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.
Friday, January 29, 2010
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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