Product of the USA June 30, 2008

 

I’ve been eating peanut butter by the spoonfuls all day.  I don’t even like peanut butter without jelly, but I found an ant the size of a roach in my only jar, so of course it went directly into the trash.  It’s out of heat-induced misery that my brain is telling me I actually enjoy eating this unhealthy, unnaturally sweetened, sticky stuff.  I mean who over the age of five eats peanut butter from the jar?  Evidently, according to holistic health guru Queen Afua, someone who is suffering from inner turmoil.  Laying in a hot, musty room, listening to the screech of unknown animals mate or hunt their pray (either way I’m TOTALLY over it), eating peanut butter, and chain smoking London menthol cigarettes at 4:00pm on a Sunday, my inner turmoil is painstakingly obvious.  I am depressingly homesick.

 

A healthy obsession with food has facilitated my depression, and PMS gives me justifiable reason to have an all out pity party.  At the beginning of my journey, I felt like I was on an adventure–kind of like Girl Scout Camp.  Now, the novelty has worn off, making my suffering akin to an unprepared Peace Corps volunteer or an Iraqi footsoldier.  Increasingly limited food choices have left me with loose bowels, and an empty pantry worthy of a full five minute segment on “Feed the Children”.  Flies swarming around my dirty face and bloated belly, I can see myself now…”little Tashira had hopes of saving the world, now this hungry child needs to be saved from starvation.  For less than the cost of a pack of gum a day you can make a difference in her life.” Cut to a scene of me fetching water from a nearby stream, wearing ragged clothes, barefoot, and tears streaming down my face.  Okay, I added the last part for emphasis, but it would make really good TV. 

 

I knew I had reached an all time low when my dinner consisted of maccaroni and tomato paste.  I, the daughter of a woman who manages to eat three course meals at the finest Atlanta restaurants for under $40, had resorted to eating food that even a college student would pity.  I’m helpless and hopless–a trip to any “grocery store” will reveal the lack of anything familiar.  Shopping for incredients for a normal meal is like searching for life on an unknown planet–there’s no lettuce, tomatoes, bellpeppers, spinach, salad dressing, spaghetti sauce, grapes, strawberries, or pistachios.  Tofu, Boca burgers, and frozen cheese pizzas are laughable luxuries in this generator-cooled nightmare.  My daily greens are a distant memory, and as my bacteria plauged intestines will attest, native food is strictly off limits.  Even my breakfast of soy milk and toasted almond Kashi has been replaced with two “donuts” (semi-sweet fried dough) from my friend Lilian’s bakery stand.

 

I would gladly trade TV, hot water, and an air conditioned ride to work everyday for a chance to enjoy a familiar meal, preferably with people I’ve known for longer than three weeks.  After blowing out pity candles on my African pity cake, that tastes like a sponge since Publix hasn’t made it to Nigeria, I reach for another scoop of peanut butter.  Under the Arabic writing, I notice the most comforting words imaginable:  “A product of American Garden Products/Seaford, NY/ Product of USA”.  I fight back tears and decide to be strong.  After all, who needs srambled tofu and grits from Busboys and Poets, when they have American made peanut butter?  Only 21 more days and 3,000 miles to the nearest Whole Foods.

The royal penis is clean your highness June 25, 2008

So, it’s this baby next door to my apartment.  I’ve only seen the child once, but have been disgusted by his presence since the first day of my arrival.  It’s not that I don’t like children–that’s very far from the truth.  I don’t like certain children, specifically those who are determined to wake me up in the middle of the night with their constant wailing.  Despite my disdain, he and I have developed an intimate relationship.  Over-hearing his tantrums has given me the ability to determine his never-ending wants and needs by the intonation, volume, and length of his crying.  In my sleep-deprived delirium, I almost banged on his parents’ door twice.  Once to beat his ass, and the other to rock him to sleep.  I first laid eyes on this little terror a few days ago, and although fully capable of walking, he was being held by his adolescent nanny.               

 

The omnipresence of servants is a British custom, bequeathed from Nigeria’s colonial days.  It’s not only foreign, but makes me incredibly uncomfortable.  I’m constantly committing some ridiculous blunder like sitting in the front seat beside the driver or going into the kitchen to make my own tea.  People simply shake their heads in dismay at my complete lack of grace when being waited on hand and foot.  Since I’ve been in Nigeria, I’ve successfully fetched my own water, washed and ironed my own clothes, walked to work in the rain, cooked my own food, brushed my own teeth, and wiped my own behind.  Many Nigerians cannot say the same (well, I’m exaggerating about brushing their teeth and wiping their behinds–I hope).  To my astonishment, the presence of servants means someone is always waiting to complete menial tasks on your behalf! For example, my well-intentioned and poorly funded NGO has two custodians/maids, three nannies, and a driver.  Their responsibilities are complex as they have the joy of engaging in their primary duties, as well as being at the staff’s beck and call. Most importantly, these middle-aged men and women arrive at least one full hour before everyone else.  It appears that anticipating the whims of twenty-five able-bodied adults is time consuming.

 

I’m staging a protest against this colonial residue.  Although alone in my activism, I’m afraid that accepting this type of cultural privilege will render me helpless.  In principle, I’m also opposed to demanding my elders to do things for me that I’m capable of doing for myself.  It’s both disrespectful and elitist.  Almost every matriarch in my family served as a maid, cook, and caretaker.  Their perseverance elevated my generation out of the oppressor’s homes, and into colleges, careers, and unlimited opportunities.  Looking into the eyes of the Nigerian “help”, I don’t see the underclass of this society, but my grandmothers’ toil and my great-aunts’ tribulations.  

 

As I was writing this post, my co-worker walked in with her baby and nanny.   A child herself, she looks helpless, but stares at the baby with adoration in her eyes.  I wonder if she sees a life she will never live, dreams she will never fulfill.  I wonder if she is my grandmother 50 years ago.  I timidly smile at her, praying for her release from servitude.

O mo ni ife re/O I thank dey li me/Oh I think they like me June 20, 2008

I experienced a moment of clarity today.  Since my arrival in Nigeria, my ability to decipher the local versions of English has increased daily.  There’s a British version that they use in the office only when speaking to me, there’s an accent heavy colloquial version (very similar to ebonics), and then there’s the ethnic languages, primarily Igbo and Yoruba, that if you listen really closely have fragments of English peppered throughout. 

 

While attempting to enter the bank, I asked the security guard if it was open.  He looked a bit confused, and responded in a string of syllables that I couldn’t interpret.  In turn, I must have looked a bit confused because his co-worker quickly opened the gate, responding that the bank was indeed open.  Not taking the time to analyze this exchange, I entered the building where I was met by a teller who couldn’t understand why I was asking if the bank was international or why I was wasting her time during the Thursday evening rush–I didn’t even have an account.  Obviously annoyed, she questioned rhetorically, “aren’t you Nigerian?”

 

The fact that I had been mistaken for an African citizen brought me so much pride until I left with a silly grin on my face.  It was the ultimate gift for a disaspora African, a symbolic acknowledgement of our common ancestry.  As I walked past security, I had a revelation.  It wasn’t that I didn’t understand the Nigerian accent, but people, assuming I was Nigerian, had been speaking to me in Igbo or Yoruba!  Even though my Igbo is non-existant, and my Yoruba is worse, I felt a kinship to my people like never before.

 

The second day of my internship I noticed something oddly familiar.  A white girl was travelling the halls of my NGO.  Immediately distrustful, I refused to engage in small talk or look her directly in the eye.  Whatever her role, I knew her type.  Peace-loving, tree-hugging, interest-serving, they believe their presence is necesssary to save Africans from themselves, but never admit that their presence is the root of the problem.  Not deterred by my mean mugs (looks of disgust), she cornered me and self-indulgently relayed her experiences while in Africa.  She complained that the people hadn’t been welcoming, never inviting her into their homes or offering to show her around.  She felt like an outsider, and whined about it for ten minutes.  Feigning interest, I looked at her blond hair and blue eyes, and was comforted by her misery.  My people possess a strong sense of discernment, and even when serving a ”philanthropic” role she would never be truly welcomed.  It felt good to know that her rejection had been instinctive, yet I had been embraced.  I had been repeatedly mistaken for Nigerian.  I had made friends who within five minutes offered to show me around.  I had payed the same price for road-side fruit as the locals.  Unlike her, I had been embraced by Nigeria. 

Destined to Die in Nigeria June 16, 2008

Amoebic dysentery? Dengue Fever?  Malaria?  Whatever my ailment, I was surely destined to die in Nigeria.  While sipping sugar-free Red Bull and checking my email, my stomach began to churn.  The sensation was familiar, and I decided I could control the urge until I finished surfing the internet.  My body had different plans.  I suddenly felt like a rock band was playing in my stomach–someone was having a wild party that I had just been invited to.  Tearing my ipod from my ears, I ran to the bathroom, barely making it in time.  The bathroom was now my sanctuary; I had diaharrea.

 

The first apartment that my mom and I shared had two bedrooms and one bath.  Only five years old, this arrangement suited me just fine, especially on days when I couldn’t quite unbutton my pants.  All was well until the fated day we both had bubble guts.  However, my experience of two people with loose bowls rotating on and off one working comode was luxury compared to having to repeatedly flush a week’s worth of meals with buckets of water by hand.  By noon, each of my four trips to the bathroom had lasted between 15 to 20 minutes.  Death was certain whether the result of disease or embarrassment. 

 

In my sanctuary, I was left to ponder what I had eaten to cause my condition.  Rice, something spicy I didn’t know the name of, something brown and mushy I didn’t know the name of, more rice, and fruit from a hawker (roadside vendor).  Process of elimination led me to believe that the unanamed dishes and fruit, which had probably been rinsed in water resembling sewage water in the US, were the most likely culprits.  Damn my need to try new things!  I had poisoned myself and was now surely destined to die in Nigeria.

 

 

The phases of my life have all evolved from my fascination with foreign entities.  When I was little I wanted to be Punky Brewster (a fantasy I’ve been hesitant to let go), around Middle School I would have happily morphed into anyone who had cooler parents, high school brought on my Caribbean/Rastafarian phase, and in college I alternated between wishing I was continental African and white middle class.  My feelings of inadequacy facilitated this madness, disallowing me to appreciate my own uniqueness.  Although I no longer wish to be anyone else, I recognize that my decision to eat fruit from the side of an unpaved road is the result of an unhealthy urge to transform myself into the ways and practices of a foreign people.  The human body recognizes and expels foreign substances, like a security alarm, it knows when something doesn’t belong.  As my body rejected unfamiliar cuisine, Nigeria symbolically rejected me as well.  I am welcomed and appreciated as a tourist, but my role here is only that of an outsider.

 

By 2:00 I remembered my family and friends and mustered the stregnth to pull myself off the toilet and not die in Nigeria.  I walked to a local pharmacy and faintly mouthed the words “Pepto-Bismol”.  The sixteen year old “pharmacist” had no idea what I was talking about, and I reprhased that I needed something for an upset stomach.  She asked me if I had been purging.  Quickly I searched for the translation, “purging…purging…purging…Oh, vomiting!”  I told her that I had not, prompting her to reach behind the counter and hand me two packs of pills–no prescription necessary.  I left with metronidazole, tetracycline, and dosage instructions that sounded like either two in the evening or after eating (the accent still gives me problems).

 

All alone with diarrhea, unfamiliar prescription drugs that I had gotten without consulting someone who had fancy degrees on the wall, and limited meal choices, I felt homesick and more American than ever before.  Today’s lesson?  Trying to be someone else will give you bubble guts and successfully reaffirm who you really are.

   

Conflict-Free Yaki June 12, 2008

Upon my arrival at my internship the women engaged in a conversation concerning the authenticity of my hair.  Of course I was not included in this discussion.  Amid whispers and side glances, the most curious sister, herself wearing starter locks, approached me.  Calculating her steps, as if I was a lion in a cage, she asked “Is that…your hair?”, eyes squinting in criticism.  When I replied affirmatively she was astonished, quickly relaying her discovery to the team of on-lookers.

-”She says it’s her hair!”

-”That’s her hair!?!”

-”Let me see..”

-”But how?..”

At first, like a newly caged animal, I bowed and strutted, excited to show off my exoticism.  However, I now sympathize with the lion who attacked the hecklers at the zoo.  Being on constant display is completely annoying.

 

Most disturbing is the fact that my African co-workers have even more limited experiences with natural hair than Americans.  Although dreads, afros, and braids are fashionable for some Black Americans, others like myself, are conscious in rejecting the European standard of beauty.  For us, the idea that a foriegn substance, i.e., “Dark and Lovely”, “Motions”, and “Just For Me”, are necessary to unveil our beauty is ridiculous.  Literally transforming into the image of the oppressor is not only the height of assimilation, but also a bit psychotic.  Arriving in Nigeria to see perms, weaves, and wigs let me know that this psychosis is international.

 

Ironically, the things that Black Americans embrace as being part of their African heritage are rejected by continental Africans.  In Nigeria, women rarely wear their natural hair, and I have yet to see a cowrie shell or an ankh (staples of the Sankofa crowd).  I slowly realized that the pictures I’ve seen of Africans who look the most “ethnic” are of rural indigenes, considered backwards by not only western standards, but their urban countrymen as well.  In Lagos, many of the men and women, like my co-workers, are members of the bourgeosie.  They too have assimilated into the images of their British oppressors.

 

I’m reminded of Dr. John Henrik Clarke’s words that a ”culturally conscious people cannot continue to be oppressed.”  But what culture should we be conscious of?  It seems that diaspora and continental Africans are suffering from an identity crisis.  Similar to adolescents who watch too much BET, we’ve merged our innate characteristics with outside influences.  This means Africans in America embrace stereotypes of what they think Africa is, and Africans in Africa reject what they know Africa to be.  It’s a conglomerate of contradictions that are the result of white supremacy. 

 

While shopping at Cherries (envision a mix between Dollar General and a Korean owned corner store) I noticed an African Pride relaxer.  The paradox is obvious. 

Where’s my lighter? June 11, 2008

The power came back on.  While reading I heard a loud thud and there went the lights.  Totally unprepared, I scrambled for the flashlight that I had been wise enough to charge during the day.  Unfortunately, my foresight did not include switching it into “charge” mode, and it shut off within minutes.  Absent Peace Corps training, I agonized over the possibility of being powerless at 7pm.  Although the sun was setting, my body was still on eastern time, and I was far from sleepy.  So, here’s where American urban met African rural: a cellphone and a lighter.

My cellphone provided just enough light to locate my  lighter at the bottom of my purse (a.k.a. the bottomless abyss).  Once I found my lighter I managed to brush my teeth, wash my face, and change my clothes without burning my fingers.  Just as I was growing proud of my resourcefulness, the lights came back on.

 When I was eight I learned five ways to conserve water.  Taking showers and turning the faucet off while brushing your teeth are the only two I can remember.  Despite this advanced training in environmental conservation, I continued to indulge in hot baths and negligently left the water running while brushing.  Living without what Americans consider basic necessities makes me appreciate the smallest conveniences.

Last night was my third night without a shower.  Yesterday was the third day of forty-three that I will flush the toilet with a bucket and brush my teeth with bottled water.  Today I appreciate water and power more than ever before.  My how the Universe has a way of teaching us life’s most precious lessons.

                                        

Welcome June 9, 2008

In the age of email, online bill pay, MySpace, Facebook, and ebay, I’ve decided to leave my cyber footprint yet again.  Using this blog to journal my summer in Nigeria, I expect to uncover America and learn things about myself that I take for granted.  Ironically, I’ve travelled to another continent to “find myself”.  Unavoidable comparisons and contrasts with Nigeria and its people, will allow me to re-emerge with firmer spirituality and ideology. Welcome to my journey.  Hotep.