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?
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
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...
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