Goodbye Nigeria July 18, 2008

Today is my last day at work.  I’m blessed to have met such amazing people–they’ll be in my heart forever (tear drop, tear drop).  I feel the need to tie up some loose ends and misconceptions that arose from my previous blogs.  I’m not perfect, and each day I learned something new.

 

1.)  Although I look Yoruba (as I’ve been told time and time again), strangers were most likely speaking to me in Pidgin English. Think of ebonics on crack and besides “I dey” and “Afa”, it’s difficult to decipher.  It’s widely spoken because it’s the easiest way to communicate across ethnic groups. 

2.)  I don’t think the fruit stand gave me parasites.  They most likely came from the roadside diners known as “Mama putz”.  The women use coal and big iron pots to cook outdoors.  Once again, the origins of the water they use is suspect and even the locals hesitate to eat there.  My colleagues were appalled when I told them where I had been eating, but on a shoestring budget I’d gladly pay $.50 per meal all over again. 

3.) Despite my Uncle Diddy’s notions, all Nigerians are not crooks.  However, some of them are very resourceful, and as my friend Tobe says: ”You can only scam a criminal”.  Ashe brotha ashe.  Now, those 419 scam victims don’t look so pitiful after all.

4.) My poverty (lack of running water  and inconsistent power) is not indicative of every Nigerian’s living conditions.  I must be clear that I was poor in Nigeria because I am poor in America; unfortunately, poor in Nigeria looks a little different.  Those who can afford the luxuries of fuel-generated electricity and cable tv lead lives very similar to most Americans.  I, on the other hand, lived in the “servant’s quarters” of the main house, and, as you can imagine, suffered accordingly.

5.) The facial scars are not conclusive signs of the lower class.  Yoruba people practice facial scarification.  It seems to be an indicator of a person who is not too far removed from the rural part of the country. 

 

Thanks for traveling with me.  My journey here is nearly complete, but my work back home is just beginning.  My passion for activism has been magnified, and at 26 my purpose in life has become crystal clear.  A few days ago I reflected on my fascination with Nigeria.  It started when I read Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe in the tenth grade, and became enamoured by the simultaneous power and vulnerability of the Igbo.  In college, I took a “Peoples and Cultures of Africa” course where my final paper was titled “Gender Inequalities Among the Igbo”.  Now ten years after my first introduction to Nigeria, I’m in Nigeria fighting to bridge the inequalities I first discovered five years ago.  It’s amazing how life leads us to the unimaginable.  Let me just take a minute to reveal in the glory of God’s favor.  Hotep.

Pimpin ain’t easy…but some Africans have to do it July 8, 2008

Before moving to DC, my personal life hit a dead end.  Whining to my best guy friend that I was sick of lyinasscheatin brothas, he hit me with a piece of advice resembling a bag of bricks.   He told me to get over it.  There are billions of people in this world, and we’re all sleeping with each other.   I know, it sounds a bit crude, and at first I disagreed.  Clearly, everybody doesn’t cheat; what about elderly people? Is Shady Pines filled with swingers?  However, the accuracy of the figure is unimportant–his point was larger than a mere generalization.  Humans yearn for the affection of the opposite sex, or same sex depending on what floats your boat, and cheating is the byproduct of a natural feeling.

 

Everybody plays the fool sometime, and there are no exceptions to this rule.  Ironically, we often forget our past or present foolish behaviors when evaluating another person’s relationship.  It’s easy to harshly criticize the infidelity of your neighbor/sister/auntie/girlfriend’s significant other when you’ve suppressed the memory of the difficulties you once endured at the hands of your lyinasscheatin man.  They say pain has no memory, and I assume denial is a defense mechanism, but wouldn’t it be easier if we stopped going on Maury and just faced the truth?  It’s billions of people in this world, and we’re all sleeping with each other.   

 

My NGO director is from St. Lucia, and our positions about women’s rights and feminism are very similar.  She complains about the traditionalism present in Nigerian culture and how women are often disrespected by their husbands.  Men don’t go to great lengths to hide their extramarital affairs, and women turn the blind eye, forbidden to make his infidelity an issue.  In a post-polygamous society all parties accept the fact that men cheat.  Unlike the director, I’m beginning to understand and respect Nigerian women’s acceptance.  Before the Feminist Fairy comes to remove my womanist badge let me explain.  

 

We often ask God to allow us to change the things we can, accept the things we can’t, and to grant us the wisdom to tell the difference.  Since the beginning of time, women have attempted to change men from their cheating ways to no avail.  Unlike many western women, Nigerian women are wise enough to understand and accept this fact.  I’m not advocating infidelity, in the era of rampant STDs this would be careless and illogical.  But realistically speaking, the rate of STDs is high because of infidelity, and few people can boast of untainted love, especially when many indiscretions are undisclosed.   Black American women have been cussing, fussing, and fighting, over Black American men’s outside relationships for far too long.  Maybe we should be honest with ourselves about the naturalness of yearning for the affection of another, and the fact that a “relationship” is simply a noun–it does not operate like a power source capable of removing the electricity from this urge. Women and men have the ability to control their lower halves, but in a society where playboys are glorified and P.Diddy is almost 40 and still cheating on Kim Porter, men don’t adapt very easily to commitment.  If we are honest with ourselves and accept reality, then all the private investigating, tire-slashing, and confrontations are wastes of energy that can be spent on more positive endeavors.

 

One day, a potential suitor asked me if I knew how many men cheated on the women in their lives.  I pondered his question, wondering if my estimate should be high or low.  I settled slightly above average, deciding only 6 out of 10 men were monogamists.  He said I was wrong, 9 out of 10 men cheat on their women, and he was the last faithful brother around.

All the players came from far and wide July 4, 2008

No matter the continent, Black men are born with two undeniable traits: the ability to talk shit and pick up women.  These traits are symbiotic an can often be seen working in tandem.  Today, I had the luxury of being pursued by two friends who put their skills to work.

 

As an American woman, my dreads and multi-colored rainboots are dead give aways that I am foreign.  Men, the simple creatures that they are, have been enamoured by my uniqueness, and persistent in their pursuit.  Today’s pursuers, Nigerian Dude #1 and #2, started with a common goal–to convince me that I’ve never been with a Black man.  When asked what they would call a Black American man, they laughed.  Evidently, it’s common knowledge that they pale in comparison to brothers on the continent.  The reason?  They eat too much sugar.  I couldn’t deny this, the world seems to be aware of Americans’ bad eating habits.  Here’s the humorous part, Dude #1 claims our improper diet disables Black American men’s strength.  I wasn’t too sure where he was going with this assertion until he began to repeatedly underscore his argument with a balled fist and outstretched arm.  Finally, I got the hint.  After laughing uncontrollably, I told him I was engaged and wasn’t interested in determining the truthfulness, or lack thereof, of his comparison.  Dude #2 was not deterred by my white lie, and began his attack from a new angle.  Was I aware that Igbo men worked hard and made lots of money?  Again, I wasn’t impressed, prompting Dude #1 to recall a story he heard about pitiful American women who marry for love.  Although he said love like it was an incurable disease, I had to admit he was once again correct.  My man and I don’t aspire to be rich, and our only aspiration for material wealth lies in preventing our family’s return to poverty.

 

While I was showered with compliments and drinks, it felt like I was at a 4th of July picnic, not thousands of miles away at my friend Lilian’s roadside food stand.  Taking a break from their pursuit, they began to fix their attention on Lilian’s patrons.  The first sister was showered with kisses and told her hips could break a man’s back.  The next sister was implored for help pouring water into Dude #2’s mouth, it was hot and his hands were dirty.  The sisters feigned annoyance, and fluttered away into the African sun, indifferent to the brothers’ many displays of bravado. 

 

All eyes back on me, I was confronted with a choice.  Who had told the most believable lies, wore the shiniest jewelry, and effortlessly conveyed the  funniest sexual innuendos?  Out of my league, I looked to Lilian for help.  Like a good friend, she dismissed them both–neither was worthy of my attention.  When Dude #1 asked for a peck on the cheek it was my turn to feign annoyance and flutter away into the midday sun.  A little buzzed from warm Guinness on an empty stomach, I continued to giggle at our innate similarities.