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Monday, December 1, 2008
Friday, November 7, 2008
If the USA was Nigeria
You would think Obama is a Nigerian the way people here are talking about him, supporting him. One newspaper writes "the man who could be king" and probably wishes Nigeria had such a politician to vote for. Then again, as a popular mail sent around Nigeria these days says, if the USA was Nigeria, today's papers Headlines would read something’s like:
*Don't celebrate yet, McCain tells Obama *(TELL magazine)
*Concede defeat, Obama urges McCain *(Punch newspaper)
*20 opposition cadres riot* (The Sun newspaper)
*McCain Demands Vote Recount* (Vanguard newspaper)
*Elections rigged* (Guidian newspaper)
*No evidence of manipulation* (NTA news)
*The Church declares elections free and fair* (News Line)
*There will be violence if we lose; McCain declares* (LTV 8 news)
*Election results for Arizona awaited* (Channels news)
*Trucks with suspected ballot papers crosses into USA from Mexico* (Tribune newspaper)
*McCain is an opportunist - Go back to your farm* (AIT news)
*I will not accept results, McCain tells Obama *(STV news)
*Don't celebrate yet, McCain tells Obama *(TELL magazine)
*Concede defeat, Obama urges McCain *(Punch newspaper)
*20 opposition cadres riot* (The Sun newspaper)
*McCain Demands Vote Recount* (Vanguard newspaper)
*Elections rigged* (Guidian newspaper)
*No evidence of manipulation* (NTA news)
*The Church declares elections free and fair* (News Line)
*There will be violence if we lose; McCain declares* (LTV 8 news)
*Election results for Arizona awaited* (Channels news)
*Trucks with suspected ballot papers crosses into USA from Mexico* (Tribune newspaper)
*McCain is an opportunist - Go back to your farm* (AIT news)
*I will not accept results, McCain tells Obama *(STV news)
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
My compound -the imperfect village
When people ask me about my life in Nigeria and ask me about the people in my life, normally my neighbours in the compound are overlooked. I get intimate questions about the men in my life, but we never discuss that I have seen most of my neighbours in some undressed state or another. When we discuss how lively my life is here, I often don’t mention that the fights in my compound can be so entertaining that I would switch off my music just to hear every word. And when we discuss tribes and politics, I forget to mention that my compound only hosts northerners.
I live in a massive mansion together with 12 others. My 1-bedroom apartment is one of the smaller ones, which gives you an indication of how big the place is. The house was intended for 1 family but when they finally finished the building the children had all moved out already. For 8 years the house was just standing there, soaking up rain water with its cement walls, until about 1 year ago they decided to create 12 apartments to rent out and I am among the first to have moved in.
It is a truly Nigerian compound. This is not because my Tanzanian neighbour and myself are the only non-Nigerians, but because everything has been done with an astounding lack of perfection. Everything is there alright, but... E.g. it has taken 3 months to have the lights and sockets work at the same time, 2 months to pave the compound, and about 5 months for my walls to start falling apart due to the lack of drainage systems. Bathrooms tend to slope in the wrong way and the water problems have led to mouldy walls (and clothes). If it rains the water tends to enter through the windows and the mosquitoes can easily feed themselves on us unprotected humans.
The tiny parking space creates most entertainment though. The 12 cars are crammed inside, nearly spilling out of the gate, and everyone knows when the others are coming and going so that we have created a near-perfect sequence of parking our cars. If you want to leave earlier than normal, you will have to ask the gate men to wake up your neighbours so they can move their cars. This is why I’ve seen so many of my neighbours half-naked. On a few occasions I have heard impressive fights between my neighbours on the speed with which cars are moved, or on the position of the particular car. But like always in Nigeria fights are quickly forgotten and laughter follows suit.
Help is always offered by the gate people. It used to be one gate man from Niger Republic, but there seems to be an exponential growth in gate men. Not one of them speaks English and my Hausa is far from perfect, but you can get far with “moto” and a lot of gestures. When you come to visit me they first tell you that I’m not there unless you just refer to me as “the white one”, and when it’s a man visiting me they’ll act as my protectors and will not let you in unless I have consented. They are like my brothers, taking care of me, and in the 6 months that they have the key to my house, I have felt safe and looked after rather than paranoid on when they’ll steal my belongings.
All my life I have thought of a village as the worst place to live. The social control, the tight regulations and the constant intrusion of neighbours seemed like hell to me. Now I live in a compound where you can be yourself, fight like family, barge in on each other, talk without regard of social position, and walk around in your house dress. Inside our walls we have a village of our own –and I love it!
I live in a massive mansion together with 12 others. My 1-bedroom apartment is one of the smaller ones, which gives you an indication of how big the place is. The house was intended for 1 family but when they finally finished the building the children had all moved out already. For 8 years the house was just standing there, soaking up rain water with its cement walls, until about 1 year ago they decided to create 12 apartments to rent out and I am among the first to have moved in.
It is a truly Nigerian compound. This is not because my Tanzanian neighbour and myself are the only non-Nigerians, but because everything has been done with an astounding lack of perfection. Everything is there alright, but... E.g. it has taken 3 months to have the lights and sockets work at the same time, 2 months to pave the compound, and about 5 months for my walls to start falling apart due to the lack of drainage systems. Bathrooms tend to slope in the wrong way and the water problems have led to mouldy walls (and clothes). If it rains the water tends to enter through the windows and the mosquitoes can easily feed themselves on us unprotected humans.
The tiny parking space creates most entertainment though. The 12 cars are crammed inside, nearly spilling out of the gate, and everyone knows when the others are coming and going so that we have created a near-perfect sequence of parking our cars. If you want to leave earlier than normal, you will have to ask the gate men to wake up your neighbours so they can move their cars. This is why I’ve seen so many of my neighbours half-naked. On a few occasions I have heard impressive fights between my neighbours on the speed with which cars are moved, or on the position of the particular car. But like always in Nigeria fights are quickly forgotten and laughter follows suit.
Help is always offered by the gate people. It used to be one gate man from Niger Republic, but there seems to be an exponential growth in gate men. Not one of them speaks English and my Hausa is far from perfect, but you can get far with “moto” and a lot of gestures. When you come to visit me they first tell you that I’m not there unless you just refer to me as “the white one”, and when it’s a man visiting me they’ll act as my protectors and will not let you in unless I have consented. They are like my brothers, taking care of me, and in the 6 months that they have the key to my house, I have felt safe and looked after rather than paranoid on when they’ll steal my belongings.
All my life I have thought of a village as the worst place to live. The social control, the tight regulations and the constant intrusion of neighbours seemed like hell to me. Now I live in a compound where you can be yourself, fight like family, barge in on each other, talk without regard of social position, and walk around in your house dress. Inside our walls we have a village of our own –and I love it!
Reading the news
“I wonder why people are so wicked. You just wake-up in the morning to find your house entrance with heaps of feaces and nobody seems to care enough to take drastic action”. In another article I read the sentence “with various water sports like swimming, volleyball and table tennis the guests are thus profitably engaged”. Ever tried table tennis in water? Well, at least there’s no false pretence as to the goal of having guests: profit... The same newspaper compared some kind of manufacturing activity to a termite colony and then devoted a third of the article on explaining the workings of a termite colony... Educational no doubt, but I quite lost the lineof the argument.
Reading newspapers here regularly has me in stiches but it’s also often difficult to understand the articles. A sentence starting with “however” can serve to simply confirm the previous statement and you often feel like keeping your breath until the clue comes, only to find out that the clue consisted of an endless repetition of the same argument. Oh, and of course there’s the emphasis on describing the unimaginable greatness of the people interviewed, an emphasis lost in hilarious details.
Photos next to articles normally refer to another event or article, of some days ago. They don’t therefore offer more clarification, but they do make you laugh as photographers won’t ask their victims to pose but just ‘snap’ them at a random point of time. The facial expressions are often embarassing, and a story in itself.
Every topic is touched upon. From corruption to fashion, from political intrigues to magical witch doctors, from the financial crisis to the nearness of God. Having to read newspapers for my job has become an entertaining (though time-consuming) business, and I totally see how journalism can be called an art.
Reading newspapers here regularly has me in stiches but it’s also often difficult to understand the articles. A sentence starting with “however” can serve to simply confirm the previous statement and you often feel like keeping your breath until the clue comes, only to find out that the clue consisted of an endless repetition of the same argument. Oh, and of course there’s the emphasis on describing the unimaginable greatness of the people interviewed, an emphasis lost in hilarious details.
Photos next to articles normally refer to another event or article, of some days ago. They don’t therefore offer more clarification, but they do make you laugh as photographers won’t ask their victims to pose but just ‘snap’ them at a random point of time. The facial expressions are often embarassing, and a story in itself.
Every topic is touched upon. From corruption to fashion, from political intrigues to magical witch doctors, from the financial crisis to the nearness of God. Having to read newspapers for my job has become an entertaining (though time-consuming) business, and I totally see how journalism can be called an art.
Friday, October 10, 2008
How to drive in Nigeria
I drive around every day and enjoy it –and thank whoever’s up there for each day without an accident. Accidents happen here. A lot. That you can buy a driving license for about 25 euro doesn’t help of course… You don’t really need to know how to drive though. These are some of the general rules:
- The claxon is the voice of your car. And since you live in the land of the loud people, you use it to express everything from mild annoyance to sheer brutality.
- Driving is like skiing: the one coming up from the back is the one who watches out what you are doing and who will stop when you make a funny move. Ideally.
- Drive very close to the other cars. Others can’t see your indication lights anymore? No problem, use your hand to indicate your direction.
- Overtaking is possible always. Also when you can’t see the road ahead, when you are on a small 2-lane road, or when you drive ridiculously fast within a village. Use the claxon and hope everything you could collide with will back off.
- The break is your best friend. Servicing your car to make sure everything works, is a luxury though.
- You can make any move you want. The more difficult it becomes for others to anticipate your moves, the better. A possible accident will be their fault, not yours.
- Majority voting applies: if enough people think there’s a lane, then there is a lane. Five lanes can be created on a 3-lane road.
- Drive as fast as your car can take you. Depending on the state of the car that could be 50 on a highway or 160 when going through a little town.
- You don’t put on your lights until it’s pitch dark. Once you do put them on, you put them on their brightest. No use having lights if you can’t blind other people with them.
- Survival of the fittest: bigger cars have right of way.
- If there is a bend in the road with 2 lanes, you will use both lanes and keep switching between them, thus preventing people to pass (and thereby causing even more go slow)
- Should there be an interesting person of the opposite sex in a car nearby you can start flirting, in which case it’s permitted to forget about the rest of traffic.
- If you want to cross a very busy junction, you move slowly but steadily ahead so as to block the road. If a deadlock doesn’t occur, you can pass. Alternatively, you will end up spending many minutes using your claxon and shouting at other people to move.
- If rain falls, you forget how to drive altogether.
Some people say Nigeria is a dangerous country. They say that you’ll be lucky to get away unscathed by kidnappers or armed robbers, without falling victim to malaria, or without hypertension complaints due to overall chaos and corruption. When people hear I live in Nigeria the common question to ask is “isn’t that very dangerous?!”. Nobody wants to come to Nigeria out of fear, while people get crushed in a stampede towards South-Africa –a country far more dangerous than Nigeria. Still, when I think of the way Nigerians drive, my confidence about the safety of the country does falter a bit…
- The claxon is the voice of your car. And since you live in the land of the loud people, you use it to express everything from mild annoyance to sheer brutality.
- Driving is like skiing: the one coming up from the back is the one who watches out what you are doing and who will stop when you make a funny move. Ideally.
- Drive very close to the other cars. Others can’t see your indication lights anymore? No problem, use your hand to indicate your direction.
- Overtaking is possible always. Also when you can’t see the road ahead, when you are on a small 2-lane road, or when you drive ridiculously fast within a village. Use the claxon and hope everything you could collide with will back off.
- The break is your best friend. Servicing your car to make sure everything works, is a luxury though.
- You can make any move you want. The more difficult it becomes for others to anticipate your moves, the better. A possible accident will be their fault, not yours.
- Majority voting applies: if enough people think there’s a lane, then there is a lane. Five lanes can be created on a 3-lane road.
- Drive as fast as your car can take you. Depending on the state of the car that could be 50 on a highway or 160 when going through a little town.
- You don’t put on your lights until it’s pitch dark. Once you do put them on, you put them on their brightest. No use having lights if you can’t blind other people with them.
- Survival of the fittest: bigger cars have right of way.
- If there is a bend in the road with 2 lanes, you will use both lanes and keep switching between them, thus preventing people to pass (and thereby causing even more go slow)
- Should there be an interesting person of the opposite sex in a car nearby you can start flirting, in which case it’s permitted to forget about the rest of traffic.
- If you want to cross a very busy junction, you move slowly but steadily ahead so as to block the road. If a deadlock doesn’t occur, you can pass. Alternatively, you will end up spending many minutes using your claxon and shouting at other people to move.
- If rain falls, you forget how to drive altogether.
Some people say Nigeria is a dangerous country. They say that you’ll be lucky to get away unscathed by kidnappers or armed robbers, without falling victim to malaria, or without hypertension complaints due to overall chaos and corruption. When people hear I live in Nigeria the common question to ask is “isn’t that very dangerous?!”. Nobody wants to come to Nigeria out of fear, while people get crushed in a stampede towards South-Africa –a country far more dangerous than Nigeria. Still, when I think of the way Nigerians drive, my confidence about the safety of the country does falter a bit…
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
2 years
2 years in madness. 2 years of giving up comfort and money only to end up as a much richer person. 2 years of freedom and human warmth. 2 years of discovering, laughing, sensing, crying, of growing. 2 years of frustration, of fun. 2 years of adventure.
2 years in a country misunderstood and especially undervalued by almost the entire world. And as someone told me this weekend: “I’m happy nobody knows how fantastic this place is, how warm its people. It makes me feel very privileged.”
Today I’m celebrating 2 years in Naija.
2 years in a country misunderstood and especially undervalued by almost the entire world. And as someone told me this weekend: “I’m happy nobody knows how fantastic this place is, how warm its people. It makes me feel very privileged.”
Today I’m celebrating 2 years in Naija.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Coping with constant light
I have had constant light for over a week now. This has been an absolute first for me in Nigeria, and even though I started off being terribly happy about all the light, by now I realize it is a dangerous situation…
First of all, I’m getting used to the light. I plan my days thinking “I’ll have light tonight” which is a dangerous development. It creates dependency on the most unreliable of factors, just because it seems reliable for now. I don’t carry my phone charger with me anymore, thinking I can simply charge it at home. I let the battery of my laptop go empty without any fear, and buy things that can only stay well in a fridge. Slowly I’m losing my coping mechanisms for when light eventually goes. And eventually it will of course.
Then the second development is that I’m becoming paranoid. I mean, it just can’t be normal that I’ve had light for over a week, so what is going on? Has somebody simply forgotten about the switch for my area? Perhaps my compound is part of a secret science project to study the effect of constant electricity supply on the human brain? Possibly my new neighbour has blackmailed the NEPA officials? Or perhaps it’s the last treat we humans get before Armageddon…
I started off being happy, but this unusual situation has made me a gibbering wreck with only one thought on my mind: when will they take away the light from us again?
First of all, I’m getting used to the light. I plan my days thinking “I’ll have light tonight” which is a dangerous development. It creates dependency on the most unreliable of factors, just because it seems reliable for now. I don’t carry my phone charger with me anymore, thinking I can simply charge it at home. I let the battery of my laptop go empty without any fear, and buy things that can only stay well in a fridge. Slowly I’m losing my coping mechanisms for when light eventually goes. And eventually it will of course.
Then the second development is that I’m becoming paranoid. I mean, it just can’t be normal that I’ve had light for over a week, so what is going on? Has somebody simply forgotten about the switch for my area? Perhaps my compound is part of a secret science project to study the effect of constant electricity supply on the human brain? Possibly my new neighbour has blackmailed the NEPA officials? Or perhaps it’s the last treat we humans get before Armageddon…
I started off being happy, but this unusual situation has made me a gibbering wreck with only one thought on my mind: when will they take away the light from us again?
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Damsel in distress
Once upon I was a woman who was capable of doing things herself. These days I have given up on my independence and have become part of a larger mechanism called society in which every person has its role. So don’t even think about doing someone else’s job, but give it to that person for a certain price. It’s a class system in a way, but since it helps people to make money I can’t be bothered that much. Gender roles are very clear in this system.
Last night my car broke down. The clutch was not responding at all and there I was, on the slope outside a supermarket, helpless and all. As a damsel in distress I beckoned some guy over (yes, beckoning was new for me too!) and in a bit of a helpless tone I said “it’s not working” and The Man took over. Before I knew it I was taken to the mechanic. My saviour negotiated with me shielded off by a hedge (since my skin colour would be bad for negotiations) and we returned to my car together with two (!) mechanics. My saviour accepted no money for his help (although I did give him, of course; I’m not THAT cruel) but we soon learned that some spare parts were needed urgently. Thank God, I thought, because here people tell you to drive with your car falling apart (a normal occupation of drivers on the road) whereas I actually prefer to drive in a car with working clutch and brakes. Call me old-fashioned.
Anyway, I decided to call on a friend to help me, and saviour no 1 took off. My friend then took over and added a capital letter to Saviour. Driving about finding spare parts, negotiating in several languages, keeping me company, explaining what exactly was wrong with my car (men are never more pleased than when they can impress us poor women with technical knowhow), pushing my car to a place where it could be fixed, etc etc. All that while I was there, the fraudster, the damsel in distress who was tired after a long day of work and way too happy that other people took over while she was looking helpless and just a tad more stupid than she actually was.
I felt it was like Adam & Eve all over, confirming gender stereotypes I never supported in the first place. Why? Because it was easy. Because it makes men so happy if women seem helpless and let them feel All Important. Because people like to operate from the pidgin holes they think they are (put) in.
My car works again and I feel I should do something really feminist today. I don’t know, like telling all these women here that men might get married for their own comfort, for being cooked for for the rest of their lives, but that women should do the same. Think of themselves. Funnily, by thinking of myself and by doing nothing, by thinking that the damsel-in-distress act could give me a functioning car without much trouble on my own part, I actually reinforced the ancient-old system.
Perhaps it’s just a bit of a comfort that the person cleaning my house and doing my laundry (and especially ironing it!) is, in fact, a man.
Last night my car broke down. The clutch was not responding at all and there I was, on the slope outside a supermarket, helpless and all. As a damsel in distress I beckoned some guy over (yes, beckoning was new for me too!) and in a bit of a helpless tone I said “it’s not working” and The Man took over. Before I knew it I was taken to the mechanic. My saviour negotiated with me shielded off by a hedge (since my skin colour would be bad for negotiations) and we returned to my car together with two (!) mechanics. My saviour accepted no money for his help (although I did give him, of course; I’m not THAT cruel) but we soon learned that some spare parts were needed urgently. Thank God, I thought, because here people tell you to drive with your car falling apart (a normal occupation of drivers on the road) whereas I actually prefer to drive in a car with working clutch and brakes. Call me old-fashioned.
Anyway, I decided to call on a friend to help me, and saviour no 1 took off. My friend then took over and added a capital letter to Saviour. Driving about finding spare parts, negotiating in several languages, keeping me company, explaining what exactly was wrong with my car (men are never more pleased than when they can impress us poor women with technical knowhow), pushing my car to a place where it could be fixed, etc etc. All that while I was there, the fraudster, the damsel in distress who was tired after a long day of work and way too happy that other people took over while she was looking helpless and just a tad more stupid than she actually was.
I felt it was like Adam & Eve all over, confirming gender stereotypes I never supported in the first place. Why? Because it was easy. Because it makes men so happy if women seem helpless and let them feel All Important. Because people like to operate from the pidgin holes they think they are (put) in.
My car works again and I feel I should do something really feminist today. I don’t know, like telling all these women here that men might get married for their own comfort, for being cooked for for the rest of their lives, but that women should do the same. Think of themselves. Funnily, by thinking of myself and by doing nothing, by thinking that the damsel-in-distress act could give me a functioning car without much trouble on my own part, I actually reinforced the ancient-old system.
Perhaps it’s just a bit of a comfort that the person cleaning my house and doing my laundry (and especially ironing it!) is, in fact, a man.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Ga toch boeven vangen
One of the main comments “the white” get (apart from being power-hungry descendants of Sodom & Gomorra of course!) is that they are individualists & selfish; we put our elders in retirement homes, don’t even know the name of our neighbours, and have discarded God in the search for personal wealth and glory.
Now, I believe all that, but isn’t that the same everywhere? Okay, in Africa the elders are cared for by their families and you are often only too aware of your neighbour’s name. But the fastest-growing Pentecostal churches are those that promise wealth to their members. And aren’t individualism and selfishness some of the most essential ingredients for corruption?
Then again, perhaps does corruption only exist because the fight against it is not well-implemented… Arriving at my office this morning I saw several policemen practicing stunts on their motorcycles. It was quite a sight, but surely they would have better things to do?
Now, I believe all that, but isn’t that the same everywhere? Okay, in Africa the elders are cared for by their families and you are often only too aware of your neighbour’s name. But the fastest-growing Pentecostal churches are those that promise wealth to their members. And aren’t individualism and selfishness some of the most essential ingredients for corruption?
Then again, perhaps does corruption only exist because the fight against it is not well-implemented… Arriving at my office this morning I saw several policemen practicing stunts on their motorcycles. It was quite a sight, but surely they would have better things to do?
Monday, September 1, 2008
How I became a chief
A while back I received an unexpected letter; the Eze (King) of Umuaga Nguru, Ngor Okpala, Imo State had decided to give me a chieftaincy title during the celebration of his 30 years on the throne. It seems that his son, who I met while working as a volunteer in Kubwa, was so awed by my life as a volunteer and my joy in living among the people (and my 5 words in Igbo language) that he decided to tell his father about me*. To make a long story short: on Saturday the 30th of August I was to be made a chief in Imo State.
That was the beginning of the story, but as always in Nigeria it was not nearly the beginning.
A the beginning there was the journey. By big bus this time, slow but safe. Slow became an understatement when we needed over 2 hrs to pass a truck that had fallen in an inconvenient corner of a muddy road. The entire journey lasted over 13 hrs as a result, but “luckily” there was the entertainment of the onboard pastors/ stand-up comedians/ miracle doctors who were educating the masses hoping to sell their particular products. Number 1 declared that honey was the answer to everything and is used by oyibos to put on their breasts, number 2 said that drinking crude oil helps against all ailments, and number 3 insisted that 1. Israel is the only country without hospitals and that 2. the quality of sperm could only be improved with the help of Jesus (and of course some strange-looking medicine sold by the man).
When I finally reached Owerri the prince put me in a guesthouse and exhausted I went to sleep. After all, I had to be ready by 8 the following morning.
8.00 I am ready
8.15 a phone call: “no traffic before 10am so we’ll come to pick you up after that.”
10.15 departure to the village, or actually...
10.30 at the market to buy a crown
11.00 back at the hotel. Reason for this not clear.
11.30 departure to the village.
12.00 official start of the ceremony
12.20 arrival in the village and entrance in the palace. While passing the venue ground it is clear that nothing will happen there soon and that this is clearly a typical Africa Time event.
At the palace I meet the King who is 80 yrs old and as fit as a fiddle. A nice man who speaks fluent English, who has the eyes of someone who enjoys life, and who is catholic –special because most traditional rulers still have traditional beliefs. Having that said: “they” will make sure it won’t rain that afternoon. Juju is still very much part of tradition! Anyway, I give my gifts, meet some people I know from Kubwa, wait in the throne room together with some ancient chiefs, have friends join me, get food when the waiting is taking centuries, see the rain fall, and keep waiting. Africa Time. By about 3pm it finally starts though.
In the palace we first have the ceremony with the cola nut. Especially the Igbos have many ceremonies around the cola nut and luckily my friend translates since “the cola only speaks Igbo”. I eat the bitter nut, hoping it will keep me awake during the rest of the day. We then move in convoy to the ceremonial ground, in the centre of the village. Because the day coincides with the annual women’s meeting, all the women are dressed the same which is quite a sight. All the Eze’s take place on sofas, the lesser chiefs and everyone else sits on plastic chairs and the programme full of speeches starts. Everything is in Igbo language, but since I have attended many official events by now, I understand more or less what they are saying.
When the other candidates for a title and myself stand up, we have to sit down within a minute again; the car with the ceremonial artefacts has gone missing. So we look a little bit less dignified the second time we stand in line, but despite all the Africa Time, wahala and general chaos, I feel more honoured than I anticipated. The king places a necklace around my neck, the queen puts a bracelet over my wrist and it’s topped with a crown placed by the king. All the while he speaks of how I am now one of them, a Nigerian, one of the family. As tacky as the crown may be, I do feel a bit emotional about it all. Afterwards I shake hands with the other chiefs in a special way, a sort of special handshake, which makes me feel even more part of this beautiful bunch of people.
Later that evening I have champagne with my friend who had flown over from Lagos and we are sitting in a luxurious hotel bar in Owerri. I would almost forget the events of the day because of this completely different scene until the barman, seeing my necklace and bracelet, calls out “you are a chief!” in utter disbelief.
The next day another 13-hour journey awaits me. This time because of a flat tire and a “small mechanical problem” (the journey should last 9 hrs normally). The entertainment this time consists of Nollywood movies. The entire bus comments on the events in the film and especially the women shout their disgust when the “oyibo wife” in a film called “the spirit of love” refuses to cook for her man. If my bus were a small version of society, it is clear that women stop all change and that the men are not concerned as long as they are fed. Meanwhile I sit there knowing that the same society can honour a woman for being just herself. And for those of you who were wondering: I did not pay one single naira for the honour.
It was a weekend I will not easily forget and while I look at my crown that is too tacky to be true, I can only think “thank you”.
With regards,
Chief Thessa :-)
*because I always ended my texts to the prince with “ciao, Thessa” the letter was addressed to “ciao thessa” thereby making me and my friends believe i would become “chief ciao”. Not everybody knows Italian, clearly...
That was the beginning of the story, but as always in Nigeria it was not nearly the beginning.
A the beginning there was the journey. By big bus this time, slow but safe. Slow became an understatement when we needed over 2 hrs to pass a truck that had fallen in an inconvenient corner of a muddy road. The entire journey lasted over 13 hrs as a result, but “luckily” there was the entertainment of the onboard pastors/ stand-up comedians/ miracle doctors who were educating the masses hoping to sell their particular products. Number 1 declared that honey was the answer to everything and is used by oyibos to put on their breasts, number 2 said that drinking crude oil helps against all ailments, and number 3 insisted that 1. Israel is the only country without hospitals and that 2. the quality of sperm could only be improved with the help of Jesus (and of course some strange-looking medicine sold by the man).
When I finally reached Owerri the prince put me in a guesthouse and exhausted I went to sleep. After all, I had to be ready by 8 the following morning.
8.00 I am ready
8.15 a phone call: “no traffic before 10am so we’ll come to pick you up after that.”
10.15 departure to the village, or actually...
10.30 at the market to buy a crown
11.00 back at the hotel. Reason for this not clear.
11.30 departure to the village.
12.00 official start of the ceremony
12.20 arrival in the village and entrance in the palace. While passing the venue ground it is clear that nothing will happen there soon and that this is clearly a typical Africa Time event.
At the palace I meet the King who is 80 yrs old and as fit as a fiddle. A nice man who speaks fluent English, who has the eyes of someone who enjoys life, and who is catholic –special because most traditional rulers still have traditional beliefs. Having that said: “they” will make sure it won’t rain that afternoon. Juju is still very much part of tradition! Anyway, I give my gifts, meet some people I know from Kubwa, wait in the throne room together with some ancient chiefs, have friends join me, get food when the waiting is taking centuries, see the rain fall, and keep waiting. Africa Time. By about 3pm it finally starts though.
In the palace we first have the ceremony with the cola nut. Especially the Igbos have many ceremonies around the cola nut and luckily my friend translates since “the cola only speaks Igbo”. I eat the bitter nut, hoping it will keep me awake during the rest of the day. We then move in convoy to the ceremonial ground, in the centre of the village. Because the day coincides with the annual women’s meeting, all the women are dressed the same which is quite a sight. All the Eze’s take place on sofas, the lesser chiefs and everyone else sits on plastic chairs and the programme full of speeches starts. Everything is in Igbo language, but since I have attended many official events by now, I understand more or less what they are saying.
When the other candidates for a title and myself stand up, we have to sit down within a minute again; the car with the ceremonial artefacts has gone missing. So we look a little bit less dignified the second time we stand in line, but despite all the Africa Time, wahala and general chaos, I feel more honoured than I anticipated. The king places a necklace around my neck, the queen puts a bracelet over my wrist and it’s topped with a crown placed by the king. All the while he speaks of how I am now one of them, a Nigerian, one of the family. As tacky as the crown may be, I do feel a bit emotional about it all. Afterwards I shake hands with the other chiefs in a special way, a sort of special handshake, which makes me feel even more part of this beautiful bunch of people.
Later that evening I have champagne with my friend who had flown over from Lagos and we are sitting in a luxurious hotel bar in Owerri. I would almost forget the events of the day because of this completely different scene until the barman, seeing my necklace and bracelet, calls out “you are a chief!” in utter disbelief.
The next day another 13-hour journey awaits me. This time because of a flat tire and a “small mechanical problem” (the journey should last 9 hrs normally). The entertainment this time consists of Nollywood movies. The entire bus comments on the events in the film and especially the women shout their disgust when the “oyibo wife” in a film called “the spirit of love” refuses to cook for her man. If my bus were a small version of society, it is clear that women stop all change and that the men are not concerned as long as they are fed. Meanwhile I sit there knowing that the same society can honour a woman for being just herself. And for those of you who were wondering: I did not pay one single naira for the honour.
It was a weekend I will not easily forget and while I look at my crown that is too tacky to be true, I can only think “thank you”.
With regards,
Chief Thessa :-)
*because I always ended my texts to the prince with “ciao, Thessa” the letter was addressed to “ciao thessa” thereby making me and my friends believe i would become “chief ciao”. Not everybody knows Italian, clearly...
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Living in two worlds?
Nearly 2 years in Nigeria have gone by without a trip to my motherland and my holiday these last few weeks was a celebration of friendship that survives time and distance. What a fantastic, rich feeling to know so many good people!
Apart from that the holiday was, of course, a comparative study.
Often I got the question whether it was a culture shock to be back home. And yes, I did feel estranged from the way everything is organised, the paternalistic attitude of the government, the complaints about the “economic hardship” in a country that is actually so rich… And it was also in the little things, like how it took me 2 weeks before I could drink water without wanting to spit it out because of a fear of typhoid, or like how I kept asking people whether I could charge my phone or whether they had drinking water in their houses. But also in how the scenery was so different: the herds of cows without a Fulani shepherd to go with it, the green meticulously trimmed, the traffic signs at every 2 meters, or the apparent uniformity of cars and buildings without the immense poor-rich divide seen in a place like Abuja.
Still, at the same time, it was as it had always been, like I had left yesterday. At a certain stage it became a vague concept, even to me, to be living so far away, in Nigeria. Nigeria is also home, and feels like just a train ride away. Like when I was a student in Maastricht and going to my family’s home for the weekend. Feeling at home is the direct result of adaptation. And the easiest way to adapt is not to see ‘the other’ as ‘the other’ but as a different version of the same thing. The longer I am away, or the longer I live in Nigeria, the more I realise that everywhere is basically the same.
Of course the layer on top of this basic sameness can be quite thick. When I first arrived in Nigeria I wanted to write a blog entry 10 times a day because everything was so spectacularly new and different. Now it seems so normal that I often have to remind myself of the fact that I am living on a different continent. After hundreds of photos taken in the first months, I am now never with my camera. I started off living in another world, and now it’s part of the same world.
Globalisation instead of emigration. And no, it’s not just that things have become normal. The more you focus on the basic sameness of the human race and not on the cultural layer, you find yourself part of the human race. I know that the “us them distinction” is crucial to forming a cultural identity, but how great if you don’t try to label yourself as part of your own people, but as part of everybody else.
Having that said: the layer is thick. People may have the same emotions but express themselves so utterly different that I often get either a laughing fit or the urge to hit something. And putting all the pseudo philosophy on similarities aside: I still believe I have put a curse on myself –from now on, in whichever world I am, I will always miss something from the other world…
Apart from that the holiday was, of course, a comparative study.
Often I got the question whether it was a culture shock to be back home. And yes, I did feel estranged from the way everything is organised, the paternalistic attitude of the government, the complaints about the “economic hardship” in a country that is actually so rich… And it was also in the little things, like how it took me 2 weeks before I could drink water without wanting to spit it out because of a fear of typhoid, or like how I kept asking people whether I could charge my phone or whether they had drinking water in their houses. But also in how the scenery was so different: the herds of cows without a Fulani shepherd to go with it, the green meticulously trimmed, the traffic signs at every 2 meters, or the apparent uniformity of cars and buildings without the immense poor-rich divide seen in a place like Abuja.
Still, at the same time, it was as it had always been, like I had left yesterday. At a certain stage it became a vague concept, even to me, to be living so far away, in Nigeria. Nigeria is also home, and feels like just a train ride away. Like when I was a student in Maastricht and going to my family’s home for the weekend. Feeling at home is the direct result of adaptation. And the easiest way to adapt is not to see ‘the other’ as ‘the other’ but as a different version of the same thing. The longer I am away, or the longer I live in Nigeria, the more I realise that everywhere is basically the same.
Of course the layer on top of this basic sameness can be quite thick. When I first arrived in Nigeria I wanted to write a blog entry 10 times a day because everything was so spectacularly new and different. Now it seems so normal that I often have to remind myself of the fact that I am living on a different continent. After hundreds of photos taken in the first months, I am now never with my camera. I started off living in another world, and now it’s part of the same world.
Globalisation instead of emigration. And no, it’s not just that things have become normal. The more you focus on the basic sameness of the human race and not on the cultural layer, you find yourself part of the human race. I know that the “us them distinction” is crucial to forming a cultural identity, but how great if you don’t try to label yourself as part of your own people, but as part of everybody else.
Having that said: the layer is thick. People may have the same emotions but express themselves so utterly different that I often get either a laughing fit or the urge to hit something. And putting all the pseudo philosophy on similarities aside: I still believe I have put a curse on myself –from now on, in whichever world I am, I will always miss something from the other world…
Monday, July 28, 2008
There will be blood
It was interesting to see a film set in the United States during the oil rush, around the year 1910 –and to be constantly reminded of Nigeria.
The way communities were just set aside by the big men, while at the same time struggling among themselves. The oil spilling into nature, damaging the beautiful surroundings. Struggling, poor families who are desperate to believe that the oil will bring new wealth and development to their area. Only to be disappointed. And of course also the church, keeping the people awake at night and focussing more on a new church building than on better houses for the people. But above all: greed. The greed of only a few, killing the hopes of many.
That was the US a hundred years ago. Irrespective of my opinion of the contemporary US society, they have come a long way since then. If you put on your glasses with the best shade of pink available, you might believe that all the fighting over blood oil here is just a stage in history leading to prosperity for all in the nearby future. However, considering human nature it’s easier to just get reminded of the film’s title. There will be blood.
The way communities were just set aside by the big men, while at the same time struggling among themselves. The oil spilling into nature, damaging the beautiful surroundings. Struggling, poor families who are desperate to believe that the oil will bring new wealth and development to their area. Only to be disappointed. And of course also the church, keeping the people awake at night and focussing more on a new church building than on better houses for the people. But above all: greed. The greed of only a few, killing the hopes of many.
That was the US a hundred years ago. Irrespective of my opinion of the contemporary US society, they have come a long way since then. If you put on your glasses with the best shade of pink available, you might believe that all the fighting over blood oil here is just a stage in history leading to prosperity for all in the nearby future. However, considering human nature it’s easier to just get reminded of the film’s title. There will be blood.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Inbreeding
One oyibo to the other: “I have met this fantastic man! We have been going out for some time now, and he is just so interesting, caring, interested in me and open minded –it’s just fantastic! I am so happy to have found him!”
“Is he Nigerian?”
“Uh, yes. Why?”
“oh...”
And it’s all in this “oh”. Despite the wonderful experience of the first oyibo, the fact that this ‘fantastic’ man is Nigerian clearly indicates that this is Not True and at one stage or another, the oyibo-in-love will find this out. After all, ALL Nigerian men are to be avoided. (Of course, Nigerian women needn’t be avoided. They make excellent, young and attractive, second wives. It’s pathetic, everyone agrees, to see an old ugly oyibo with a beautiful young Nigerian, but no, what else can you expect –they are men...) It is one of the signs of ‘integration’. The poor oyibo who loves this Nigerian is ‘naive’ or just ‘stupid’, but that she might have met a fantastic man who truly loves her, is simply not an option.
I always have to laugh over the Integration Debate in Europe (and yes, it’s written with capitals these days) and the anger that “those immigrants” stick to their own culture. I have learned that it’s not about integration at all: it’s about the dominant culture that has to be obeyed, it’s about assimilation. “The West” is the dominator and thus everyone should adapt to “us”. We can go abroad on holiday, eat our own food (“you can never trust the local food”) and walk half-naked into mosques, but an immigrant in our own country HAS to abide by our rules.
In Nigeria there is not much integration between oyibos and Nigerians. With of course the many exceptions, but in general... In Lagos it’s much worse than in Abuja or in other parts I have been. Perhaps because people here are a bit rough due to living in this ant heap, or because of the security situation. The other day I was cruising on an okada to meet up with a friend. When I was on the bike I got many hilarious comments –and shocked reactions from other oyibos who probably thought I was suicidal. Fair enough. However, when I met up with that friend (not even a lover), I got many weary looks and even looks of disapproval. Because my friend was Nigerian?
In Nigeria you have people EVERYWHERE since about 20% of the sub-Saharan population happens to live in this country. It’s quite a challenge to try and avoid all those people, but quite a lot of the oyibos succeed with their fenced houses and cars with tinted windows. And these people would then tell me “I have to go home every 3 months or so, or else I would go mad here!”
–but possibly they have gone mad long ago due to the inbreeding in their own circles?
“Is he Nigerian?”
“Uh, yes. Why?”
“oh...”
And it’s all in this “oh”. Despite the wonderful experience of the first oyibo, the fact that this ‘fantastic’ man is Nigerian clearly indicates that this is Not True and at one stage or another, the oyibo-in-love will find this out. After all, ALL Nigerian men are to be avoided. (Of course, Nigerian women needn’t be avoided. They make excellent, young and attractive, second wives. It’s pathetic, everyone agrees, to see an old ugly oyibo with a beautiful young Nigerian, but no, what else can you expect –they are men...) It is one of the signs of ‘integration’. The poor oyibo who loves this Nigerian is ‘naive’ or just ‘stupid’, but that she might have met a fantastic man who truly loves her, is simply not an option.
I always have to laugh over the Integration Debate in Europe (and yes, it’s written with capitals these days) and the anger that “those immigrants” stick to their own culture. I have learned that it’s not about integration at all: it’s about the dominant culture that has to be obeyed, it’s about assimilation. “The West” is the dominator and thus everyone should adapt to “us”. We can go abroad on holiday, eat our own food (“you can never trust the local food”) and walk half-naked into mosques, but an immigrant in our own country HAS to abide by our rules.
In Nigeria there is not much integration between oyibos and Nigerians. With of course the many exceptions, but in general... In Lagos it’s much worse than in Abuja or in other parts I have been. Perhaps because people here are a bit rough due to living in this ant heap, or because of the security situation. The other day I was cruising on an okada to meet up with a friend. When I was on the bike I got many hilarious comments –and shocked reactions from other oyibos who probably thought I was suicidal. Fair enough. However, when I met up with that friend (not even a lover), I got many weary looks and even looks of disapproval. Because my friend was Nigerian?
In Nigeria you have people EVERYWHERE since about 20% of the sub-Saharan population happens to live in this country. It’s quite a challenge to try and avoid all those people, but quite a lot of the oyibos succeed with their fenced houses and cars with tinted windows. And these people would then tell me “I have to go home every 3 months or so, or else I would go mad here!”
–but possibly they have gone mad long ago due to the inbreeding in their own circles?
Friday, July 18, 2008
Romance...
There are great, gorgeous men here who are really interesting and could be great friends. There are also other men… The type that thinks that love & a relationship can be created out of thin air, and that women can only be persuaded with extreme declarations… You can buy books with “the 100 best romantic text messages” which include the most flowery examples of fake romanticism –including spelling mistakes like “sweaty” instead of “sweetie”.
A typical text conversation that can take place if you know each other for about 5, maximum 10, minutes:
Guy:
Ow i wish i culd hold u so close2myself..caress yr feminine body durin ds drizzlin..bet u r goin2luv it huh!!Hop u r enjoyin yr sleep.Thinkin abt u PAPI!I KIA..
Guy again next day (after no reply to previous one):
Ow’s yr nyt?U r d only woman4me.pls still consider me n let’s c ds wknd. Let me kno ASAP!!av a nice day
Me:
Sorry but since ur txt yday im not interested in going anywhere with you.
Guy:
Its no biggie..its a free world,freedom if speech but dere is no crime in xpressin maself d bst way I culd.Its gud2b original!enjoy da rst of ya wkd.PEACE n LUV
Me (knowing better, but laughing too much for not to reply):
Im just tired of all dose men like u who act like they luv me –so it wasnt original.Expressin urself is gr8, faking emotions isn’t.Bye.
Guy:
I’ve alwys bin original n I aint gat fake emotns4u..pls dnt address me like1of dem.Born natural n ril so I won’t pretend I like u..d blunt truth is dt I like u n I dnt mind u!!Y cnt u take me4ma words n stp doubtin me.Consider me gud enof4a trial n lets cee ow it goes.I stil kia
This is why, on the whole, you should not give out your phone number. Although… giving out your number certainly leads to a lot of hilarious situations!
A typical text conversation that can take place if you know each other for about 5, maximum 10, minutes:
Guy:
Ow i wish i culd hold u so close2myself..caress yr feminine body durin ds drizzlin..bet u r goin2luv it huh!!Hop u r enjoyin yr sleep.Thinkin abt u PAPI!I KIA..
Guy again next day (after no reply to previous one):
Ow’s yr nyt?U r d only woman4me.pls still consider me n let’s c ds wknd. Let me kno ASAP!!av a nice day
Me:
Sorry but since ur txt yday im not interested in going anywhere with you.
Guy:
Its no biggie..its a free world,freedom if speech but dere is no crime in xpressin maself d bst way I culd.Its gud2b original!enjoy da rst of ya wkd.PEACE n LUV
Me (knowing better, but laughing too much for not to reply):
Im just tired of all dose men like u who act like they luv me –so it wasnt original.Expressin urself is gr8, faking emotions isn’t.Bye.
Guy:
I’ve alwys bin original n I aint gat fake emotns4u..pls dnt address me like1of dem.Born natural n ril so I won’t pretend I like u..d blunt truth is dt I like u n I dnt mind u!!Y cnt u take me4ma words n stp doubtin me.Consider me gud enof4a trial n lets cee ow it goes.I stil kia
This is why, on the whole, you should not give out your phone number. Although… giving out your number certainly leads to a lot of hilarious situations!
Thursday, July 17, 2008
This thing
Nigerians are generally intelligent people. That people here can understand each other is probably clear proof of that. After all, a lot of conversations feature the word “thing” and related words. A typical sentence could go like: “please get me this thing that I need for this thing, you know?”. And people actually do know. Being vague in answers is also more than permitted and if I ask someone “where did you go this weekend?” I am not surprised to hear “I went somewhere, for this thing”.
Living in Nigeria has proven to be a mind-cracking game, and in my own case it is worsened by the fact that I don’t speak fluent pidgin, or Hausa. Today I tried to give our gateman instructions for when a friend of mine would come and visit, and before I knew it I was discussing the dustbins on the compound. And I have NO idea how this turn in the discussion came about.
I think next time I’ll tell the gateman he has to do this thing because this person will come at this time, needing this thing. Probably he’ll be able to understand that better…
Living in Nigeria has proven to be a mind-cracking game, and in my own case it is worsened by the fact that I don’t speak fluent pidgin, or Hausa. Today I tried to give our gateman instructions for when a friend of mine would come and visit, and before I knew it I was discussing the dustbins on the compound. And I have NO idea how this turn in the discussion came about.
I think next time I’ll tell the gateman he has to do this thing because this person will come at this time, needing this thing. Probably he’ll be able to understand that better…
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The Chinese are coming
I think the Chinese were always there, actually, but now they have “come to Africa” and everybody is delighted or afraid. Delighted seems to fit the description of those at the receiving end. The receiving end of money, or cheap plastic and clothes. The afraid part seems to be the European sentiment. All of a sudden we are afraid on behalf of the Africans for the Asian “neo-colonialists in disguise”. Expressing that fear might help disguise the European ongoing activities towards exploiting Africa? However, Europe can learn a lot from the Asian approach. Whereas we will always be considered slave drivers and exploiters, and any good attempt at shaking off our colonial historical image is automatically counteracted by a wrong comment or action that is blown out of proportion, the Asians can buy up land, do projects without using African employees, and flood the markets with cheap goods that should really be produced in Africa itself –and still get a warm welcome. I am probably oversimplifying things though.
Ah well, let me not complain too much. I mean, thanks to China I can watch DVDs for almost no money: 48 films on 1 DVD, for the equivalent of 3 euro. By now I’m used to watch films where sound and image are not synchronized, where there is a squeak throughout the film, where an entire collection of “Nicole Kidman films” can also host a film with Meg Ryan with no Nicole Kidman in sight (they look the same?), and where you have the quintessential English subtitling generated by a computer (at least I hope it’s a computer) that translates the English in Chinese and back into an incomprehensible English again. Quite nifty.
Perfection is possibly not the best sales pitch here though. Cheap has a much better ring to it, for the masses. On the other hand, the rich Nigerians are far more demanding than I can ever be, always flashing around the newest gadgets and going for a shopping excursion in Dubai or (of course also) China. Yet good service seems to be less appreciated with the result that I can sit in probably the best hotel of Lagos where I just had to wait 1,5 hours for a cup of coffee only to get it served with... honey and jam... Perhaps we need the Asians after all?
Ah well, let me not complain too much. I mean, thanks to China I can watch DVDs for almost no money: 48 films on 1 DVD, for the equivalent of 3 euro. By now I’m used to watch films where sound and image are not synchronized, where there is a squeak throughout the film, where an entire collection of “Nicole Kidman films” can also host a film with Meg Ryan with no Nicole Kidman in sight (they look the same?), and where you have the quintessential English subtitling generated by a computer (at least I hope it’s a computer) that translates the English in Chinese and back into an incomprehensible English again. Quite nifty.
Perfection is possibly not the best sales pitch here though. Cheap has a much better ring to it, for the masses. On the other hand, the rich Nigerians are far more demanding than I can ever be, always flashing around the newest gadgets and going for a shopping excursion in Dubai or (of course also) China. Yet good service seems to be less appreciated with the result that I can sit in probably the best hotel of Lagos where I just had to wait 1,5 hours for a cup of coffee only to get it served with... honey and jam... Perhaps we need the Asians after all?
Monday, June 16, 2008
Strong women
“We in the West” often pity the African woman. In fact, we pity all the women who are not born in the rich and free west. They are oppressed and have no rights, so we say. This weekend I saw an Asian film in which the women were not only beautiful, but also as powerful as men. It made me think…
Here in Africa there are female heads of state. One of the major banks in Nigeria is run by a woman. Women here are more feisty than men and are VERY loud in expressing their wishes. In e.g. the US the immigrated group of Nigerians are far better educated than the indigenous population and it’s also the women who hold PhD degrees. African women are often breadwinners AND manage to run households, for which they deserve and receive respect.
Of course, not all women are that respected! Yes, there is a lot of oppression, but it seems to be positively correlated with poverty. The wealthier Nigerian women make their own choices while apparently obeying men. It’s like lions in fact: the women rule, but allow the men to show off. That does goes hand in hand with men having multiple sex partners, but on the other end of the scale I have hardly seen weak women here, or women who give up their job when they get children.
The Netherlands, home of the free and educated, a country based on equal rights (okay, until the majority became right-wing unfortunately!) has the lowest female labour participation in Europe, women make less money than men, and only a few end up having a high position or prosperous company of their own. Yet we pity all those ‘poor African women’. If poverty enhances the oppression of women, then why are we in the rich west not more equal to men?
Funny.
Here in Africa there are female heads of state. One of the major banks in Nigeria is run by a woman. Women here are more feisty than men and are VERY loud in expressing their wishes. In e.g. the US the immigrated group of Nigerians are far better educated than the indigenous population and it’s also the women who hold PhD degrees. African women are often breadwinners AND manage to run households, for which they deserve and receive respect.
Of course, not all women are that respected! Yes, there is a lot of oppression, but it seems to be positively correlated with poverty. The wealthier Nigerian women make their own choices while apparently obeying men. It’s like lions in fact: the women rule, but allow the men to show off. That does goes hand in hand with men having multiple sex partners, but on the other end of the scale I have hardly seen weak women here, or women who give up their job when they get children.
The Netherlands, home of the free and educated, a country based on equal rights (okay, until the majority became right-wing unfortunately!) has the lowest female labour participation in Europe, women make less money than men, and only a few end up having a high position or prosperous company of their own. Yet we pity all those ‘poor African women’. If poverty enhances the oppression of women, then why are we in the rich west not more equal to men?
Funny.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Land of the loud people
My Ugandan friends keep asking me whether I am already through with what they claim is “the land of the loud people”. I have only been to Uganda and Ghana outside Nigeria and the difference is startling indeed. In Ghana I felt there was a silencing blanket over the country, and in Uganda I experienced the people as incredibly friendly yet almost shy people. But Nigeria and the Nigerians are loud.
People here laugh loudly, engage in loud conversations, and seem to prefer to shout in their phones instead of talking normally. A car without breaks can be seen as functioning, but without a loud claxon no car will enter the road. Music has to come from every direction, and did I ever mention the churches that aim their loudspeakers to the street so they can sell their particular religious conviction best –even at night? And there are always, always people around. This loudness makes Nigeria so captivating; and its people are not only loud, but also warm, extrovert and fun.
Yesterday I got a hint why I feel at home here so much. I thought I was a quiet person, but it only takes the Dutch playing in the Euro soccer cup to awaken my “Nigerian side”. In fact, I think most Nigerians were impressed by the noise generated by the mere ten orange supporters! The beauty of Nigeria is that you can express yourself and that you don’t have to feel embarrassed; After all, some 140 million other people in this country continuously show what loudness is all about!
People here laugh loudly, engage in loud conversations, and seem to prefer to shout in their phones instead of talking normally. A car without breaks can be seen as functioning, but without a loud claxon no car will enter the road. Music has to come from every direction, and did I ever mention the churches that aim their loudspeakers to the street so they can sell their particular religious conviction best –even at night? And there are always, always people around. This loudness makes Nigeria so captivating; and its people are not only loud, but also warm, extrovert and fun.
Yesterday I got a hint why I feel at home here so much. I thought I was a quiet person, but it only takes the Dutch playing in the Euro soccer cup to awaken my “Nigerian side”. In fact, I think most Nigerians were impressed by the noise generated by the mere ten orange supporters! The beauty of Nigeria is that you can express yourself and that you don’t have to feel embarrassed; After all, some 140 million other people in this country continuously show what loudness is all about!
Monday, June 9, 2008
Talking to the police
Driving away from a bush bar in the evening, we came across a police check. I tried to ignore them and drive on, but clearly I had to stop as the police man shouted quite angrily ‘stop’ and since they do carry guns…
So I stopped, afraid I had to defend myself for not stopping immediately, etc etc, but instead the following (typical Nigerian) conversation took place:
“oyibo! How you dey?”
“fine oh, good evening sir”
“oyibo, how work?”
“fine, thank you, how work?”
“Fine, how family?”
“fine, how is your own?”
“thank you, how Nigeria?”
“we love Nigeria, thank you”
“so what did you bring for us?”
“we didn’t bring anything, sir, only our smiles”
“ah… well… uh… ”
“thank you sir, good evening sir, bye bye”
And we drove off, with the sweet smiles still plastered on our faces. By now we find it normal to be stopped at gunpoint only to engage in a conversation about work and family. Somehow I don’t see Dutch policemen do the same…
So I stopped, afraid I had to defend myself for not stopping immediately, etc etc, but instead the following (typical Nigerian) conversation took place:
“oyibo! How you dey?”
“fine oh, good evening sir”
“oyibo, how work?”
“fine, thank you, how work?”
“Fine, how family?”
“fine, how is your own?”
“thank you, how Nigeria?”
“we love Nigeria, thank you”
“so what did you bring for us?”
“we didn’t bring anything, sir, only our smiles”
“ah… well… uh… ”
“thank you sir, good evening sir, bye bye”
And we drove off, with the sweet smiles still plastered on our faces. By now we find it normal to be stopped at gunpoint only to engage in a conversation about work and family. Somehow I don’t see Dutch policemen do the same…
Monday, June 2, 2008
Close encounters of the Nigerian kind
The way people drive here, keeps surprising me. The way I adapt to it, is perhaps even more surprising. These days you can see me speeding through the city, using my arm as an indicator light, and horning my way through close encounters with other cars. Sometimes these encounters are quite too close though.
The other day I was leisurely driving up a slope to some traffic lights. To my direct amazement, a car was reversing on that same road. Reversing myself was no option because of the cars behind me, but clearly the guy in the car heading towards me didn’t have the same sense. Horning and shouting did not help either, and less than a minute later my front lamp was crushed and my bumper cracked. And that’s when the theatrics began…
The policeman who first tried to put fear in the man who bumped into me, ended up trying to shield him from my rage. Quiet me (normally, that is) was shouting at the bloody stupid imbecile who drove into me, asking him where the money was to repair the damage. He was on his knees, begging me (“mommy, mommy”) because he didn’t have money. He also didn’t have a driving license, I found out. He was the kind of guy that I used to help when I was still “saving the world” as a volunteer, yet I was too enraged to care about his poverty. If you don’t have money, then you shouldn’t reverse into other people’s cars, I would say. He kept begging, I kept raging. We went in a convoy with the police to his employer where he got a bit of money for the transport he did that day. An entire street came out to help with the “negotiations”, and it was such a spectacle that another accident happened right next to us… In the end I took his day’s earnings off him. A fortune for him, but not nearly enough to repair the damage.
Only a week later did I realize that I was in fact insured and that all of the above hadn’t been necessary. I’ve been in Nigeria so long that theatrical negotiating comes naturally.
Since that accident, I have had countless near-accidents. Driving in Nigeria requires special skill, one could say. On top of everything you would need in eg. Europe, here you also need to foresee potholes and anticipate the behaviour of other drivers to the extreme. That could be anything from reversing on main roads, to stopping abruptly or jumping up in the air –nothing would surprise me anymore!
The other day I was leisurely driving up a slope to some traffic lights. To my direct amazement, a car was reversing on that same road. Reversing myself was no option because of the cars behind me, but clearly the guy in the car heading towards me didn’t have the same sense. Horning and shouting did not help either, and less than a minute later my front lamp was crushed and my bumper cracked. And that’s when the theatrics began…
The policeman who first tried to put fear in the man who bumped into me, ended up trying to shield him from my rage. Quiet me (normally, that is) was shouting at the bloody stupid imbecile who drove into me, asking him where the money was to repair the damage. He was on his knees, begging me (“mommy, mommy”) because he didn’t have money. He also didn’t have a driving license, I found out. He was the kind of guy that I used to help when I was still “saving the world” as a volunteer, yet I was too enraged to care about his poverty. If you don’t have money, then you shouldn’t reverse into other people’s cars, I would say. He kept begging, I kept raging. We went in a convoy with the police to his employer where he got a bit of money for the transport he did that day. An entire street came out to help with the “negotiations”, and it was such a spectacle that another accident happened right next to us… In the end I took his day’s earnings off him. A fortune for him, but not nearly enough to repair the damage.
Only a week later did I realize that I was in fact insured and that all of the above hadn’t been necessary. I’ve been in Nigeria so long that theatrical negotiating comes naturally.
Since that accident, I have had countless near-accidents. Driving in Nigeria requires special skill, one could say. On top of everything you would need in eg. Europe, here you also need to foresee potholes and anticipate the behaviour of other drivers to the extreme. That could be anything from reversing on main roads, to stopping abruptly or jumping up in the air –nothing would surprise me anymore!
Friday, May 30, 2008
no more a volunteer...
I came to Nigeria as a volunteer to work for charity and to make an attempt at helping a few people. Some 18 months later I didn’t exactly succeed in saving the world or changing the lives or millions (the secret hope of all charity workers?) but I did fall in love with this fascinating country and decided to stay in a “proper” job context.
Life has changed a lot since my volunteer days. Some ways in which I can tell my life has changed:
* My wallet contains more notes of 500 than 5 naira;
* My feet are clean now that I have a car and don’t have to wade through the mud to work;
* I can be really annoyed when there is no NEPA whereas I used to celebrate every second of light as a miracle;
* To some, I have turned into a walking ATM machine;
* I can sleep during the entire night without shouting churches or loud neighbours waking me up;
* Cheese is affordable, as is going to the gym (those two are somehow inter-related);
* I can speak my own language without stuttering now that I practice it every day again;
* I haven’t had malaria and/or typhoid for months now, and
* I can walk more than 3 steps in my own house without bumping into a wall.
I fell in love with Nigeria because of the people, the warm-hearted, resilient, intelligent, loud and funny Nigerians. I also fell in love with “wahala”, the –let me say- challenges of every day life here. Living in Nigeria effectively means an end to boredom ;-)
Life has changed a lot since my volunteer days. Some ways in which I can tell my life has changed:
* My wallet contains more notes of 500 than 5 naira;
* My feet are clean now that I have a car and don’t have to wade through the mud to work;
* I can be really annoyed when there is no NEPA whereas I used to celebrate every second of light as a miracle;
* To some, I have turned into a walking ATM machine;
* I can sleep during the entire night without shouting churches or loud neighbours waking me up;
* Cheese is affordable, as is going to the gym (those two are somehow inter-related);
* I can speak my own language without stuttering now that I practice it every day again;
* I haven’t had malaria and/or typhoid for months now, and
* I can walk more than 3 steps in my own house without bumping into a wall.
I fell in love with Nigeria because of the people, the warm-hearted, resilient, intelligent, loud and funny Nigerians. I also fell in love with “wahala”, the –let me say- challenges of every day life here. Living in Nigeria effectively means an end to boredom ;-)
Wahala dey!
The first time I heard "wahala" was in the context of something going horribly wrong and I was surprised. Surely such a problem couldn't be heaven-like? Coming from Europe and raised with old mythical stories about the walhala, I was not prepared to understand the meaning of wahala in Nigeria. I'm not even sure if you can translate it, but it would be something like "problem" or "trouble".
After living in Nigeria for a while you cannot help but think: "wahala dey for Naija o!"
Funnily enough, i don't mean this negatively. There is always some wahala here (no electricity, too much rain or too much sun, maniac drivers, poverty, too many people, corruption, malaria etc etc) but having daily challenges makes life fun at the same time.
I named this blog "wahala dey!" as i just love saying it :-)
After living in Nigeria for a while you cannot help but think: "wahala dey for Naija o!"
Funnily enough, i don't mean this negatively. There is always some wahala here (no electricity, too much rain or too much sun, maniac drivers, poverty, too many people, corruption, malaria etc etc) but having daily challenges makes life fun at the same time.
I named this blog "wahala dey!" as i just love saying it :-)
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