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.

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.

   

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.