The minibus had broken down 2 times already (20 minutes apart). We had 2 hours left in our journey to Ibadan. There seemed to be a leak in the water. The van kept overheating. The first time the passengers had pooled our water to get us going. The second time the driver had disappeared into the brush in search of a bore hole, emerging 10 minutes later with a canister of water. We couldn’t sustain this. We’d never make it.
We continued slowly. Small motorbikes (okadas) were passing us at about 25 miles per hour. We stopped for a third time - no water around. The van cooled as passengers chose either to get out (and bake in the sun) or stay in (and bake in the van). After a while we re-boarded.
The woman next to me closed her eyes and started rocking back and forth muttering prayers and praising Jesus. The entire bus joined in as the driver turned the key. The engine purred and we moved slowly down the highway. “Praise Jesus!” “Oh Jesus, help us, see us through!” “Jesus, give us the power!”
One by one the passengers stopped vocalizing their prayers, but the woman next to me continued for 45 minutes. So did the bus. We made the 4 1/2 hour trip in just under 8 hours. Thank, God!
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
"Big Men"
I walked into the party with my friend, 10-10. Young men and women were waiting around just inside the the large compound gate. We continued through the front door. The room was lined with white leather couches, glass coffee tables, empty bottles of Hennessy and BIG men (well-fed and important).
We walked directly to a man in a white button-down shirt. I was introduced to him as “the Chairman,” with no explanation. I was then seated next to another man who had lived in New York for 25 years while 10-10 made the rounds.
Where was I? Who are these people? I was the only woman inside. I was the only non-Nigerian (probably for miles). I made small talk...
So, what do you do in Benin City now that you are back from NY? He was a contractor and “dabbled” in politics. In Nigeria this told me one thing. Leave that line of conversation. Getting into a discussion about corruption in this country would not be a good idea. I followed his lead and we discussed the upcoming American election - a much safer option (socially and perhaps even physically).
I looked around my surroundings. The plot of land was small and the architecture felt cramped. The living room was taller than it was wide and had an overly steep staircase leading up to a sliver of a balcony which ran around the perimeter of the wall half-way up. The curtains were ample as was the decorative metallic hardware. The floors were polished marble. Each architectural and decorative element seemed to display wealth rather than service any function. Then I noticed the door.
The door was metal and 9-inches to one foot thick. “That is quite a door,” I commented to the nice man from New York. He informed me that it was bullet proof. “Why does our host need a bullet proof door?” It slipped. “For security,” was the answer I got, but not really the answer to my intended meaning. I decided, however, to save my hardline questioning for 10-10.
All of a sudden “the Chairman” stood up and the entire room followed suit. He walked out the bullet proof door and the rest followed out in a seemingly intentional pecking order. I sat alone, wondering what had happened. Again, where was I?
I found 10-10 and we said our goodbyes (to those who were left...mostly young men paying their dues by cleaning up after the party). As I settled into the car I asked about our host, my new friend and “the Chairman.”
My friend: a contractor for the Niger Delta Development Commission (NDDC), the government agency responsible for distributing oil revenues through public works projects in the Delta. *Note: This does not necessarily mean that the money ever makes it to public works.
Our host: contractor for the NDDC and cousin to the Chairman of the NDDC.
The Chairman: the Chairman of the NDDC.
...BIG men!
We walked directly to a man in a white button-down shirt. I was introduced to him as “the Chairman,” with no explanation. I was then seated next to another man who had lived in New York for 25 years while 10-10 made the rounds.
Where was I? Who are these people? I was the only woman inside. I was the only non-Nigerian (probably for miles). I made small talk...
So, what do you do in Benin City now that you are back from NY? He was a contractor and “dabbled” in politics. In Nigeria this told me one thing. Leave that line of conversation. Getting into a discussion about corruption in this country would not be a good idea. I followed his lead and we discussed the upcoming American election - a much safer option (socially and perhaps even physically).
I looked around my surroundings. The plot of land was small and the architecture felt cramped. The living room was taller than it was wide and had an overly steep staircase leading up to a sliver of a balcony which ran around the perimeter of the wall half-way up. The curtains were ample as was the decorative metallic hardware. The floors were polished marble. Each architectural and decorative element seemed to display wealth rather than service any function. Then I noticed the door.
The door was metal and 9-inches to one foot thick. “That is quite a door,” I commented to the nice man from New York. He informed me that it was bullet proof. “Why does our host need a bullet proof door?” It slipped. “For security,” was the answer I got, but not really the answer to my intended meaning. I decided, however, to save my hardline questioning for 10-10.
All of a sudden “the Chairman” stood up and the entire room followed suit. He walked out the bullet proof door and the rest followed out in a seemingly intentional pecking order. I sat alone, wondering what had happened. Again, where was I?
I found 10-10 and we said our goodbyes (to those who were left...mostly young men paying their dues by cleaning up after the party). As I settled into the car I asked about our host, my new friend and “the Chairman.”
My friend: a contractor for the Niger Delta Development Commission (NDDC), the government agency responsible for distributing oil revenues through public works projects in the Delta. *Note: This does not necessarily mean that the money ever makes it to public works.
Our host: contractor for the NDDC and cousin to the Chairman of the NDDC.
The Chairman: the Chairman of the NDDC.
...BIG men!
Monday, September 1, 2008
Malaria & My Trip to a Nigerian Hospital
Since arriving in Nigeria, I’ve mostly been hot. When I’m not hot, I’m comfortable. Cold is a word that I reserve for specifying how I would like my bottled water. When I became chilled and goose bumps started popping on Wednesday night, I knew something was wrong.
Within one hour, my forehead was burning up. I returned home from my friend’s house and went straight for my sweatshirt and thermometer. One hundred and two point four degrees. I popped some drugs, collected an arsenal of bottled water and went to bed, telling my Bengali housemate, Rafiq, that tonight I would not be locking my door and that if I did not emerge in the morning, he should come in. I had a sneaking suspicion that this Mac truck of an illness that had hit me might be malaria – the high fever, the pounding head, the aching bones, the fatigue.
Soon after closing my door, dressing myself in socks and my warmest lounge wear and wrapping myself in my silk sleeping sheet that was usually more than warm enough for these Nigerian nights, I began to shiver. I reached for my cell phone and called Rafiq in the other room. “Do you have an extra blanket?” I asked. He brought his blanket and spent the next hour or so brining blood to my extremities by squeezing my feet, arms and hands as well as calming the headache with pressure points and head massage. I fell asleep.
In the middle of the night (around midnight – I had gone to bed at 8:30pm), my fever piqued. I cast off the blankets, tore off my shirt and lay in a pool of my own sweat. I forced myself to drink the line of bottled water that I had gathered with great foresight. I thought I’d call and tell them I wouldn’t be able to go to work tomorrow. I popped more pills in hopes of calming the fever.
As the sun broke, so had my fever. Ninety-nine point eight, much better. I almost felt whole as I called Cynthia, the woman I ride to work with, to tell her I would be spending the day in bed rather than at my desk. She suggested that she still pick me up and we go to the hospital for a malaria test. I agreed, still tired and achy.
A little delirious and still half-asleep I prepared myself for my trip to the hospital. I took money and a bottle of water…I knew that these were the most important things. I didn’t imagine I would stay long and thought that if I had forgotten anything, I could surely purchase it. Other things seemed trivial – my phone, my computer, movies, a book, my iPod, toilet paper.
We pulled up to the hospital. It was a private hospital – one of the best in Benin City. It was a large cement building surrounded by dirt. It almost looked as if it had been newly finished – structurally sound, but still a bit rough around the edges. The doctor was outside and greeted us with a smile, showing us through the front door where the nurses gathered in their white nurse uniforms, some with small white nurse hats. Their dress reminded me of Halloween more than it instilled confidence. They stared at me. I stared at them. One sat me down right there in reception, stuck a thermometer in my armpit and took my pulse. She flipped through a disorganized notebook to find a blank page to write my name on and recorded my data before taking me to the doctor in his office.
I sat down, staring at a large diagram of the female anatomy behind the doctor’s head. “When was you last menstruation?” he asked. What? I’m here for malaria, not a pregnancy test (Nigerians are obsessed with pregnancy, children, fertility, etc.)
“I don’t know,” I replied, a bit annoyed that he wasn’t getting straight to the heart of the issue. I had DVDs waiting for me at home.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I don’t know. Less than a month ago,” I replied. He pointed to the calendar and continued his questioning. I was not of the state of mind that I wanted to expend my precious energy on figuring out when my last menstruation was. I saw little to no relevance (at least not until he had determined that I needed some form of treatment that could endanger a fetus). I knew I wasn’t pregnant and threw out some numbers to appease him, “I don’t know…the 6th…or the 13th.”
“You know you really should know when your last menstruation was,” he said. “It is important to know so that you know when you get pregnant.”
“No sh*t, Sherlock,” I felt like saying, but bit my tongue. I just wanted my diagnosis and drugs so that I could go home.
“What is your blood type?” he continued. Another toughie. I knew I should know this one…I didn’t.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“I know.”
“It should be in your passport.”
“It’s not.”
“It’s in all passports.”
“Not mine.” I pulled out my passport annoyed to be arguing over whether or not blood type is listed in American passports instead of him asking me about my symptoms.
“It is in all other passports. Look next time,” he said still trying to prove his point. “It is important to know your blood type because if you get pregnant and you are…blah blah blah blah…and your fetus…blah blah blah.” I couldn’t believe he was talking about pregnancy again. I could think of many better reasons to know my blood type. As my blood, whatever type it may be, began to boil, he began to ask about my symptoms and I calmed down.
“Fever, chills, sweating, headache, bone ache, diarrhea, nausea, fatigue,” I rattled off the list I had been waiting to share.
He asked a few more questions about other symptoms and jotted notes down in the book. “Sounds like malaria. I’d like to keep you here for 24-hours of observation,” he concluded in less than half of the time he had spent on women’s issues of fertility and menstruation. What? I wasn’t prepared for this! He must have seen the shock and disappointment in my eyes and said that, maybe, if I was doing really well, I could go home in the evening.
I went out to the waiting area and told Cynthia the diagnosis and the request that I stay. A nurse came over and requested that they find someone to stay with me as well as bring some food for me so that I could start my drug regiment. They walked me to my room. I went, first cutting the deal that if I had to stay past 5 o’clock that the driver would go to my house and pick up my phone, computer and some DVDs to keep me sane.
The room was basic. There were two beds with slightly shaky metal frames. The mattresses were covered first in a plastic sheet and then a blue and yellow checkered fitted sheet. There was a pillow and no blanket. A plastic chair sat next to the bed, as did a wooden school desk and attached chair. A small room was to the side blocked by a curtain. Inside was a bag of cement. I lay down.
The hospital was clean – I was grateful for that. I knew it would be basic, but was a little shocked at how basic. I hadn’t expected a TV or an intercom system and could deal with the fact that they brought a second fitted sheet to me instead of a blanket, but had assumed that a hospital (on the higher end) would offer things such as clean drinking water (essential for maintaining hydration), some sort of food (critical to have with some drugs) and toilet paper (do I need to explain?). With a full staff of nurses, it also surprised me that they insisted that I have a babysitter. The company was appreciated, but made me feel like a bit of a burden.
When my food arrived in a small cooler, I ate it up, ready to get on with the drug regiment. Grace, my babysitter for the day, got the nurse to tell her I was ready. She brought in a weathered IV stand. “I don’t want a drip,” I insisted. This sparked a big conversation and the doctor was called in. “Nope,” I shook my head. “I’d like to take the medicine orally.” At first they thought I was afraid of needles. Then I told them that my doctor at home had suggested that whenever traveling that avoid needles. They showed me their sterilized supplies in hermetically sealed wrappers and I politely declined. With a small crowd gathered I looked at the doctor and said that I will start with the oral treatment and that if I got significantly worse, that we could revisit the issue. The American-style medical self-advocacy was a bit foreign to the hospital staff, but went over fine in the end. I got my oral medication and began on the road to recovery.
When 4 o’clock rolled around, I called for the nurse and began my advocacy again. I was determined to go home and spend the night in my bed. The doctor came in and I pinched my cheeks, sat up and looked as perky as possible. “I’d like to go home.”
He smiled and agreed. He also said that my test results were back and that I had malaria (they had taken blood earlier – I had given in and allowed a sterilized and sealed needle for this purpose). We had a brief exchange where he said that even if the test result had come back negative that it would still have been malaria. He used some metaphor about Bin Laden – a malaria test can’t check every blood cell for the parasite, America can’t check every Afghani cave for Bin Laden…even if malaria or Bin Laden aren’t found, we still know they are there. I wondered if he would have used this metaphor had I not been American. I hoped that modern science in Nigeria was more accurate than American intelligence in Afghanistan.
I took my 6 bags of pills and headed home.
Within one hour, my forehead was burning up. I returned home from my friend’s house and went straight for my sweatshirt and thermometer. One hundred and two point four degrees. I popped some drugs, collected an arsenal of bottled water and went to bed, telling my Bengali housemate, Rafiq, that tonight I would not be locking my door and that if I did not emerge in the morning, he should come in. I had a sneaking suspicion that this Mac truck of an illness that had hit me might be malaria – the high fever, the pounding head, the aching bones, the fatigue.
Soon after closing my door, dressing myself in socks and my warmest lounge wear and wrapping myself in my silk sleeping sheet that was usually more than warm enough for these Nigerian nights, I began to shiver. I reached for my cell phone and called Rafiq in the other room. “Do you have an extra blanket?” I asked. He brought his blanket and spent the next hour or so brining blood to my extremities by squeezing my feet, arms and hands as well as calming the headache with pressure points and head massage. I fell asleep.
In the middle of the night (around midnight – I had gone to bed at 8:30pm), my fever piqued. I cast off the blankets, tore off my shirt and lay in a pool of my own sweat. I forced myself to drink the line of bottled water that I had gathered with great foresight. I thought I’d call and tell them I wouldn’t be able to go to work tomorrow. I popped more pills in hopes of calming the fever.
As the sun broke, so had my fever. Ninety-nine point eight, much better. I almost felt whole as I called Cynthia, the woman I ride to work with, to tell her I would be spending the day in bed rather than at my desk. She suggested that she still pick me up and we go to the hospital for a malaria test. I agreed, still tired and achy.
A little delirious and still half-asleep I prepared myself for my trip to the hospital. I took money and a bottle of water…I knew that these were the most important things. I didn’t imagine I would stay long and thought that if I had forgotten anything, I could surely purchase it. Other things seemed trivial – my phone, my computer, movies, a book, my iPod, toilet paper. 
We pulled up to the hospital. It was a private hospital – one of the best in Benin City. It was a large cement building surrounded by dirt. It almost looked as if it had been newly finished – structurally sound, but still a bit rough around the edges. The doctor was outside and greeted us with a smile, showing us through the front door where the nurses gathered in their white nurse uniforms, some with small white nurse hats. Their dress reminded me of Halloween more than it instilled confidence. They stared at me. I stared at them. One sat me down right there in reception, stuck a thermometer in my armpit and took my pulse. She flipped through a disorganized notebook to find a blank page to write my name on and recorded my data before taking me to the doctor in his office.I sat down, staring at a large diagram of the female anatomy behind the doctor’s head. “When was you last menstruation?” he asked. What? I’m here for malaria, not a pregnancy test (Nigerians are obsessed with pregnancy, children, fertility, etc.)
“I don’t know,” I replied, a bit annoyed that he wasn’t getting straight to the heart of the issue. I had DVDs waiting for me at home.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I don’t know. Less than a month ago,” I replied. He pointed to the calendar and continued his questioning. I was not of the state of mind that I wanted to expend my precious energy on figuring out when my last menstruation was. I saw little to no relevance (at least not until he had determined that I needed some form of treatment that could endanger a fetus). I knew I wasn’t pregnant and threw out some numbers to appease him, “I don’t know…the 6th…or the 13th.”
“You know you really should know when your last menstruation was,” he said. “It is important to know so that you know when you get pregnant.”
“No sh*t, Sherlock,” I felt like saying, but bit my tongue. I just wanted my diagnosis and drugs so that I could go home.
“What is your blood type?” he continued. Another toughie. I knew I should know this one…I didn’t.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“I know.”
“It should be in your passport.”
“It’s not.”
“It’s in all passports.”
“Not mine.” I pulled out my passport annoyed to be arguing over whether or not blood type is listed in American passports instead of him asking me about my symptoms.
“It is in all other passports. Look next time,” he said still trying to prove his point. “It is important to know your blood type because if you get pregnant and you are…blah blah blah blah…and your fetus…blah blah blah.” I couldn’t believe he was talking about pregnancy again. I could think of many better reasons to know my blood type. As my blood, whatever type it may be, began to boil, he began to ask about my symptoms and I calmed down.
“Fever, chills, sweating, headache, bone ache, diarrhea, nausea, fatigue,” I rattled off the list I had been waiting to share.
He asked a few more questions about other symptoms and jotted notes down in the book. “Sounds like malaria. I’d like to keep you here for 24-hours of observation,” he concluded in less than half of the time he had spent on women’s issues of fertility and menstruation. What? I wasn’t prepared for this! He must have seen the shock and disappointment in my eyes and said that, maybe, if I was doing really well, I could go home in the evening.
I went out to the waiting area and told Cynthia the diagnosis and the request that I stay. A nurse came over and requested that they find someone to stay with me as well as bring some food for me so that I could start my drug regiment. They walked me to my room. I went, first cutting the deal that if I had to stay past 5 o’clock that the driver would go to my house and pick up my phone, computer and some DVDs to keep me sane.
The room was basic. There were two beds with slightly shaky metal frames. The mattresses were covered first in a plastic sheet and then a blue and yellow checkered fitted sheet. There was a pillow and no blanket. A plastic chair sat next to the bed, as did a wooden school desk and attached chair. A small room was to the side blocked by a curtain. Inside was a bag of cement. I lay down.
The hospital was clean – I was grateful for that. I knew it would be basic, but was a little shocked at how basic. I hadn’t expected a TV or an intercom system and could deal with the fact that they brought a second fitted sheet to me instead of a blanket, but had assumed that a hospital (on the higher end) would offer things such as clean drinking water (essential for maintaining hydration), some sort of food (critical to have with some drugs) and toilet paper (do I need to explain?). With a full staff of nurses, it also surprised me that they insisted that I have a babysitter. The company was appreciated, but made me feel like a bit of a burden.
When my food arrived in a small cooler, I ate it up, ready to get on with the drug regiment. Grace, my babysitter for the day, got the nurse to tell her I was ready. She brought in a weathered IV stand. “I don’t want a drip,” I insisted. This sparked a big conversation and the doctor was called in. “Nope,” I shook my head. “I’d like to take the medicine orally.” At first they thought I was afraid of needles. Then I told them that my doctor at home had suggested that whenever traveling that avoid needles. They showed me their sterilized supplies in hermetically sealed wrappers and I politely declined. With a small crowd gathered I looked at the doctor and said that I will start with the oral treatment and that if I got significantly worse, that we could revisit the issue. The American-style medical self-advocacy was a bit foreign to the hospital staff, but went over fine in the end. I got my oral medication and began on the road to recovery.
When 4 o’clock rolled around, I called for the nurse and began my advocacy again. I was determined to go home and spend the night in my bed. The doctor came in and I pinched my cheeks, sat up and looked as perky as possible. “I’d like to go home.”
He smiled and agreed. He also said that my test results were back and that I had malaria (they had taken blood earlier – I had given in and allowed a sterilized and sealed needle for this purpose). We had a brief exchange where he said that even if the test result had come back negative that it would still have been malaria. He used some metaphor about Bin Laden – a malaria test can’t check every blood cell for the parasite, America can’t check every Afghani cave for Bin Laden…even if malaria or Bin Laden aren’t found, we still know they are there. I wondered if he would have used this metaphor had I not been American. I hoped that modern science in Nigeria was more accurate than American intelligence in Afghanistan.
I took my 6 bags of pills and headed home.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Video!
I've been using a small video camera to capture some of my activities with kiva.org. If you have some spare time, feel free to peruse.
http://www.youtube.com/jaheinzelman
http://www.youtube.com/jaheinzelman
This is Africa…
Yesterday in my neighborhood I jogged past a very pregnant goat that was startled by my presence as she ate some rubbish at the side of the road.
Today I escaped the rain by seeking refuge in a market stall that sold “bush meat.” Furry heads surrounded me and large rat-looking creatures were splayed out and dried on sticks.
I’ve moved to an apartment without a generator – I can now appreciate the frustration that comes with nightly blackouts lasting upwards of 3 hours.
Two days ago I saw small child naked and squatting over a nicely formed poop outside his house.
Today, same small child, same cement slab by the side of his house, same morning ritual.
I’ve realized how absolutely inept I am at washing clothes – I’ve never lived in a place where I needed to use a Laundromat let alone my own two hands.
The top story on the news the other day was how the some Nigerian religious figure had issued an official statement that a pilgrimage to the Holy land is optional for Christians, not mandatory.
There are chickens outside my office. No one can tell me whom they belong to.
On my 6-hour 330-mile journey from Lagos to Benin City, the driver waved a vendor over to the van at a stoplight and purchased two pairs of boxer shorts.
In one week I saw two dead people lying by the road. It was explained to me that the third one (I thought was dead) was not. He had had a seizure and was just lying there with foam on his mouth. One knows he’s not dead because people are stepping over him rather than keeping a distance and walking around.
Today I escaped the rain by seeking refuge in a market stall that sold “bush meat.” Furry heads surrounded me and large rat-looking creatures were splayed out and dried on sticks.
I’ve moved to an apartment without a generator – I can now appreciate the frustration that comes with nightly blackouts lasting upwards of 3 hours.
Two days ago I saw small child naked and squatting over a nicely formed poop outside his house.
Today, same small child, same cement slab by the side of his house, same morning ritual.
I’ve realized how absolutely inept I am at washing clothes – I’ve never lived in a place where I needed to use a Laundromat let alone my own two hands.
The top story on the news the other day was how the some Nigerian religious figure had issued an official statement that a pilgrimage to the Holy land is optional for Christians, not mandatory.
There are chickens outside my office. No one can tell me whom they belong to.
On my 6-hour 330-mile journey from Lagos to Benin City, the driver waved a vendor over to the van at a stoplight and purchased two pairs of boxer shorts.
In one week I saw two dead people lying by the road. It was explained to me that the third one (I thought was dead) was not. He had had a seizure and was just lying there with foam on his mouth. One knows he’s not dead because people are stepping over him rather than keeping a distance and walking around.
A W.A.S.P. in Nigeria
I am a WASP – white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant. My parents rarely yelled, spankings were rare and more painful for my mother than me and requests were granted only when accompanied by the obligatory “please” and followed by “thank you.” On Sundays my family sat in well-ordered pews quietly listening to sermons, bowing our heads in silent prayers and rising (as directed) to sing hymns from notations in a book. At school my friends and I were scolded for being late in an effort to train us all in the expectations of the culturally dominant WASPs who value time commitments and punctuality.
For a WASP, Nigeria is a challenge. It is a harsh culture (by my comparison) with none of the comfortable social rules of home. People bark orders that pang on my eardrums. Daily prayers are shouted with chaotic fervor. Ten a.m. means noon…or one…maybe 3pm. People are friendly once one breaks through, but few smiles are plastered on to pretend that there is a fondness for you that is not there. In all of this there is good and bad.
At first I feared that I had signed up to spend 3 months among people who were rude – a people who had no respect for one another. Little things grated on me. Things like being told, “Give me your flash drive” when I expected a softer, “May I borrow your flash drive, please” or having “Are you getting me?” “Am I clear?” and “Do you understand?” snapped at me in between thoughts as if I were a mentally retarded child with an impatient teacher. I’ve come to realize that this is a Nigerian’s way of ensuring that their numerous accents, languages and dialects don’t inhibit communication with me as well as each other. Just as I have accepted that the tones in which people speak, constantly reminding myself that they are not mad, rude or intentionally aggressive…they are Nigerian.
Almost 6 weeks in, I’ve learned to accept and adapt. I’ve quickly been trained to know that the “diplomatic” presentation of my thoughts and/or requests will fall on deaf ears. I must be direct and blunt – using the kind of tone that my mother would employ when she caught me watching TV rather than doing my chores…after three requests. I am most successful when I am truly annoyed with the person to who I am speaking. In church or during morning prayers, I’ve concluded that closing my eyes, bowing my head and following my own tradition is still more comfortable. Waving my hands, knitting my brow and punctuating my prayers with an energetic “In the name of Je-sus!” is too distracting and feels forced. “My way” seems to be accepted. And when I’m feeling saucy, I’ll demand a “please” before submitting to a task or an “I beg-o” as they say in Nigerian Pigeon English. There is a happy balance to everything and I am finding that space and becoming a Nigerian WASP – my skin is thinker and I’m more likely to bite.
For a WASP, Nigeria is a challenge. It is a harsh culture (by my comparison) with none of the comfortable social rules of home. People bark orders that pang on my eardrums. Daily prayers are shouted with chaotic fervor. Ten a.m. means noon…or one…maybe 3pm. People are friendly once one breaks through, but few smiles are plastered on to pretend that there is a fondness for you that is not there. In all of this there is good and bad.
At first I feared that I had signed up to spend 3 months among people who were rude – a people who had no respect for one another. Little things grated on me. Things like being told, “Give me your flash drive” when I expected a softer, “May I borrow your flash drive, please” or having “Are you getting me?” “Am I clear?” and “Do you understand?” snapped at me in between thoughts as if I were a mentally retarded child with an impatient teacher. I’ve come to realize that this is a Nigerian’s way of ensuring that their numerous accents, languages and dialects don’t inhibit communication with me as well as each other. Just as I have accepted that the tones in which people speak, constantly reminding myself that they are not mad, rude or intentionally aggressive…they are Nigerian.
Almost 6 weeks in, I’ve learned to accept and adapt. I’ve quickly been trained to know that the “diplomatic” presentation of my thoughts and/or requests will fall on deaf ears. I must be direct and blunt – using the kind of tone that my mother would employ when she caught me watching TV rather than doing my chores…after three requests. I am most successful when I am truly annoyed with the person to who I am speaking. In church or during morning prayers, I’ve concluded that closing my eyes, bowing my head and following my own tradition is still more comfortable. Waving my hands, knitting my brow and punctuating my prayers with an energetic “In the name of Je-sus!” is too distracting and feels forced. “My way” seems to be accepted. And when I’m feeling saucy, I’ll demand a “please” before submitting to a task or an “I beg-o” as they say in Nigerian Pigeon English. There is a happy balance to everything and I am finding that space and becoming a Nigerian WASP – my skin is thinker and I’m more likely to bite.
Buckets
In a one-hour flight I went from bucket showers to buckets of $300 bottles of champagne. Benin City and Lagos: 328-miles and a world apart.
Friday 11:00 AM: I arrived at the house of a friend of a friend of a friend, Erin. Her freelance journalist roommate, Will, let me into the armored US Embassy quarters and returned to his computer to finish an article to meet a deadline. With little within walking distance and having been deprived of the comforts of the familiar for the past month, I hunkered down and watched the programming piped in for the American military stationed abroad. There was news, movies, a history channel – all with “commercials” about how everyone “at home” supports our American troops, how important it is to vote, where to get help with alcoholism, how child molestation is wrong and whistle blowing is okay.
Friday 6:30 PM: There was a live band at the “American Club” – a well-lit gathering place serving frozen margaritas from concentrate and processed cheese. It’s a gathering place for American Embassy staff and expats that find themselves missing home. There is wireless Internet, a basketball court, swing set, a pool and a pantry of American goods for sale ranging from Pace Picante Sauce to Chex Mix and Heinz 57. For some, it is a Friday night tradition. For others, it is a place to open the evening with relatively inexpensive booze and a networking hub.
Friday 8:45 PM: High heels and lipstick, five women went to the Bambudah Lounge to meet “friends” – a Rawandan runway model slash socialite and her latest lover, a jovial Lebanese man who attempted to prove himself by sponsoring our drinks with little to no concern about cost. Five women, ten passion fruit martinis, $170 USD. We sat legs crossed on couches listening to ambient beats and discussing who knows who from Harvard and how Bambudah’s brunch was supposedly good. We killed time until we could be appropriately late for our next engagement – a champagne party at a private residence.
Friday 10:45 PM: The large black gate of the compound swung open and the security guards waved us in. We parked among Land Rovers and Mercedes then entered the champagne party through a foyer filled with family photographs. Our hosts were two brothers. Their mother slept upstairs with the help of a sedative. Friendships seemed flat, but the bubbles in the champagne provided a temporary fix. People rattled off where they had gone to school in the States and the UK in perfectly cultivated and clear accents. The dress code was collared shirts, some worn with blazers. Are we in Africa?
Saturday 12:00 AM or so: The party moved to Volar, a dark club with a deep beat. Outside boys hustled to sell gum and mentos for 100 Naira (80 or so cents) as people pushed to purchase tickets for 2,000 ($17). Bodies pressed against one another trying to get in past the newly erected gates. Keeping people out seems to be the best way to get people in. Our affiliation with the boys from the champagne party earned us entrée and a table that was soon covered with more buckets of bubbly. I watched those around me, drunk on money and high-priced booze.
Saturday 12:00 PM: We headed out for food. Lettuce and a latte – two things I can’t get in Benin City, but can at over-priced colonial cafes. Lagos is small…at least “this” Lagos is. Of course we ran into people. Conversation centered on planning beach weekends, upcoming live music events and lamenting the challenges of finding a new crew for the boat, preferably Indians.
Saturday 3:00 PM: We had been invited to a wedding. In Nigeria these types of affairs are open to all who come into contact with an invitation or someone who has. I got more than a reception befitting a friend of a friend of a coworker. We were seated at a prominent central table with the other “oyibos” (white people). Well-wishers showered us with gifts of umbrellas, plates, notebooks, rubbish bins and pens with congratulations to the couple printed in slightly smeared ink. Family members paraded by thanking us for coming, one going as far as saying that our presence (“oyibos”) had added status to this nuptial celebration. In some’s eyes, we were more important that a good band. We were like making the NY Times wedding section.
Saturday 9:30 PM: After a brief rest, we got dolled up again. The girls headed out to a club called “10” and I joined Will for a more low-key get-together at Bar Beach, an outdoor venue of plastic chairs and tables in the sand. The waves were violent and crashed less than 50 yards from where we sat. A man dressed like the wild Fela Kuti danced on a stage and I was introduced to the journalists stationed in Nigeria – Mr. CNN, Mr. BBC and Ms. AP. They were all very nice and terribly interesting. I marveled at the life they must lead. I wish I could have had more time with them, but text message after text message was beckoning me to meet the ladies at “10” and the hard-working journalists were ready to head home.
Saturday 11:45 PM: I arrived at “10” and began to walk through the small rooms looking for the ladies. Will grabbed my arm and pulled me into the VIP room where I found the crew along with 4 bottles of high-end champagne sitting on our table. A glass fell into my hand as everyone chattered about Kanu, the club’s owner and famous Nigerian footballer that now plays in the UK. He was standing arms length away. I was more focused on the wallpaper – gorgeous, black with modern pastel floral accents. The VIP room was in the center of the box-shaped club with windows and crystal curtains dividing us from the masses. The music was as fantastic as the design elements and I lost myself in the beats while also trying to figure out how some of the girls had gotten so intoxicated in the short time I was gone and who these men were buying us champagne.
12:Something AM: The stay at “10” was too short for my taste, but then again, I had been absent for most of the early part. Before I knew it we were off again, following someone’s crush to another club that everyone seemed to detest “on a Saturday night.” When we arrived, I saw why…The club, Caliente, was overflowing with oily oil men, 16-year old Lebanese teens and prostitutes. I almost vomited in my mouth when a 60-something Scottish man with a turkey neck commented that it must be his lucky night when I slid in next to him at the bar. I couldn’t stomach the thought long enough even to get a free drink. The bar tender, a flaming gay Latino, kept sucking on a lollipop and dancing to the music rather than serving drinks. Everything about him annoyed me, especially the cheap red satin button-down shirt that was worn by the staff. A short Turkish man with man-boobs approached the group. It was explained to me that he was in love with Erin and had been for the past few months of seeing her out at clubs – this was very unrequited. In a unified decision we left, the Turk crying and everyone in the car agreeing “Thursdays are the night for Caliente, not Saturday.”
Sunday: The day was low-key – more television, some wireless Internet and the game of Life. Later in the evening we went to see some live Nigerian music at a local art gallery. I was tired, not terribly social and trying to mentally prepare for the next day when I would be visiting Nigerian entrepreneurs, some who make in one year, what I saw consumed in two nights. It was in this no-mans-land that the contrast seemed so stark. While at the clubs or in the markets, the worlds were too far apart. Still, it is only in quiet moments of reflection that I can fathom the great divide between the moneyed and impoverished Nigeria. I am uniquely privileged to have seen and experienced both.
Friday 11:00 AM: I arrived at the house of a friend of a friend of a friend, Erin. Her freelance journalist roommate, Will, let me into the armored US Embassy quarters and returned to his computer to finish an article to meet a deadline. With little within walking distance and having been deprived of the comforts of the familiar for the past month, I hunkered down and watched the programming piped in for the American military stationed abroad. There was news, movies, a history channel – all with “commercials” about how everyone “at home” supports our American troops, how important it is to vote, where to get help with alcoholism, how child molestation is wrong and whistle blowing is okay.
Friday 6:30 PM: There was a live band at the “American Club” – a well-lit gathering place serving frozen margaritas from concentrate and processed cheese. It’s a gathering place for American Embassy staff and expats that find themselves missing home. There is wireless Internet, a basketball court, swing set, a pool and a pantry of American goods for sale ranging from Pace Picante Sauce to Chex Mix and Heinz 57. For some, it is a Friday night tradition. For others, it is a place to open the evening with relatively inexpensive booze and a networking hub.
Friday 8:45 PM: High heels and lipstick, five women went to the Bambudah Lounge to meet “friends” – a Rawandan runway model slash socialite and her latest lover, a jovial Lebanese man who attempted to prove himself by sponsoring our drinks with little to no concern about cost. Five women, ten passion fruit martinis, $170 USD. We sat legs crossed on couches listening to ambient beats and discussing who knows who from Harvard and how Bambudah’s brunch was supposedly good. We killed time until we could be appropriately late for our next engagement – a champagne party at a private residence.
Friday 10:45 PM: The large black gate of the compound swung open and the security guards waved us in. We parked among Land Rovers and Mercedes then entered the champagne party through a foyer filled with family photographs. Our hosts were two brothers. Their mother slept upstairs with the help of a sedative. Friendships seemed flat, but the bubbles in the champagne provided a temporary fix. People rattled off where they had gone to school in the States and the UK in perfectly cultivated and clear accents. The dress code was collared shirts, some worn with blazers. Are we in Africa?
Saturday 12:00 AM or so: The party moved to Volar, a dark club with a deep beat. Outside boys hustled to sell gum and mentos for 100 Naira (80 or so cents) as people pushed to purchase tickets for 2,000 ($17). Bodies pressed against one another trying to get in past the newly erected gates. Keeping people out seems to be the best way to get people in. Our affiliation with the boys from the champagne party earned us entrée and a table that was soon covered with more buckets of bubbly. I watched those around me, drunk on money and high-priced booze.
Saturday 12:00 PM: We headed out for food. Lettuce and a latte – two things I can’t get in Benin City, but can at over-priced colonial cafes. Lagos is small…at least “this” Lagos is. Of course we ran into people. Conversation centered on planning beach weekends, upcoming live music events and lamenting the challenges of finding a new crew for the boat, preferably Indians.
Saturday 3:00 PM: We had been invited to a wedding. In Nigeria these types of affairs are open to all who come into contact with an invitation or someone who has. I got more than a reception befitting a friend of a friend of a coworker. We were seated at a prominent central table with the other “oyibos” (white people). Well-wishers showered us with gifts of umbrellas, plates, notebooks, rubbish bins and pens with congratulations to the couple printed in slightly smeared ink. Family members paraded by thanking us for coming, one going as far as saying that our presence (“oyibos”) had added status to this nuptial celebration. In some’s eyes, we were more important that a good band. We were like making the NY Times wedding section.
Saturday 9:30 PM: After a brief rest, we got dolled up again. The girls headed out to a club called “10” and I joined Will for a more low-key get-together at Bar Beach, an outdoor venue of plastic chairs and tables in the sand. The waves were violent and crashed less than 50 yards from where we sat. A man dressed like the wild Fela Kuti danced on a stage and I was introduced to the journalists stationed in Nigeria – Mr. CNN, Mr. BBC and Ms. AP. They were all very nice and terribly interesting. I marveled at the life they must lead. I wish I could have had more time with them, but text message after text message was beckoning me to meet the ladies at “10” and the hard-working journalists were ready to head home.
Saturday 11:45 PM: I arrived at “10” and began to walk through the small rooms looking for the ladies. Will grabbed my arm and pulled me into the VIP room where I found the crew along with 4 bottles of high-end champagne sitting on our table. A glass fell into my hand as everyone chattered about Kanu, the club’s owner and famous Nigerian footballer that now plays in the UK. He was standing arms length away. I was more focused on the wallpaper – gorgeous, black with modern pastel floral accents. The VIP room was in the center of the box-shaped club with windows and crystal curtains dividing us from the masses. The music was as fantastic as the design elements and I lost myself in the beats while also trying to figure out how some of the girls had gotten so intoxicated in the short time I was gone and who these men were buying us champagne.
12:Something AM: The stay at “10” was too short for my taste, but then again, I had been absent for most of the early part. Before I knew it we were off again, following someone’s crush to another club that everyone seemed to detest “on a Saturday night.” When we arrived, I saw why…The club, Caliente, was overflowing with oily oil men, 16-year old Lebanese teens and prostitutes. I almost vomited in my mouth when a 60-something Scottish man with a turkey neck commented that it must be his lucky night when I slid in next to him at the bar. I couldn’t stomach the thought long enough even to get a free drink. The bar tender, a flaming gay Latino, kept sucking on a lollipop and dancing to the music rather than serving drinks. Everything about him annoyed me, especially the cheap red satin button-down shirt that was worn by the staff. A short Turkish man with man-boobs approached the group. It was explained to me that he was in love with Erin and had been for the past few months of seeing her out at clubs – this was very unrequited. In a unified decision we left, the Turk crying and everyone in the car agreeing “Thursdays are the night for Caliente, not Saturday.”
Sunday: The day was low-key – more television, some wireless Internet and the game of Life. Later in the evening we went to see some live Nigerian music at a local art gallery. I was tired, not terribly social and trying to mentally prepare for the next day when I would be visiting Nigerian entrepreneurs, some who make in one year, what I saw consumed in two nights. It was in this no-mans-land that the contrast seemed so stark. While at the clubs or in the markets, the worlds were too far apart. Still, it is only in quiet moments of reflection that I can fathom the great divide between the moneyed and impoverished Nigeria. I am uniquely privileged to have seen and experienced both.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
