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)
Friday, November 7, 2008
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.
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