I first arrived in Lagos, our house was a revolving door for friends, well-wishers and distant relatives: all coming to welcome me home and I suspect some simply coming to satisfy their curiosity about those living in the highly romanticized ‘Ah-meh-ree-kah.’ One visitor, a stately-yet-animated schoolmarm, said something I found I couldn’t forget, even though I wasn’t wholly surprised to hear it. I was telling her and my father of some of the woes my DC household has been experiencing of late: at the hands of our neighbors who do a poor job of concealing their problems with substance abuse and all-around bad judgment. As they shook their heads and sucked their teeth to hear of our trials, my father’s friend added matter-of-factly, “You see? If it were white people it wouldn’t be that way.”
Uh . . .
“They are white people,” I tell her simply.
“Eh-eh-eh?!” was her reply, her eyebrows raised and her jaw tilted upwards incredulously.
Alright, so I’m not so insulated in thought as to imagine that the colonial regime that held this nation in its grips for the better part of the 20th Century (and beyond) wouldn’t have left an indelible impression – one that would still lay claim to the mind of the everyman in more ways than one. But regardless, I can’t help but frown whenever I hear my father casually refer to the ‘colonial masters’ when attributing to them one feature or another of the country and its traditions.
Now, maybe herein lies my naïveté: my father’s generation was born, and grew into their adult lives, during the occupation, not to mention that they were raised by a generation who knew no other Nigeria. While acknowledging the quasi-inevitability of their partiality, I imagined that by sheer definition, those of the following generation, my generation, would be of a more drastically independent existence and therefore more liberated from possessing similar bias . . . .
This past weekend I endured the disappointment of encountering some opposition to this theory for the first time. My cousin and I spent Valentine’s Day (known here as ‘Lover’s Day’ – so very Nigerian) at a popular beach; one that’s obviously a top-choice in weekend entertainment for many of our peers. As this was the second beach we’d visited in as many weeks and we found it to be quite different from the first, we thought to ask around of what other varieties of seaside paradise we might delight in with the remaining days of my visit.
A young man of about our same age, pleasant and obviously knowledgeable, named one that he said was a bit far off, but assured us that all one had to do was lay eyes upon it’s splendour to know that it was well-worth the trek.
“Is it very nice?” my cousin sought to confirm.
“Ha!” The young man replied, “White people swim there – WHITE people!”
I let out a little laugh, a bit surprised and certainly disappointed, thinking that my cousin would share a similar reaction, but the fact is that neither he nor the young man seemed to notice, or if they did it was obvious from my cousin’s resolute expression that it was the two of them that were of the same opinion in the matter: If white people swam there, it was indisputably a good beach.
Man.
I’m torn in my reasoning on this one, because anyone with one good eye can see that Nigeria needs some work, and that yes, areas where foreigners reside (mostly to perpetuate further exploitation of the land and it’s people) are better maintained and serviced. But there are definitely areas where the hardworking Nigerian and his shockingly corrupt contemporary have pooled together their wealth to form modern communities with the same comforts and diversions as exist in any developed nation . . . . And I’m torn because to acknowledge this configuration within Nigerian society feels a bit like admitting that a square is always a rectangle, but a rectangle is only sometimes a square.
. . .
But I flat out refuse to subscribe to any such absolution. To do so would be tantamount to self-imposing the same brand of mental slavery I’m determined to help eradicate within my lifetime.
So no dice.
But here’s another head-scratcher:
Earlier this week I walked into the classroom of my older students (9-13) and caught the tail end of some kind of presentation by one of the more bright-eyed youths. I couldn’t quite hear it, but it seemed that in the delivery of his last line, the student made a rather successful joke, and the entire classroom erupted into laughter and applause. Seeing my blank smile, their teacher happily launched into a brief version of what was apparently a modern-day fable of sorts that the student had been re-telling.
In it there is a man that moves to London and phones his brother here in Nigeria that he has found a wife and is bringing her home to make introductions. The brother prepares for the arrival excitedly but is shocked when he sees that his brother has brought home another Nigerian, and not a white woman. He boldly says as much to the man: “Why would you go out into the world and return with what you already had in your trouser pocket?”
Everyone laughs again, and again I smile, but inside I think to myself, “I just hope that there’s another fable they hear about valuing what one can find in their trouser pocket.”
Uh . . .
“They are white people,” I tell her simply.
“Eh-eh-eh?!” was her reply, her eyebrows raised and her jaw tilted upwards incredulously.
Alright, so I’m not so insulated in thought as to imagine that the colonial regime that held this nation in its grips for the better part of the 20th Century (and beyond) wouldn’t have left an indelible impression – one that would still lay claim to the mind of the everyman in more ways than one. But regardless, I can’t help but frown whenever I hear my father casually refer to the ‘colonial masters’ when attributing to them one feature or another of the country and its traditions.
Now, maybe herein lies my naïveté: my father’s generation was born, and grew into their adult lives, during the occupation, not to mention that they were raised by a generation who knew no other Nigeria. While acknowledging the quasi-inevitability of their partiality, I imagined that by sheer definition, those of the following generation, my generation, would be of a more drastically independent existence and therefore more liberated from possessing similar bias . . . .
This past weekend I endured the disappointment of encountering some opposition to this theory for the first time. My cousin and I spent Valentine’s Day (known here as ‘Lover’s Day’ – so very Nigerian) at a popular beach; one that’s obviously a top-choice in weekend entertainment for many of our peers. As this was the second beach we’d visited in as many weeks and we found it to be quite different from the first, we thought to ask around of what other varieties of seaside paradise we might delight in with the remaining days of my visit.
A young man of about our same age, pleasant and obviously knowledgeable, named one that he said was a bit far off, but assured us that all one had to do was lay eyes upon it’s splendour to know that it was well-worth the trek.
“Is it very nice?” my cousin sought to confirm.
“Ha!” The young man replied, “White people swim there – WHITE people!”
I let out a little laugh, a bit surprised and certainly disappointed, thinking that my cousin would share a similar reaction, but the fact is that neither he nor the young man seemed to notice, or if they did it was obvious from my cousin’s resolute expression that it was the two of them that were of the same opinion in the matter: If white people swam there, it was indisputably a good beach.
Man.
I’m torn in my reasoning on this one, because anyone with one good eye can see that Nigeria needs some work, and that yes, areas where foreigners reside (mostly to perpetuate further exploitation of the land and it’s people) are better maintained and serviced. But there are definitely areas where the hardworking Nigerian and his shockingly corrupt contemporary have pooled together their wealth to form modern communities with the same comforts and diversions as exist in any developed nation . . . . And I’m torn because to acknowledge this configuration within Nigerian society feels a bit like admitting that a square is always a rectangle, but a rectangle is only sometimes a square.
. . .
But I flat out refuse to subscribe to any such absolution. To do so would be tantamount to self-imposing the same brand of mental slavery I’m determined to help eradicate within my lifetime.
So no dice.
But here’s another head-scratcher:
Earlier this week I walked into the classroom of my older students (9-13) and caught the tail end of some kind of presentation by one of the more bright-eyed youths. I couldn’t quite hear it, but it seemed that in the delivery of his last line, the student made a rather successful joke, and the entire classroom erupted into laughter and applause. Seeing my blank smile, their teacher happily launched into a brief version of what was apparently a modern-day fable of sorts that the student had been re-telling.
In it there is a man that moves to London and phones his brother here in Nigeria that he has found a wife and is bringing her home to make introductions. The brother prepares for the arrival excitedly but is shocked when he sees that his brother has brought home another Nigerian, and not a white woman. He boldly says as much to the man: “Why would you go out into the world and return with what you already had in your trouser pocket?”
Everyone laughs again, and again I smile, but inside I think to myself, “I just hope that there’s another fable they hear about valuing what one can find in their trouser pocket.”
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The Story of My Life
Why so many men - male musicians to be exact - decide to turn the simplest things into big giant pissing contests is beyond me. I’ll elaborate: one of my ‘missions’ for this trip has been to connect with Lagotian musicians, since Lagos is to Nigeria what New York is to the U.S - in terms of being a center for the arts anyway . . . I’ll not bother to mention all the ways in which that analogy falls flat otherwise. In any case, I figured meeting with fellow musicians would be a great way to: a. get access to a drum kit and b. have an opportunity to hear music being made in ways previously unknown to me. For me, one of the greatest ‘successes’ from this trip would be to build lasting musical friendships that transcend the span of the Atlantic.
Unfortunately, I’ve encountered my fair share of flakiness in the past month and a half (flaky musicians – no WAY!) and so I eventually resolved to continue making the most of it with my current set-up (my snare placed in a chair that faces sideways so that I can use the back of it as my hi-hat) and settled on returning to my full kit, and jam session fantasies, in March. I was saying as much to the one they call Blue the other day, and I was a bit surprised to hear her disappointment. Apparently, she’d been sharing the same visions of awesomeness that I had originally possessed, and so she ever so gently urged me to continue on my quest.
Fair enough, I was officially re-motivated.
For the past week or so, on my way to the market, I’ve been spying an ad for a guitar tutor. I decided it was a not-so-long shot to hope that a professional guitarist might know a drummer/drum kit, and so I took down the number and gave it a ring. Sure enough, the guitarist (I forgot to ask his name) didn’t hesitate to put me in touch with his friend, Victor, who met with me the same day. Victor turns out to be a very young (just taking his college entrance exams), very non-creepy drum player who has access to a drum kit at his church, which is about a 30 minute walk from where I live.
Super score!
He generously offers to escort me to his church anytime there’s no service underway and let me have at it. I’m totally grateful, but by now am much better at formulating my own Lagotian precautions, and so I decide it’s best not to go it alone; I ask my cousin, who also lives in the city, to tag along and he agrees.
Now, Victor has already asked if I was looking for drum lessons, to which I replied that I was not. I let him know that I’m simply looking to play on something that doesn’t sound like wood and vinyl so that I’m not completely without the feel for a kit when I get back to the States. I just want to practice.
OK, deep breath . . .
We get to the kit (hooray!) and I get my sticks out and start to go into some beats that I want to remember. I knew it wasn’t like I was going to have complete privacy, but I certainly didn’t expect for Victor to be standing directly next to me, watching my every move, ready to critique:
“You need to use your wrists more . . . hit the bell . . .”
“I don’t want to hit the bell.”
“Oh.”
He doesn’t move.
I’ve been playing for all of 3 minutes when he asks me to get up so he can “show [me] something.”
Here we go . . .
10 minutes later my sticks are handed back to me but I haven’t been playing for 5 minutes before I’m asked to get up AGAIN. Now when he sits down he instructs me to repeat what he’s about to demonstrate.
Sigh . . .
I’m starting to tense up a bit from frustration but then I say to myself, “You know what? It’s all good. He’s been playing for ten years, you’ve been playing for three. It never hurts to learn. Be a good sport. And besides, he’s been so kind to help you out and not ask for anything . . .”
And so I become Victor’s pupil – not entirely whole-heartedly, but what the hey.
No sooner had I made this resolution than in comes Victor’s friend, another drummer, Sampson.
He plops himself directly in front of me and begins to move the parts of the kit around, “Don’t you want it closer? I like when it’s right on top of me.”
He hits me in the knee with one of the toms as he shoves it towards me. I slowly push it away, “That’s a little too close.”
Sigh . . .
Now he’s staring at me.
“Do you want to play something?” I ask him.
“Me? Oh nooo! I just got here, I want to see you. Play something.”
Sigh . . .
I oblige, but when I’m finished he looks a bit confused. Maybe even indignant, like he’s been served tuna salad when he paid for steak.
“What is that style?”
“People say I play melodically . . . really I just play what I hear . . . ”
“Is that all you play is that band stuff? Don’t you play any jazz, funk . . .?”
Sigh . . . . . . where’s Katy Otto when you need her?
“Why don’t you play something?” I suggest.
He smirks and gets up with a leisurely sway. We switch out. He starts to go, and not to my surprise, he’s wonderfully talented. As he plays, he looks at me occasionally, unabashedly gloating.
Really?
What part of “I’d just like to practice” translated to all of this? What is it about men and female musicians???
And believe me, this is not an isolated incident by any means. This is just one of the many, MANY episodes of male musician muscle-flexing that I’ve endured since I started playing the drums. It’s like there’s some gene that needs to be expressed in men when it comes to music. Some ‘jerk’ gene. Maybe for all of the years that women weren’t encouraged to be musical badasses and settled for quietly taming the flute and the French horn while our male counterparts were blessed with amps and overdrive pedals at their bris', the gene grew more dominant, it’s expression more intrinsic.
But you know what, it’s about time to start breeding that shit out of the DNA. Thank GOD for Girls Rock! band camp!!! I figure that by the time our graduates get to be my age, they would have come up against enough of the ‘jerk’ gene (and respectfully ripped it a new one) to put the recessive wheels swiftly in motion.
(smiling) And how.
Unfortunately, I’ve encountered my fair share of flakiness in the past month and a half (flaky musicians – no WAY!) and so I eventually resolved to continue making the most of it with my current set-up (my snare placed in a chair that faces sideways so that I can use the back of it as my hi-hat) and settled on returning to my full kit, and jam session fantasies, in March. I was saying as much to the one they call Blue the other day, and I was a bit surprised to hear her disappointment. Apparently, she’d been sharing the same visions of awesomeness that I had originally possessed, and so she ever so gently urged me to continue on my quest.
Fair enough, I was officially re-motivated.
For the past week or so, on my way to the market, I’ve been spying an ad for a guitar tutor. I decided it was a not-so-long shot to hope that a professional guitarist might know a drummer/drum kit, and so I took down the number and gave it a ring. Sure enough, the guitarist (I forgot to ask his name) didn’t hesitate to put me in touch with his friend, Victor, who met with me the same day. Victor turns out to be a very young (just taking his college entrance exams), very non-creepy drum player who has access to a drum kit at his church, which is about a 30 minute walk from where I live.
Super score!
He generously offers to escort me to his church anytime there’s no service underway and let me have at it. I’m totally grateful, but by now am much better at formulating my own Lagotian precautions, and so I decide it’s best not to go it alone; I ask my cousin, who also lives in the city, to tag along and he agrees.
Now, Victor has already asked if I was looking for drum lessons, to which I replied that I was not. I let him know that I’m simply looking to play on something that doesn’t sound like wood and vinyl so that I’m not completely without the feel for a kit when I get back to the States. I just want to practice.
OK, deep breath . . .
We get to the kit (hooray!) and I get my sticks out and start to go into some beats that I want to remember. I knew it wasn’t like I was going to have complete privacy, but I certainly didn’t expect for Victor to be standing directly next to me, watching my every move, ready to critique:
“You need to use your wrists more . . . hit the bell . . .”
“I don’t want to hit the bell.”
“Oh.”
He doesn’t move.
I’ve been playing for all of 3 minutes when he asks me to get up so he can “show [me] something.”
Here we go . . .
10 minutes later my sticks are handed back to me but I haven’t been playing for 5 minutes before I’m asked to get up AGAIN. Now when he sits down he instructs me to repeat what he’s about to demonstrate.
Sigh . . .
I’m starting to tense up a bit from frustration but then I say to myself, “You know what? It’s all good. He’s been playing for ten years, you’ve been playing for three. It never hurts to learn. Be a good sport. And besides, he’s been so kind to help you out and not ask for anything . . .”
And so I become Victor’s pupil – not entirely whole-heartedly, but what the hey.
No sooner had I made this resolution than in comes Victor’s friend, another drummer, Sampson.
He plops himself directly in front of me and begins to move the parts of the kit around, “Don’t you want it closer? I like when it’s right on top of me.”
He hits me in the knee with one of the toms as he shoves it towards me. I slowly push it away, “That’s a little too close.”
Sigh . . .
Now he’s staring at me.
“Do you want to play something?” I ask him.
“Me? Oh nooo! I just got here, I want to see you. Play something.”
Sigh . . .
I oblige, but when I’m finished he looks a bit confused. Maybe even indignant, like he’s been served tuna salad when he paid for steak.
“What is that style?”
“People say I play melodically . . . really I just play what I hear . . . ”
“Is that all you play is that band stuff? Don’t you play any jazz, funk . . .?”
Sigh . . . . . . where’s Katy Otto when you need her?
“Why don’t you play something?” I suggest.
He smirks and gets up with a leisurely sway. We switch out. He starts to go, and not to my surprise, he’s wonderfully talented. As he plays, he looks at me occasionally, unabashedly gloating.
Really?
What part of “I’d just like to practice” translated to all of this? What is it about men and female musicians???
And believe me, this is not an isolated incident by any means. This is just one of the many, MANY episodes of male musician muscle-flexing that I’ve endured since I started playing the drums. It’s like there’s some gene that needs to be expressed in men when it comes to music. Some ‘jerk’ gene. Maybe for all of the years that women weren’t encouraged to be musical badasses and settled for quietly taming the flute and the French horn while our male counterparts were blessed with amps and overdrive pedals at their bris', the gene grew more dominant, it’s expression more intrinsic.
But you know what, it’s about time to start breeding that shit out of the DNA. Thank GOD for Girls Rock! band camp!!! I figure that by the time our graduates get to be my age, they would have come up against enough of the ‘jerk’ gene (and respectfully ripped it a new one) to put the recessive wheels swiftly in motion.
(smiling) And how.
Monday, February 8, 2010
. . . and rising . . .
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about our death rate here in Nigeria – it’s much higher than in any other place I’ve known so intimately. Or maybe it’s not and it’s just that I’m so intimate with all of the deaths. Both of my parents lost siblings in their youth, as have many of my many aunts and uncles lost numerous children - to mostly treatable illnesses nonetheless. . . . And aside from the all-too-common passing of children, people are constantly lost to traffic accidents, complications from minor surgery, and of course, old age.
Since I’ve been home there have already been four deaths that I’m aware of; two within the family and two with close family ties. I know it’s sort of an inhuman assumption, but I was beginning to believe that people living here certainly have to get just a LITTLE bit desensitized to all of the loss. . . . But as I began to think more about it I realized that I don’t see that it has so much to do with being desensitized as it has to do with traditions and beliefs surrounding death.
Westerners have a notoriously sanctified notion of the entire process, constantly separating life and death, further mystifying the latter with an unspoken decree that only the most depraved and morbid dare to engage themselves with death while life pulsates all around them (i.e. the first thing that comes to mind when you think of an undertaker – God! Even the name!).
But so many other cultures integrate the two, and even with the influence of Western beliefs, I believe this integration may be what keeps my people afloat amidst so much seeming tragedy. Here, apparently, death is no great mystery, but unfortunately, for far too many, not living just at the edge of it is.
Since I’ve been home there have already been four deaths that I’m aware of; two within the family and two with close family ties. I know it’s sort of an inhuman assumption, but I was beginning to believe that people living here certainly have to get just a LITTLE bit desensitized to all of the loss. . . . But as I began to think more about it I realized that I don’t see that it has so much to do with being desensitized as it has to do with traditions and beliefs surrounding death.
Westerners have a notoriously sanctified notion of the entire process, constantly separating life and death, further mystifying the latter with an unspoken decree that only the most depraved and morbid dare to engage themselves with death while life pulsates all around them (i.e. the first thing that comes to mind when you think of an undertaker – God! Even the name!).
But so many other cultures integrate the two, and even with the influence of Western beliefs, I believe this integration may be what keeps my people afloat amidst so much seeming tragedy. Here, apparently, death is no great mystery, but unfortunately, for far too many, not living just at the edge of it is.
Heebie Jeebies
I’m finally getting good at narrowing down my choices in my not-so-favorite Lagotian guessing game, “What’s That That Just Brushed Up Against Me?”
The usual suspects, in descending order according to the most wanton disrespect for the hierarchy of the food chain:
a. A lizard
b. A mouse
c. A mutant-sized cockroach
d. A gecko
e. Something there is no name for in the English language
f. ???
Endless fun for the whole family . . .!
The usual suspects, in descending order according to the most wanton disrespect for the hierarchy of the food chain:
a. A lizard
b. A mouse
c. A mutant-sized cockroach
d. A gecko
e. Something there is no name for in the English language
f. ???
Endless fun for the whole family . . .!
Monday, February 1, 2010
In Rare Form . . .
What trip abroad would really be complete without a case of the bends? I had been wondering when I was gonna have a chance to host the all-night-porcelain-disco, but I didn’t have to wait very long; two nights ago I was finally crowned “queen of the commode!”
The culprit: frozen yogurt (well, it was actually spelled ‘yoghurt’) that my father bought for me in an endearing attempt to help me beat the heat. At first I was suspicious (as I have been of ANYTHING not cooked at home), but I didn’t want to be ungrateful . . . and I took the lack of an expiration date on the package to mean that it could never go wrong!
(insert bitter laughter)
No, really I just let it slide because as soon as I held that icy plastic tube in my hands I knew it was too damn cold to pass up; I had been perspiring simply sitting still when my father had presented the pair of deadly dairy delights (that’s right, he got a chance to dance as well, although his was a mere fox-trot in comparison). And I remember thinking to myself that I hadn’t had ANYTHING even HALF as cold this entire trip (the lack of electricity doesn’t allow for consistent refrigeration) . . . . Well, I guess you usually over-pay when you’re desperate, ay?
All was well for about 6 hours and then . . . well, I’ll spare you the details, but I do think there should be a proper name for such a terrifically horrible predicament. In Mexico, they have Montezuma’s Revenge, correct? . . .Well, I’m gonna call this one The Colonialist’s Return, ‘cause my people wouldn’t have been fucking around with no goddamn yogurt in the first place if it weren’t for those pale, pasty crooked-tooth hooligans!
. . .
But it’s all good.
Food’s been staying in my body for the appropriate amount of time for more than 24 hours now.
I can love again.
(smile)
The culprit: frozen yogurt (well, it was actually spelled ‘yoghurt’) that my father bought for me in an endearing attempt to help me beat the heat. At first I was suspicious (as I have been of ANYTHING not cooked at home), but I didn’t want to be ungrateful . . . and I took the lack of an expiration date on the package to mean that it could never go wrong!
(insert bitter laughter)
No, really I just let it slide because as soon as I held that icy plastic tube in my hands I knew it was too damn cold to pass up; I had been perspiring simply sitting still when my father had presented the pair of deadly dairy delights (that’s right, he got a chance to dance as well, although his was a mere fox-trot in comparison). And I remember thinking to myself that I hadn’t had ANYTHING even HALF as cold this entire trip (the lack of electricity doesn’t allow for consistent refrigeration) . . . . Well, I guess you usually over-pay when you’re desperate, ay?
All was well for about 6 hours and then . . . well, I’ll spare you the details, but I do think there should be a proper name for such a terrifically horrible predicament. In Mexico, they have Montezuma’s Revenge, correct? . . .Well, I’m gonna call this one The Colonialist’s Return, ‘cause my people wouldn’t have been fucking around with no goddamn yogurt in the first place if it weren’t for those pale, pasty crooked-tooth hooligans!
. . .
But it’s all good.
Food’s been staying in my body for the appropriate amount of time for more than 24 hours now.
I can love again.
(smile)
Friday, January 29, 2010
whatareyagonnado
Gubernatorial elections are underway in nearby Anambra State – with a whopping 25 candidates on the ballot. My father shakes his head at the figure, calling the whole thing a bit of a fiasco. I agree to a certain extent, since it seems that when you have so many options it becomes more difficult to thoroughly investigate the legitimacies of each candidates’ claims, but then I bring to my father’s attention that many in the U.S. would call this a display of ‘true democracy.’
I personally know more than one person who refused to cast their vote during this past election (sheer lunacy if you ask me) because they don’t believe that a two-party system can ever be truly democratic.
It seems there should be some version of idealism found in the middle, but in the absence of it’s realization, I opt to do as the song says and “love the one you’re with.”
One of the candidates I overheard on the telly the other day put it in terms of a very real concern they appear to have regarding the Anambra elections. She warned that those who “sell [their] vote[s] . . . are selling [their] children’s future . . .”
Can’t say that I disagree.
I personally know more than one person who refused to cast their vote during this past election (sheer lunacy if you ask me) because they don’t believe that a two-party system can ever be truly democratic.
It seems there should be some version of idealism found in the middle, but in the absence of it’s realization, I opt to do as the song says and “love the one you’re with.”
One of the candidates I overheard on the telly the other day put it in terms of a very real concern they appear to have regarding the Anambra elections. She warned that those who “sell [their] vote[s] . . . are selling [their] children’s future . . .”
Can’t say that I disagree.
Bit by Bit
If you recall, number 2 on my wishlist had to do with warm gooey things. Well, as fate (or my Fairy Godmother) would have it, one of my father’s best friends is a baker!
YUM!
Baked goods made-to-order!
Hallelujah!!!
YUM!
Baked goods made-to-order!
Hallelujah!!!
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Scratch and Sniff
I’ve been getting to know myself extremely well. To be more specific, I’ve been getting to know my SCENT extremely well. The heat of the last few days have brought us together in ways I’ve never imagined possible.
The real shock of the weather comes as a result of the fake-me-out cool front that came by last week and successfully duped me into believing that it would stay for the remainder of my visit. I was actually sleeping with a cover (a thin sheet thrown over my legs, but still)!
But oooohh no, it was definitely too good to be true. So as of this past weekend (I remember Saturday being an alarmingly ripe and sticky one) I’ve been coming to terms with who I am.
You may be thinking that I just need to kick up my deodorant game, but multiple applications a day still do little or nothing to combat the beast. Not to mention that my deodorant already wasn’t packing too much of a punch: Tom’s “let me barely disguise your body odor with a hint of calendula for the greater part of 2 hours unless you decide to move in which case let’s call it 30 minutes” of Maine – I’m sure you’re familiar with the popular choice of bohemians across the land. That’s what I’m working with.
Sigh.
Resistance is futile.
The real shock of the weather comes as a result of the fake-me-out cool front that came by last week and successfully duped me into believing that it would stay for the remainder of my visit. I was actually sleeping with a cover (a thin sheet thrown over my legs, but still)!
But oooohh no, it was definitely too good to be true. So as of this past weekend (I remember Saturday being an alarmingly ripe and sticky one) I’ve been coming to terms with who I am.
You may be thinking that I just need to kick up my deodorant game, but multiple applications a day still do little or nothing to combat the beast. Not to mention that my deodorant already wasn’t packing too much of a punch: Tom’s “let me barely disguise your body odor with a hint of calendula for the greater part of 2 hours unless you decide to move in which case let’s call it 30 minutes” of Maine – I’m sure you’re familiar with the popular choice of bohemians across the land. That’s what I’m working with.
Sigh.
Resistance is futile.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
O.O.C.
I was almost mowed down by a motorcycle the other day. And I’m not being dramatic either. It actually took me about 15 hours to realize what nearly happened, and when I did I just about lost my shit.
Two days ago I was coming from the market, having gone both out of necessity and a desire to catch a glimpse of Jennifer, one of the younger vendors who high-balled me on a coconut sale last week; she’s super-humanly attractive. I satisfied both intentions and was heading back home with my hands full. Only a few feet from the market, I arrived at the optimal road-crossing point (since there are rarely any official ones) and carefully, very carefully watched the cars and motorcycles (or okada) coming towards me from the left in order to spot a breaking point in the flow of traffic that would allow me enough time to reach the median without having to move in much more than a light trot.
After about 1 minute I saw my chance. Thinking back it was a bit nonsensical, but instead of going right into a jog, I instead took a rather leisurely step, with my right foot, off of the curb. My eyes were focused where my foot was now in the road and instantly, I saw the wheel of a motorcycle appear from the right, not quite 6 inches from where my toes lay exposed in my sandal. In that same instant I felt the heat of the engine warm my shin through my pants. As the young man drove past he looked back and I heard myself make an unusually breathy, and somewhat situationally inappropriate exclamation: "Woo-oo . . . "
My shin was still feeling the warmth from the engine as I kept crossing the street. I made it to the median, looked BOTH ways (even though vehicles are only supposed to be moving in one direction on either side of it), found another space to cross, and finally made it to the curb that would lead me home.
I wasn’t shaken, I wasn’t upset at the okada driver for going the wrong way, I wasn’t even really thinking about it anymore. It felt more like a brief day-dream than anything else: wow, that sure was close . . . I’ll have to go back and get some pineapple sometime this week . . .
And then I was home. The evening came and I scarcely thought about the incident again before I went to bed.
. . .
But then I woke up yesterday morning and I found myself on the verge of hyperventilating . . . ! HOLY SHIT! I almost got mowed down by a fucking motorcycle! He would have knocked me down flat and I probably would have cracked my head open on the concrete! And then he would have been hit by the car coming from the other direction and then HE would have probably been splattered all over the road!
I could see the blood and gore so vividly: my produce would have been everywhere and one of my breasts would have been let loose from it’s marginal security within my halter-cut top. Someone, an older woman most likely, would have taken pity on my helpless indecency and folded the poor thing back in place (to some onlookers the motion would be reminiscent of tucking in a lapel handkerchief). And that would have been the final chapter.
And then another scenario played itself out – more detailed but not so morbid. I would have been struck down and broken in many important locations; my produce and one breast are still spilled, but I’m conscious. This time many people rally to my aid and a van appears (it would have to be a van so I can be laid inside comfortably), ready to take me away from the horrible scene. I have very little energy, so with a great deal of effort I croak out my father’s address, "3rd Avenue . . . B Close . . . House . . . . . . 14. . ."
We arrive quickly and from there my father (devastated, but holding himself together for my sake) directs us to the hospital. I’m treated immediately, but as the weeks go by and my convalescence drags on, it’s revealed that it’s not the best treatment by far. My wounds become infected, there’s talk of amputation, and I painfully come to terms with my long-term prognosis: I’ll never be able to play the drums again.
. . .
All this and MORE run around and around in my early morning mind while the bread woman and the newspaper man and the tailor cry and honk and clink up and down the street and somewhere in between the internal and external chaos I literally believe that I am on the verge of a mental breakdown.
But then . . . something inside of me starts to settle and I can feel myself breathing normally again.
I realize that I’m FINE.
In such a short amount of time, I’ve managed to go from feeling completely invincible to feeling one hundred percent destructible about twenty times. Eventually, I settle on being grateful – and I SWEAR to be more careful.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Holy Pagans
After a month of steady invitations, I finally agree to accompany my father to mass; I have a feeling it would be interesting. My only clause: I have to be fine wearing what I already have on (cut off jeans and a graphic T).
“Fine, fine, yes that’s fine,” my father says. “But you have to cover your head.”
Of course.
When I asked for the justification behind this ‘law’ a few weeks ago, the explanation given to me was kind of loose so I don’t know how fully accurate it is: Apparently Nigerian Catholics believe that women must cover their heads in some fashion so that God will recognize them . . . . . . shit . . . I’m not sure anymore if that’s the explanation now because I think that’s why Jewish men wear yamacas (sp???).
ANYHOO, I get away with wearing a thin lil’ skull cap – thankfully it’s not a regulation that’s strictly dictated.
So we arrive on time (I exist on ‘retiree time’ now, so I’m always punctual, if not early) and they’re saying the rosary. Oh man . . . I can’t remember the last time I’ve heard the full rosary recited, but it certainly does take awhile.
But when the real, more official churchy-type stuff gets underway it's alright. There is a good story about the origin of St. Agnes . . . . Oddly enough, I'm all about singing the hymns. I really focus on being in tune, which, if you’ve ever attended a Catholic mass you’ll know, is more or less an inconsequential concern to the majority of the congregation. But I sing and sing, one hymn after the other – straight from the diaphragm. I didn’t even sing this enthusiastically when I actually considered myself a Catholic. But what the hey, it’s better than sitting in my room hoping electricity will come so I can charge my laptop battery.
Which brings me to the most interesting occurance during the service! A woman is reading something or other at the pulpit and ‘GADUK!’ all the power goes out and we’re now sitting in near-total darkness. The congregation doesn’t miss a beat. The recitation continues, the call and response portion finishes and the priest takes the pulpit as the electricity resumes and we can see him again.
Beloved Naijah! Your people deserve better.
“Fine, fine, yes that’s fine,” my father says. “But you have to cover your head.”
Of course.
When I asked for the justification behind this ‘law’ a few weeks ago, the explanation given to me was kind of loose so I don’t know how fully accurate it is: Apparently Nigerian Catholics believe that women must cover their heads in some fashion so that God will recognize them . . . . . . shit . . . I’m not sure anymore if that’s the explanation now because I think that’s why Jewish men wear yamacas (sp???).
ANYHOO, I get away with wearing a thin lil’ skull cap – thankfully it’s not a regulation that’s strictly dictated.
So we arrive on time (I exist on ‘retiree time’ now, so I’m always punctual, if not early) and they’re saying the rosary. Oh man . . . I can’t remember the last time I’ve heard the full rosary recited, but it certainly does take awhile.
But when the real, more official churchy-type stuff gets underway it's alright. There is a good story about the origin of St. Agnes . . . . Oddly enough, I'm all about singing the hymns. I really focus on being in tune, which, if you’ve ever attended a Catholic mass you’ll know, is more or less an inconsequential concern to the majority of the congregation. But I sing and sing, one hymn after the other – straight from the diaphragm. I didn’t even sing this enthusiastically when I actually considered myself a Catholic. But what the hey, it’s better than sitting in my room hoping electricity will come so I can charge my laptop battery.
Which brings me to the most interesting occurance during the service! A woman is reading something or other at the pulpit and ‘GADUK!’ all the power goes out and we’re now sitting in near-total darkness. The congregation doesn’t miss a beat. The recitation continues, the call and response portion finishes and the priest takes the pulpit as the electricity resumes and we can see him again.
Beloved Naijah! Your people deserve better.
Take Heed
I’ve narrowed down my father’s excessive precautions into the following categories:
a. fears he has as a father
b. fears he has as a Lagotian
c. fears he has as a 72-year-old man
Advice stemming from a. and c. I know not too spend too much time fretting over, but when it appears that it’s coming from b. I’m realizing more and more that I better fucking listen.
a. fears he has as a father
b. fears he has as a Lagotian
c. fears he has as a 72-year-old man
Advice stemming from a. and c. I know not too spend too much time fretting over, but when it appears that it’s coming from b. I’m realizing more and more that I better fucking listen.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Begin Again
I felt really happy today – in the extreme as a matter of fact. I was in a classroom of about 50 children, and they were so excited about drawing their self-portraits that they had to be reprimanded in order to pack up and start to head home.
Today was my second official day as the Third Avenue Primary School’s Volunteer Creative Arts Instructor. What a gas! Totally one of those strange, curiously-sourced ideas that I conjure up and fantasize about and then (even more curiously) actually realize.
A couple of weeks ago, while the children were still on winter break, I noticed that this public elementary school was on my street, about 10 minutes walking distance from my father’s house. I started to think that it’d be nice to work with children during my stay . . . and then I wondered what I could do – anything they need help with, of course. Ooh! What about ART?! I could teach them ART! And that’s about all the pre-meditation that went into it.
So when school finally resumed last week I made up my mind to go and see about it all. As I walked past the sagging gates of the school’s main entrance I was definitely still a little dreamy about the whole thing, but as I navigated through the sandy campus, past the wide, one-level rectangular structure to find the principal, or headmistress, I definitely began to undergo an awakening.
‘Who the hell am I?’ I thought; the headmistress’ glare undeniably asked the same question.
Awkward.
Blah blah blah I’d like to volunteer, I’m here until March yada yada my Dad lives down the street etc etc I love to work with children.
Slowly the headmistress begins to reply: ‘Unfortunately . . . we are unable to take on any new employees . . . we simply don’t have the funding . . .”
“No, I want to VOLUNTEER . . . “
“Eh heh . . . but surely at the end of the month you would like SOME kind of small something . . . some COMPENSATION for your work . . . “
“No, really I don’t.”
“Eh heh . . .”
At this point she glances at the woman who’s been sitting silently next to her, who gives a small nod. I think this must be the co-headmistress, but I don’t really feel in the position to be asking questions so I wait for something more.
The headmistress delivers: “Tell me . . . what is it that you want to do with the children?”
After a roundabout explanation (keep breathing!) that I work with youth in different capacities and can competently teach them a few different subjects, I venture to offer up that I’d like to teach them art.
“Ah hah!” the headmistress exclaims. Her co- nods with deep satisfaction.
“We have been LOOKING for someone to teach them ART!”
Get the shit outta here, I’m thinking.
So that was basically it – we talked about what kind of art would be useful for primary schoolers and then I was asked to report back to the headmistress’ office on Monday.
And I did.
And today was Tuesday. And it was grand . . . simply grand. There’ll be plenty more tales of elation to come, I’m sure.
(insert a smiling heart)
Today was my second official day as the Third Avenue Primary School’s Volunteer Creative Arts Instructor. What a gas! Totally one of those strange, curiously-sourced ideas that I conjure up and fantasize about and then (even more curiously) actually realize.
A couple of weeks ago, while the children were still on winter break, I noticed that this public elementary school was on my street, about 10 minutes walking distance from my father’s house. I started to think that it’d be nice to work with children during my stay . . . and then I wondered what I could do – anything they need help with, of course. Ooh! What about ART?! I could teach them ART! And that’s about all the pre-meditation that went into it.
So when school finally resumed last week I made up my mind to go and see about it all. As I walked past the sagging gates of the school’s main entrance I was definitely still a little dreamy about the whole thing, but as I navigated through the sandy campus, past the wide, one-level rectangular structure to find the principal, or headmistress, I definitely began to undergo an awakening.
‘Who the hell am I?’ I thought; the headmistress’ glare undeniably asked the same question.
Awkward.
Blah blah blah I’d like to volunteer, I’m here until March yada yada my Dad lives down the street etc etc I love to work with children.
Slowly the headmistress begins to reply: ‘Unfortunately . . . we are unable to take on any new employees . . . we simply don’t have the funding . . .”
“No, I want to VOLUNTEER . . . “
“Eh heh . . . but surely at the end of the month you would like SOME kind of small something . . . some COMPENSATION for your work . . . “
“No, really I don’t.”
“Eh heh . . .”
At this point she glances at the woman who’s been sitting silently next to her, who gives a small nod. I think this must be the co-headmistress, but I don’t really feel in the position to be asking questions so I wait for something more.
The headmistress delivers: “Tell me . . . what is it that you want to do with the children?”
After a roundabout explanation (keep breathing!) that I work with youth in different capacities and can competently teach them a few different subjects, I venture to offer up that I’d like to teach them art.
“Ah hah!” the headmistress exclaims. Her co- nods with deep satisfaction.
“We have been LOOKING for someone to teach them ART!”
Get the shit outta here, I’m thinking.
So that was basically it – we talked about what kind of art would be useful for primary schoolers and then I was asked to report back to the headmistress’ office on Monday.
And I did.
And today was Tuesday. And it was grand . . . simply grand. There’ll be plenty more tales of elation to come, I’m sure.
(insert a smiling heart)
Monday, January 18, 2010
It's not you . . .
The young woman at the internet café has had her fill of me. How can I tell? Because when I wave to her to get her attention she notices, but then a. looks away immediately at nothing in particular b. stays in her seat for about 3 silent seconds and then c. with a heavy sigh heaves herself (and all of her unfounded annoyance) out of the chair and slooowly crosses the 6 foot divide between her and I.
I can’t really imagine what I’ve done to warrant THIS level of attitude, but I’m thinking it has something to do with my very-American demand for customer service. And I’m not delusional; I’m well aware that it’s not found here in Lagos (not in any of the Lagos I’m bound to encounter anyway – no oil tycoons to impress), but I still see no use in lowering my expectations – I always ask nicely after all (insert shit-eating grin).
I think she remembers me from a few days ago – actually, I’m certain everyone I speak with everywhere remembers me. In the midst of the rhythmic staccato that is Lagotian English, my accent breaks through like so many pieces of shattered dinnerware. I’m in the habit of speaking in hushed tones so as not to draw attention to myself, but truth be told it’s not that effective a plan. I’m generating a lot of confusion, getting a lot of scrunched up faces, a lot of ‘EH?!’
And then I have to repeat myself, only louder (of course, now louder than I would have spoken in normal voice), and inevitably at least 3 people overhear the accent I was trying to downplay and I realize then that there’s been no point to any of it.
But all that to say that the internet café woman remembers me from the time when I successfully rallied for a complimentary additional 15 minutes since the server had to be re-booted during my session and I lost a good chunk of time. HOW this is an unreasonable request, I can’t imagine, but her ‘Yeah right’ roll of the eyes when I asked for some compensation only strengthened my reserve. This may not be the US, and I may not be all that much of an ‘American,’ but Lord help me, that’s basic customer service!
So now when she makes no secret of her distaste for my brand of existence, I make a point to not mind. She squints her eyes at me and talks to me like I’m developmentally disabled, but it’s all good. It’s just that we come from different experiences, that’s all. We’ve got a long way to go, her and I, but for some strange reason (and at this point feel free to call me delusional) I really believe we’re gonna be buddies when it’s all said and done.
Maybe . . .
(hehehehehehe)
I can’t really imagine what I’ve done to warrant THIS level of attitude, but I’m thinking it has something to do with my very-American demand for customer service. And I’m not delusional; I’m well aware that it’s not found here in Lagos (not in any of the Lagos I’m bound to encounter anyway – no oil tycoons to impress), but I still see no use in lowering my expectations – I always ask nicely after all (insert shit-eating grin).
I think she remembers me from a few days ago – actually, I’m certain everyone I speak with everywhere remembers me. In the midst of the rhythmic staccato that is Lagotian English, my accent breaks through like so many pieces of shattered dinnerware. I’m in the habit of speaking in hushed tones so as not to draw attention to myself, but truth be told it’s not that effective a plan. I’m generating a lot of confusion, getting a lot of scrunched up faces, a lot of ‘EH?!’
And then I have to repeat myself, only louder (of course, now louder than I would have spoken in normal voice), and inevitably at least 3 people overhear the accent I was trying to downplay and I realize then that there’s been no point to any of it.
But all that to say that the internet café woman remembers me from the time when I successfully rallied for a complimentary additional 15 minutes since the server had to be re-booted during my session and I lost a good chunk of time. HOW this is an unreasonable request, I can’t imagine, but her ‘Yeah right’ roll of the eyes when I asked for some compensation only strengthened my reserve. This may not be the US, and I may not be all that much of an ‘American,’ but Lord help me, that’s basic customer service!
So now when she makes no secret of her distaste for my brand of existence, I make a point to not mind. She squints her eyes at me and talks to me like I’m developmentally disabled, but it’s all good. It’s just that we come from different experiences, that’s all. We’ve got a long way to go, her and I, but for some strange reason (and at this point feel free to call me delusional) I really believe we’re gonna be buddies when it’s all said and done.
Maybe . . .
(hehehehehehe)
Friday, January 15, 2010
Not That I'm Complaining . . .
Most every day feels like a Sunday. More specifically, like a Sunday afternoon. So much time . . . plans, some yes . . . . . . motivation. . .?
Meh
Meh
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Pavlov’s Dogs
They’ve got us trained quite well:
- Boil some water (to store in flasks)
- Plug in your chargeables
- Find a fan to sit in front of/under
- Run through your mind (quickly) of anything you’ve been waiting for electricity to help you do
Iron a shirt, maybe?
It’s some nonsense over here: Nigeria, ‘The Giant of Africa’ in terms of natural resources and skilled industry, supplies electricity to other African nations, most notably Ghana, who just celebrated 10 years of uninterrupted service - WE supply THEM . . . and we’ve had a total of 5 hours of electricity (generously estimating) in the past 72 hours.
“Start a revolution!” (what Blue tells me)
Uh . . .
(hahaha)
. . .
OK, how?
. . .
and there goes the light again . . .
. . . here come the generators . . .
- Boil some water (to store in flasks)
- Plug in your chargeables
- Find a fan to sit in front of/under
- Run through your mind (quickly) of anything you’ve been waiting for electricity to help you do
Iron a shirt, maybe?
It’s some nonsense over here: Nigeria, ‘The Giant of Africa’ in terms of natural resources and skilled industry, supplies electricity to other African nations, most notably Ghana, who just celebrated 10 years of uninterrupted service - WE supply THEM . . . and we’ve had a total of 5 hours of electricity (generously estimating) in the past 72 hours.
“Start a revolution!” (what Blue tells me)
Uh . . .
(hahaha)
. . .
OK, how?
. . .
and there goes the light again . . .
. . . here come the generators . . .
Saturday, January 9, 2010
What to Say?
As I close my eyes most nights Ibo words and phrases start to play in mind on automatic. It’s one of the most fascinating phenomena. I think it’s all my own voice, but I can’t be certain. But definitely it’s Ibo. And it’s not even as if I know all of what’s being said – that’s the most fascinating part I suppose. I can just hear the language clearly, bit by bit, floating around in the blue-black lagoon that is my mind’s existence in those pre-somnolent moments.
And So It Is . . .
Ah! My wishlist – that’s what I don’t want to forget! So if you happen to be my Fairy Godmother, or perhaps have her beeper number, take note please:
1. Consistent electricity, or at the very least a schedule of when it will be available so I can plan accordingly
2. A nearby bakery, specializing in warm gooey things
3. A washer and dryer, but just a washer will do really
4. Quiet mornings – until 11am at least.
On that last wish I’ll elaborate. So my father, being officially in the geriatric classification, arouses no later than 5:30am. Our rooms our separated by an extremely flimsy bit of a door, and so all of his morning shufflings and phlegm expulsions sound as though they are taking place directly next to my head. I’m getting more and more used to these sounds and most likely will be able to sleep through them in the next couple of weeks, but I’m not certain of my ability to stay asleep during what I’ve come to experience as the morning’s dynamic duo of sonic intrusions, which begin just after my father has settled:
1. A woman who walks down our close* crying what sounds like ‘Ay-ba-RAY-BAY!’ every 4 and-a-half seconds.
2. No more than 5 minutes away, and sometimes simultaneously, an old-fashioned bicycle horn, sounding out continuously, pausing every now and then for about 2 and-a-half seconds.
For about the 1st week I was here I was consistently snatched into reality, yanked from my hard-earned sleep (jet-lag was a real son-of-a) by these two sounds. I could not understand how people EVER got used to them, and then one morning I spied from my window a man spitting some venom at ‘aybaraybay’ woman about her early morning cries and I thought to myself ‘Damn straight. Glad it’s not just me.’
When re-telling the exchange I witnessed to my father, he gave me some much needed perspective, however. The woman is selling bread that some people will take in the morning on their way to work. The horn-honker is selling the newspapers. Throughout the day a tailor, dish-seller, meat-hawker and others parade up and down our close, crying a special cry or making a distinct noise (the tailor klinks together his scissors for instance) to let people know they’re around. Itinerants, my father calls them. This is their livelihood, their survival. If the horn-honker doesn’t sell his newspapers in our close at 6AM someone else will.
Fair enough, but I’m still not taking number 4 off my wish list.
* an enclosed street with duplexes on either side – about 30 total- that’s free from traffic and actually has a security gate that stays monitored by guards from about 9PM to about 6AM
1. Consistent electricity, or at the very least a schedule of when it will be available so I can plan accordingly
2. A nearby bakery, specializing in warm gooey things
3. A washer and dryer, but just a washer will do really
4. Quiet mornings – until 11am at least.
On that last wish I’ll elaborate. So my father, being officially in the geriatric classification, arouses no later than 5:30am. Our rooms our separated by an extremely flimsy bit of a door, and so all of his morning shufflings and phlegm expulsions sound as though they are taking place directly next to my head. I’m getting more and more used to these sounds and most likely will be able to sleep through them in the next couple of weeks, but I’m not certain of my ability to stay asleep during what I’ve come to experience as the morning’s dynamic duo of sonic intrusions, which begin just after my father has settled:
1. A woman who walks down our close* crying what sounds like ‘Ay-ba-RAY-BAY!’ every 4 and-a-half seconds.
2. No more than 5 minutes away, and sometimes simultaneously, an old-fashioned bicycle horn, sounding out continuously, pausing every now and then for about 2 and-a-half seconds.
For about the 1st week I was here I was consistently snatched into reality, yanked from my hard-earned sleep (jet-lag was a real son-of-a) by these two sounds. I could not understand how people EVER got used to them, and then one morning I spied from my window a man spitting some venom at ‘aybaraybay’ woman about her early morning cries and I thought to myself ‘Damn straight. Glad it’s not just me.’
When re-telling the exchange I witnessed to my father, he gave me some much needed perspective, however. The woman is selling bread that some people will take in the morning on their way to work. The horn-honker is selling the newspapers. Throughout the day a tailor, dish-seller, meat-hawker and others parade up and down our close, crying a special cry or making a distinct noise (the tailor klinks together his scissors for instance) to let people know they’re around. Itinerants, my father calls them. This is their livelihood, their survival. If the horn-honker doesn’t sell his newspapers in our close at 6AM someone else will.
Fair enough, but I’m still not taking number 4 off my wish list.
* an enclosed street with duplexes on either side – about 30 total- that’s free from traffic and actually has a security gate that stays monitored by guards from about 9PM to about 6AM
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Coast to Coast
We’ve been traveling domestically all day. Literally: we arrived at Owerri airport at 7:30AM and didn’t leave until 5:30PM. We’ve been home – back east – for the remaining holidays. In Ibo-land, this is the tradition: no matter where you’ve relocated to throughout the nation, when the holidays arrive, you make your way home. For us (Ibos) this refers to the home of your father. Which is the home of his father, etc. Patriarchy, much?
In any case, it’s a great break from the city and always something to look forward to – if for no other reason than the fact that my father’s side of the family is extremely entertaining. Colorful is an understatement. Family members sport nicknames like ‘Sir War’ and ‘The Longest Man,’ and in Ibo my favorite has to be ‘Opo Aja’ (phonetically spelled cause I don’t have a clue how to write in Ibo), which translates to ‘A Ball of Sand.’ Temperament, physical stature and childhood personal hygiene boiled down so simply . . .
Another highlight of being back home: the food is always amazing and readily available from any one of several aunties. But even with all the upsides, there are enough downsides (a COMPLETE lack of electricity, save for 1 hour bursts in the middle of the day and the occasional 15 minute spurt in the evening; a ‘haunted’ feeling to being literally in the middle of the jungle where ancestors no doubt conjured up all sorts of spirits; random distant relations who don’t even know your name but regardless try to milk you for goods because you’re coming from the States) that make going back to Lagos more and more appealing after about 5 days or so.
So on the 8th day, we bid a tearful (it was only me, I felt like such a pansy) farewell to the family and make our way to the nearest airport at Owerri. The flight from Owerri to Lagos takes no more than 45 minutes, but to drive there is an all-day affair (roads are beyond fucked in certain stretches, not to mention the inevitable delay from ‘tolls,’ otherwise known as armed men in uniform who will detain you lest you grease their palm once you’ve been slowed down). Having arrived at the airport with no reservation, we are browbeaten by our misinformed assumption that a flight will be readily available.
We’re told that the 10:50AM flight is full, the 3:45PM the same, and the 4:10PM is well on its way to the same fate. With tickets for the 4:10 in hand, we’re advised that people will most likely drop from the morning flight and that we should hold tight in the reservation office so we’ll be first in line if this should come to pass.
Oooooh, the reservation office. Wow. I’m sure the workers there are grateful for their employment, but Jesus Christ they have to know that it totally blows.
In a space no larger than 15’ by 10’ there is a long desk that takes up the width of the room and has 3 computer stations where on one side 3 stone-faced attendants sit with cell phones in hand, alternately making calls, taking calls, answering to their managers who appear from hidden rooms with unprecedented requests, searching on their screens, calming down disgruntled passengers (like the bloated Eze [i.e. mayor] who lost his ticket and insisted he be attended to immediately – “Who the hell are you to make me wait here like this?!”), and trying their best to breathe in a room crowded with people who have no concept of forming a line or waiting patiently.
And if that weren’t extreme enough, the one attendant in the middle has to stand every two minutes or so and remove the ink cartridge from the only printer in the room. She takes it out and waves it like a 5-pound fan for about 10 seconds. She then replaces it, takes her seat, and re-sends her printing job.
Wow.
So yeah, my father and I are in luck to have 1 seat between us, and we spend the greater part of the morning playing musical chairs and finding appropriate moments to inquire about the possibility of getting on that 10:50 flight.
It doesn’t happen.
BUT! There’s an airport lounge! A VIP airport lounge as a matter of fact. As we settle in for the day ahead at first I’m a bit defeated, but then I realize that in that lounge, with it’s generator-powered television, air-conditioner and running water, I am experiencing the greatest level of comfort that I will be privy to for my entire two and a half month stay. So I find something to read, order some food and soak it up.
Now, you may notice that I said in the beginning of the post that we don’t leave the airport until 5:30PM, even though I’ve mentioned us getting tickets for the 4:10 flight. That’s what my one cousin informed me is called ‘The Nigeria Factor.’ As far as I can translate, it would appear to be the instance(s) where something goes completely un-according to plan with no apparent justification. I’m sure the ‘Factor’ and I get to know each other quite well in the coming weeks . . .
But all’s well that ends well. We board the plane, get some sugary treats, and in about 45 minutes, we’re back to the city of my birth.
Looking out the window at Lagos as we get nearer to the ground, I’m fixated to the point of obsession; All the people, all those places: stacked-the-fuck-on-top-of-each-other like so many fallen domino . . . .
In any case, it’s a great break from the city and always something to look forward to – if for no other reason than the fact that my father’s side of the family is extremely entertaining. Colorful is an understatement. Family members sport nicknames like ‘Sir War’ and ‘The Longest Man,’ and in Ibo my favorite has to be ‘Opo Aja’ (phonetically spelled cause I don’t have a clue how to write in Ibo), which translates to ‘A Ball of Sand.’ Temperament, physical stature and childhood personal hygiene boiled down so simply . . .
Another highlight of being back home: the food is always amazing and readily available from any one of several aunties. But even with all the upsides, there are enough downsides (a COMPLETE lack of electricity, save for 1 hour bursts in the middle of the day and the occasional 15 minute spurt in the evening; a ‘haunted’ feeling to being literally in the middle of the jungle where ancestors no doubt conjured up all sorts of spirits; random distant relations who don’t even know your name but regardless try to milk you for goods because you’re coming from the States) that make going back to Lagos more and more appealing after about 5 days or so.
So on the 8th day, we bid a tearful (it was only me, I felt like such a pansy) farewell to the family and make our way to the nearest airport at Owerri. The flight from Owerri to Lagos takes no more than 45 minutes, but to drive there is an all-day affair (roads are beyond fucked in certain stretches, not to mention the inevitable delay from ‘tolls,’ otherwise known as armed men in uniform who will detain you lest you grease their palm once you’ve been slowed down). Having arrived at the airport with no reservation, we are browbeaten by our misinformed assumption that a flight will be readily available.
We’re told that the 10:50AM flight is full, the 3:45PM the same, and the 4:10PM is well on its way to the same fate. With tickets for the 4:10 in hand, we’re advised that people will most likely drop from the morning flight and that we should hold tight in the reservation office so we’ll be first in line if this should come to pass.
Oooooh, the reservation office. Wow. I’m sure the workers there are grateful for their employment, but Jesus Christ they have to know that it totally blows.
In a space no larger than 15’ by 10’ there is a long desk that takes up the width of the room and has 3 computer stations where on one side 3 stone-faced attendants sit with cell phones in hand, alternately making calls, taking calls, answering to their managers who appear from hidden rooms with unprecedented requests, searching on their screens, calming down disgruntled passengers (like the bloated Eze [i.e. mayor] who lost his ticket and insisted he be attended to immediately – “Who the hell are you to make me wait here like this?!”), and trying their best to breathe in a room crowded with people who have no concept of forming a line or waiting patiently.
And if that weren’t extreme enough, the one attendant in the middle has to stand every two minutes or so and remove the ink cartridge from the only printer in the room. She takes it out and waves it like a 5-pound fan for about 10 seconds. She then replaces it, takes her seat, and re-sends her printing job.
Wow.
So yeah, my father and I are in luck to have 1 seat between us, and we spend the greater part of the morning playing musical chairs and finding appropriate moments to inquire about the possibility of getting on that 10:50 flight.
It doesn’t happen.
BUT! There’s an airport lounge! A VIP airport lounge as a matter of fact. As we settle in for the day ahead at first I’m a bit defeated, but then I realize that in that lounge, with it’s generator-powered television, air-conditioner and running water, I am experiencing the greatest level of comfort that I will be privy to for my entire two and a half month stay. So I find something to read, order some food and soak it up.
Now, you may notice that I said in the beginning of the post that we don’t leave the airport until 5:30PM, even though I’ve mentioned us getting tickets for the 4:10 flight. That’s what my one cousin informed me is called ‘The Nigeria Factor.’ As far as I can translate, it would appear to be the instance(s) where something goes completely un-according to plan with no apparent justification. I’m sure the ‘Factor’ and I get to know each other quite well in the coming weeks . . .
But all’s well that ends well. We board the plane, get some sugary treats, and in about 45 minutes, we’re back to the city of my birth.
Looking out the window at Lagos as we get nearer to the ground, I’m fixated to the point of obsession; All the people, all those places: stacked-the-fuck-on-top-of-each-other like so many fallen domino . . . .
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