The Nigerian Market

I should be talking about something serious, like the 'Nigerian' guy who tried to bomb a plane in the US on Christmas day. Honestly, I have my doubts about his true identity, because we all know, Nigerians love life too much to consider things like suicide. Haven't you heard about the Nigerian who wanted to kill himself? He hung himself from the waist, because "that neck own too dey pain person". I mean, I'm just saying... Anyways, I'm in too good a mood to write out what needs to be said about Nigeria today. It'd be too depressing. That said, RIP Mariam Babaginda.

Anyways. my topic today has different topics:

1. The Nigerian mobile market: I mean like the market in traffic. Honestly, they've taken street trading to a whole new level. My Dad was on his way to Ife, in Osun State one day, and he forgot his glasses at home. He bought a new pair somewhere on the highway. I mean I understand Gala, Fanyogo, Bananas and even windshield wipers, but Glasses, really?! On a serious note though, I read recently that the government is trying to get these traders off the streets, for safety reasons. My question for the government is, 'What are these people supposed to do with themselves now?' A good number of them are degree-holders who were not able to find regular jobs. Thankfully, they made better choices than those who took to armed robbery. I'm cracking my brain for ideas to help these people if they really are swept off the streets. Please lemme know if some genius plan occurs to you.
2. This thing about change: I think I talked about this on my other blog sometime ago. At this point, if I put together all the change that I was told to 'come back and collect' I can buy this pretty good Range Rover that I spotted a few hours ago. I think it sounds like the guy will gba my oju with this deal, (see me talking like I'm going to buy it tomorrow). I really want a car though, and what's wrong with being hopeful? What was I talking about before sef? Yes, change. So, as I was saying... I don't get it. How can you run a business and not have change? Oh and then, the really bold one would now encourage to 'buy something' with the change. Something? I look like a vending machine abi, so I have too much money and I can overlook 'mis-spending' N850.00 because you can't find me money? Mschew!
3. 'Buy from me or else': My cousin and I are driving home from work and this guy selling phone credit begins knocking on my window hard enough to crack it just a little bit. He's so sure that the reason I've not called him, is not the obvious one of my not needing any, but simply because I'm ignoring him. He expects that as soon as I look up and see him, I'd suddenly realize that the N1500 I just put on my phone will miraculously expire in the 15 minutes it'd take me to get home. Oh also, one of my pet peeves is being touched by people I don't know. Handshakes are 'alright', but like don't hold my arm or waist or anything like that. So, you can only imagine my reaction when someone selling men's shirts at the market grabs me by the arm and pulls me towards his store...

Lemme just stop.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New 2010 to you all!

Talk to you in the new year!

Tips for Looking Extremely Busy At Work While Accomplishing Absolutely Nothing

Arrive early: This may seem counter-intuitive, but when the rest of your team gets in to work, they assume you’ve already been working for hours and got the majority of your work done in the wee hours, and were not in fact, catching up on your favorite blogs and posting witticisms to Twitter

Spreadsheets: Despite what you heard, they are your friend. Find the busiest, craziest looking spreadsheet you can (download one off the internet if you must) and have it open on your computer at all times. When someone walks by, furrow your eyebrows, sigh deeply, and type in a new formula

Circulate: Always have a stack of papers, files and folders handy, sitting in a scattered mess on your desk. Every hour or so, gather up these files and rush about the hallways. Stop by a few people’s desks and stop to chat for a few minutes (more like forty-five) about how difficult your day has been. In the hours you’ve been wasting since you got to work, you should have come up with a pretty good story about a bitchy client, a troublesome vendor or cantankerous manager to tell to all who will listen.

Lunch: Always be the first to go to lunch. This may seem counter-intuitive as well, but if you are the first one out (let’s say you leave at 1pm) and everyone else leaves later (say at 1:30), you get back before them (say at 2:15) and they have no idea you did not take a fifteen-minute lunch and get right back to your arduous spreadsheet instead of, say, going to get your nails done. Every so often, grab a coffee (or in Naij, a meatpie) for those seated around you. This will engender goodwill and is more likely to get you support should the poop ever hit the fan.

Coffee Breaks: Take many of them. Wander over to the breakroom, sighing heavily, pouring yourself a cuppa joe with great deliberation. When someone walks by, make a comment like “I don’t know how anyone handles this level of work without copious amounts of coffee. If I could have it somehow deposited intravenously into my bloodstream so I could never leave my desk, I would so sign up for that!” The advantage of this is that this person (and anyone else close by) knows just how dedicated you are, plus it may also lead to another elaborate time-wasting conversation about the intricacies of Intravenous Caffeine Injections (ICIs).

If you have a flexible office with no assigned seating, change your seat often. This way, if anyone has the ludicrous idea of assigning you any work, they have no idea where to find you.

If you’re in a client-service field, take your laptop with you to the bathroom. It may sound gross, but when your laptop is not on your desk but the rest of your things are, your colleagues assume you’re in an important meeting with the client, not updating your Twitter page in a bathroom stall, or ordering a hit in Mafia Wars. Make sure no one sees you entering or exiting or they’ll just think you’re a weirdo, and you want to blend in as seamlessly as possible.

Open up a blank Word document and begin work on your next blog post describing for your readers how you’ve spent your last few weeks at work (see above)

Keep your resume updated.

A Very Under-developed Community Development Program

This intro is for people who are not familiar with the NYSC program.

In addition to the primary assignment that each Corper is given (mentioned by SongSmith in the previous post), depending on where that job is, you'd have a Local Government Development Area where you'd meet once a week, with other Corp Members, for Community Developement. There are different groups - Charity, Enviroment/Beautification/Sanitation, Dance and Drama, etc. As a part of each group, you're supposed to develop projects, in line with the concentration of your group, that would help develop your Local Government area.

* * *

Now, except playing errand girl and making trips to the bank for a CD coordinator counts as some sort of community development, I believe that this entire thing has been a waste of the last 30, or so, Wednesdays of my life.

Yesterday (Wednesday), we actually did something 'useful' - we walked around the LGA and picked up trash and stuff; generally cleaned the environment. (And then I did a quick bank-run).

Don't get excited though, 'doing something' is just one very small bit of the hoopla. You have to get your CD cards signed too! They have these yellow and green cards that you have to present for the coordinator's signature every week, as proof of attendance. You would think they were the ones that signed N 1, 000.00 notes.
"Who said all of you should come upstairs? See how this place is hot and smelly. Oya, down! Everybody!"
Then she'll shout through the window from the second floor (third floor American nomenclature, lol. It took me almost 6 months to get it right when I just got home) - "Five people should come at a time to sign their cards".
If she sees five and a half people - "You people don't want to leave this place today. Everybody downstairs!"
How this helps community development is something I'm still trying to wrap my head around.

All of us who hoped the NYSC program would give us an opportunity to work for a better Nigeria would just have to make sure we survive this year of torture first, and then find other ways to develop our comminuties, and country as a whole. I can't decisively say that the NYSC program should be scrapped, because I think that it can serve a very good purpose. It just has to be totally restructured.

Oh, and then, everybody likes to get 'settled'; as in "You, Corper, when you're leaving you'll settle me o. All the work I did for you - signing your card, doing your clearance. In fact, your debt is serious, you're my daughter's namesake".

See me foolishly thinking she was just doing her job...

To Serve With Love, Part II

As promised in my last post, here comes the second installment of the nightmare that was NYSC camp. My biggest beef with it, far above the poor sanitation, the brutish officials, the ‘cozy’ living quarters, was really just the stupidity of the whole thing. It’s three weeks where you take grown-butt adults, make them share rooms like prepubescents, tel them when to go to sleep, when to wake up, make them perform stupid dancing drills at 4am, make them march for the governor and to what end? No one seemed entirely sure .

The whole thing was run by a bunch of illiterates, who resented foreign-trained students instead of seeing them for the valuable resources that they are. The thing with these “foreign-trained” students (that phrase was always spat out with the most bitter venom imaginable) is that they’ve seen how things are done outside of a country that is not run by money-obsessed orangutans. They’ve seen that with just a little bit of effort, conditions can be exponentially improved. They understand the meaning of customer service. They get that people who have voluntarily (somewhat) enlisted to serve their country must not be treated like vermin, but like heroes. Instead of capitalizing on the skill-set and worldview that these students bring to the table, they are treated as persona non grata. You these fake Nigerians, please get back to your country – awon omo obodo oyinbo --if you love it so much. (Trust me, I’m working on it).

The main culprit in this regard was the Camp Director. A slow-thinking, slow-speaking chore of a woman who cannot ever have seen the insides of a grammar school at any point in life. On one particularly interesting night, following a bonfire party that promised to be hot but fizzled out early, the boys decided to revolt and storm the female hostels which were bolted shut to protect the female corps members’ virtue. They were unable to breach security but caused enough of a fracas to get everyone a bit worked up. Camp Director Lady is mad and someone is going to bear the brunt of it but who would it be? Who could she blame for the male corpers acting in such an unruly fashion? The female corps members, naturally. She goes from dorm to dorm admonishing the girls for “waving around their dirty, smelly c*nts” even though “almost 70% of the camp has tested HIV positive”, advising girls to not accept any requests for “blowjoys” as it is an indication that a man cannot perform and should have his “hammer” chopped off, and advising that condoms are not safe because “when he is at the height of his excitement, HE WILL REMOVE IT!!!” This is who is running the joint and who convinces herself every night before she goes to bed that she is empowering and educating the future of the country.

On another night, a couple was caught inflagrante delicto in the bushes behind a bus. Two adults. Two consenting adults. Two nasty adults, but two consenting adults nevertheless. They were flogged in front of the whole camp, allegedly until the guy broke a tooth. Greater than being a waste of time and a health hazard, the biggest affront of this entire process was that it was being run by people with absolutely no sense of propriety or decency.

Anyway, the whole thing ended with you being posted to a primary assignment where you’d serve (aka work like a slave for very little pay) for a year. Some were pleased – they got posted to the cushy lawfirms and accounting outfits. Some were hesitant – they got posted to the banks, where corporate prostitution in the name of attracting more customer deposits is not unusual. Some were distraught – they had clearly been posted to teach in a secondary school (using the term ‘school’ loosely) or work in a local government. Regardless, we all left the camp that day (on my bloody birthday, no less), with nothing but our hopes, our dreams and our vows to never again reurn to the dreaded Iyana-Ipaja.

To Serve, With Love Pt 1

I am extremely grateful to be writing this blog post from the relative safety and comfort of my own home, Milo in hand and Michael Buble in ear. You see, I have just recently escaped from the NYSC Concentration…err, sorry…Orientation Camp in someplace called Iyana-Ipaja. I’m impressed with myself; I survived a good solid five days before bolting for the security-clad gates. There’s really only so much a girl can take.

First and most offensively, there was the matter of the pregnancy test. See, if you’re pregnant, you’re not allowed to serve. If you can’t serve, you can’t work. If you can’t work, you starve and you die. So there’s great incentive for an expectant mother to try to pretend that she was not in the family way. As such, each female is expected to submit herself for a pregnancy test, performed in the most sanitary of conditions and by the most capable of medical professionals. Or standing over a ditch filled with someone else’s urine, outdoors in the compound of the NYSC camp with three apparent market-women screaming “WHERE IS YOUR PISS?? IF YOU CANNOT PISS, PLEASE LEAVE THIS PLACE!” at you. Same difference, really.

After overcoming this minor indignity (read: most dehumanizing thing you’ve ever, ever done), you’ve got a registration process ahead of you that you can expect to last no fewer than seven hours and which consists mostly of filling out triplicate versions of the same form seven times and taking verbal abuse from the power-hungry wenches manning each booth. At some point, you get your uniform, which, remarkably, has the ability to be both too big AND too small for you. (If it fits you perfectly, please return immediately. There has clearly been a grave error). The uniforms appear to have been crafted by a tailor who is simultaneously blind, finger-less and very, very stupid and to whom the concept of button-holes and zippers is clearly foreign. It seems perfectly clear what’s happened here. Money’s been appropriated to the purchase of uniforms for the nearly 100,000 corpers that must pass through the program every year, but has probably gone to outfitting someone’s house in Mayfair instead.

On to the matter of your sleeping accommodations. When I was in college, I had a roommate. A perfectly lovely girl from Seattle whose only annoying quirk was the fact that she had to live with me. You see, the room was just so SMALL! How could two people be expected to live in there? My NYSC dorm-room was just about the same size, only instead of just the one roommate, I had twenty-seven. Twenty-seven. Well, there WERE twenty-seven until about Day 3, when I came home to find they’d moved in the fifteenth bunk-bed bringing the grand total up to a nice round thirty. With four such rooms on each floor, this meant that 120 girls were sharing four bathrooms. This in turn meant that in order for all the girls to be ready in time for the 5am drill (and by ‘ready’, I mean showered, dressed and made up because who doesn’t need makeup for a 5am drill??), preparation had to begin at about 2:30am. Not such a problem, unless your roommates were having a good ol’ time gisting about who Bioye was or was not sleeping with back in university till 1am EVERY SINGLE NIGHT. Of course, when you realize that water stopped running in all the bathrooms by Day 2, you’ll have to factor in another hour for all 120 girls to fetch water from the borehole. So long story short, you’re not sleeping in camp. Sleep when you’re dead.

Stay tuned for part II

Sounds of Silence

Love that song by Simon and Garfunkel. It's like 10.00 at night and its dead quiet outside. NEPA just got turned back on in my neighborhood so there is not a sound from a single generator. Strangely also, there are no horns going off and no huge trucks passing by. There is no ruckus going on outside from the people who normally chose to have night time arguments directly outside my house....it is just so QUIET!

Is it completely ridiculous that this made me terrified for a couple of minutes. I've gotten so used to the noise of Lagos that it has become so normal! I swear I was frantically turning off my lights and trying to stare out the window to discover some kind of alien invasion. (We have an inverter which is why I didn't notice the nepa thing immediately)Africans, especially us Nigerians do not believe in doing anything quietly. We must shout and make noise no matter what, lol.

On a side note, there are a few people I wish I could revoke their right to speak. People who don't deserve the right to speak until something that makes sense wishes to come outta their mouth. Crazy tactless individuals who say things like "only people who have no faith in God get sick and take medicine. Medicine is for non-believers". I'm a Christian and I really take offense when people make comments like that. This person should thank their lucky stars that nobody in their family has a life threatening illness...let's see how long it will take for them to run to a hospital. I believe you go to seek medical help and pray to God or whatever you believe in that it all works out for the best.

Anyway, after that little rant, I'm off to savour this rare moment as I am sure it won't last for much longer. Thank you Jesus for this beautiful and divine silence.

Have a blessed weekend.

Lagos Driving.

I am going to give all of you a chance to laugh at my inability to draw, because this post just won't many any sense without a sketch.

I learnt to drive in the US of A. Nigerians feel bad for me as soon as I tell them that, for the following reasons:

1. Americans know how to drive.
2. Americans obey traffic rules, and not just because someone may be watching.
3. A manual transmission car has to be specially requested in the US.
4. Sanity is common on the American road.

Now, when I came home in 2006, I was driving our old school auto-transmission Merc around Festac alone (because I didn't have a Nigerian license). I was looking forward to cruising my ride again when I moved back home, but I found out that it would be unavailable for a while. No problem. Taxis became my best friend. (I think I'm a pro at haggling taxi prices now.)

Anyway, my brother started learning to drive, with a VeeDub Beetle (I mean the really old ones o), and my folks started challenging me, talking about - 'your brother is a gee at maneuvering a gear shift, and you're here talking about knowing how to drive a car, when your left leg doesn't even know what a clutch is'. Fine! I started learning how to really drive, since apparently, auto transmission vehicles are 'toy cars'.

I now understand the clutch/accelerator dance, but I'm only starting to shift to gear 3. The first time I tried it, I was in the car by myself. The car jerked and made a funny sound, and I fugured I'd ventured to gear 5 instead of 3. Ah well, I'm sure I'll be perfect soon. I'm still only allowed to drive around Festac and Dolphin, but I'm sure I'll be a pro before I get into the real world.

Driving in Lagos amazes me. I'm not even talking about traffic jams. Check out my less than perfect sketch:

This is what an intersection close to my house looked like a few weekends ago. Absolute chaos! Now, someone please tell me why Nigerians simply don't turn correctly like Car 2 is doing? Everyone pulls a Car 4 left turn, and I really don't get it!

Car 1 broke down right at the intersection, and no one thought it would be smart to push it out of the way. How are those indicators supposed to help?

Car 5 can't see what's in front of Car 1, so he's just going to check. And then get stuck somewhere in the middle.

Car 7 is trying to be patient to let the madness clear out but Car 6 doesn't see the importance of that. You can only imagine the pile up and honk-a-thon going on behind Car 7. Unfortunately, a woman is driving the Car 7, so everyone is going to insult her, calling her 'Woman Driver' though we all know she's doing the right thing.

Car 3 is too busy cursing out the okada that's overtaking him on the right side to see that he's about to lose the front of his car to Mr. I-don't-know-how-to-make-a-proper-left-turn in Car 4.

Don't even get me started on the way all the okadas are maneuvering themselves through the chaos. Look at the one next to Car 1; he's going to want to cross over to the right side of the road without looking, in a few seconds.

God will help us in this our Lagos o.

AMEN!

Chimamanda Adichie: The danger of a single story

About this talk (Source: http://www.ted.com/)

Our lives, our cultures, are composed of many overlapping stories. Novelist Chimamanda Adichie tells the story of how she found her authentic cultural voice -- and warns that if we hear only a single story about another person or country, we risk a critical misunderstanding.

It seems to work faster on the website.

Coming Home Now...

So I’ve been here for about a month now and I’ve got to tell you; coming home after so long was a much more surreal experience than starting from scratch in a country I’d never been to. Everything was so different, and yet so remarkably familiar. Every turn was littered with memories but yet everything seemed somehow smaller, duller, dustier. General observations:

The People

The people here are as I remember them; chatty (to a fault – I don’t know you, stop talking to me), aggressive (observe the okada driver that you are foolish enough to cut off in traffic), enterprising (observe the hawker/hustler peddling potatoes in high-speed traffic) and helpful (just like the kindly lady who reached out to adjust a wayward bra strap that had dared to peek out from underneath my tank top).

The City

The city itself seems to have taken two steps forward and either one or three steps backward (I can’t decide whether cumulative progress has been made overall or not). Certain parts of Lagos – your Victoria Islands, your Ikoyis, your Lekkis – seem to be a bit more civilized and easy on the eye than I remember. The newest state government seems to have taken huge steps in getting the place at least aesthetically more pleasing, but you get onto the Mainland and the story seems to change quite dramatically. There’s certain areas of Lagos that look like they have yet to take a step into the 20th century, let alone the 21st. People living like they’re straight-up in the village; clothes hanging outside the front of their houses, the streets (or rather, random collection of concrete and sand) riddled with potholes, electricity spoken of as though a distant memory -- heard of, but never quite experienced. The contrast is honestly a bit alarming, but I suppose it’s not much different than the difference between Georgetown and Anacostia, or the Upper West Side and Marcy Projects, so I’ll just go ahead and jump off my idealistic high-horse right about now.

The Fashion

Oh and another thing. So I was warned - in worried, hushed tones - by my mother and several friends, that if I wanted to survive in the social minefield that is Lagos, I was going to have to seriously, seriously up my fashion game. The fashion is out of control here, I was told. People dress up to the nines, tens and elevens here, I was warned. If elan and ThisDay Style magazines are anything to judge by, this largely means; bad weaves, fake handbags, too-short skirts, too-tight pants, too-little originality and almost-zero individuality. It seems that money is a replacement for taste, braggadocio a substitute for style. I know that this is certainly not the case with my entire beautiful Nigerian sisterhood, but I gotta say, I was a little disappointed.

The Food

What bad could possibly be said about Nigerian food? I’m not sure if I’m biased because, at this point, efo pretty much courses through my veins, but I think you’d be hard-pressed to find food that tastes better than what they’re serving up here. Even the neighborhood Mama Put serves better food than your average restaurant in DC and at not even a fraction of the price. If I was a woman who wrote poetry, there would be odes to Nigerian food. If I was a writer, there’d be epic novels! I would erect monuments – okay, I’m stopping now. You get it -- I loves me some grub. It’s a compelling enough reason for me to yell from the highest mountain in Abuja – IT’S GREAT TO BE HOME!!! Ain’t no place in the world like it.

For better or for worse.

"Why do you talk like that?!"

I'm wondering if anyone else has noticed that people are really sensitive about accents in Naija? Recently, I've heard a lot of bitching about Nigerians who have picked up different accents as a result of living abroad for some years. They freaking want to bite your head off for pronouncing a word in a different way than they would.

It is generally believed that if a person is over the age of 15 when they move abroad, they have no business talking with a foreign accent. I agree with this to an extent. For seven years, my accent was British in the presence of British people and Nigerian or something ''neutral' sounding to my fellow Nigerians. This happened because when I started at my boarding school (aged 17), I was constantly being asked to repeat myself to the point where I just preferred not to continue with the conversation. It was really frustrating because my accent was never that strong in the first place (It was that QC girl shakara kind of accent, you know the one. Lol!). Anyway, I eventually gave in and decided to try talking differently and that is how I ended up with the accent. By the time I was in Uni, non-Nigerians assumed I was British until I told them otherwise.

Since moving back to Lagos, I made a conscious effort to lose the accent.....it has been tucked away in the closet. But like a lot of other folks who studied abroad, my Nigerian accent is very 'Affected' but it is still a Nigerian accent! I've just been used to talking and pronouncing things in a certain way. People get really mad like you're doing it on purpose because you think you're better than them. NOT TRUE! It's just a habit. I know there are some people who talk that way on purpose (you'll find out that they probably spent only 2 months away, lol!). Don't even get me started on those radio DJs...cool FM and co! It can be so exhausting listening to their fake sounding accents!

I think it's just a psychological thing. Most young people just want to fit in with the people around them not because they think another accent is cooler or better than theirs. Most people are not even aware that they are doing it. I know a Naija guy who studied in Ghana and now has a Ghanaian accent. You CANNOT convince me that anybody would be trying to talk with a Ghanaian accent on purpose (No offense to my Ghanaian brothers and sisters :-).

So now that I have explained it, I hope y'all are cool

Trouble's Been Doggin' My Soul...

In an earlier post on this blog, I described my refusal to leave the United States as me being trapped in an abusive relationship. I’d like to further the metaphor by contending that America itself is a vicious, psychotic, abusive boyfriend; one of those who ain’t want you around, but would be damned if he was letting your butt leave.

Last month, after months of tossing and turning, I bought a one-ticket back to my homeland. As most flights to Lagos do, mine had a stopover. Just for five hours. In Amsterdam. Naturally, I decided to go to the Dutch Embassy to go get the transit visa I assumed I needed for this brief foray into Schengen territory. First of all, let me say that the stupid embassy is set on a random hill (that this dummy had to climb in the noon-day DC summer heat), is full of nasty, unfriendly people and they all just make up rules as they go. So aaaanyway, after patiently waiting my turn, I get called up to the window and Madam asks me for my information which I gladly hand over; diligently filled-out forms, passport, money order. She glances at my passport, sneering at the sheer greenness of it, and then goes “Where is your current US visa?”

“Umm, Madam. I don’t exactly have one, hence the one-way ticket back to my mama house.”

“You don’t have one?”

“Nope, not unless – y’know – I got one while I was sleep-walking the other night and just clean forgot about it”

“Mmmm. Interesting. We cannot issue you a transit visa unless we can determine your legal status in the United States”

“What the f*@k?

“Mmmhmm, yes. That’s how we roll here at the Dutch embassy.”

“You understand that I’m going HOME, right? That I am leaving the country because my work authorization has run out (also known as What You’re Supposed To Do)? That I have no immediate intentions to a) return to America b) abscond in Holland? That you’re asking me to remain in the country despite my expired work permit because apparently, I cannot leave?”

“Yes ma’am, we understand all that. We just don’t really care.”

“Okay, so what would you have me do? My flight (fully booked and paid for) leaves in a week.”

“You’d best stop talking to me and start talking to Priceline, because your butt is not leaving through the Netherlands. Thank you and can I get the next customer please?”

There’s a little bit of embellishment in the dialogue, but I assure you, not as much as you’d think. The Nigerian in me wants to fight; wants to yell and scream; even wants to bust out the old faithful “This woman! Do you know who I am??!” The beefy Dutch security guard had me thinking otherwise. So there’s me crying in the street, hot, angry, confused.

It was clearly this anger, heat and confusion that made me think it would be a good idea to walk the few blocks to the Nigerian Embassy to see if my people would be able to help me out in this predicament. I wasn’t sure what I wanted them to do exactly, but isn’t that what happens in movies? You get stuck in some foreign land and bombs are going off everywhere, so you run to your embassy and you’re as good as home? Was I not in a very strange land? Were there not metaphorical bombs exploding all around me? I tried my luck.

They might have been able to help me. Maybe. I’ll never know for sure though because at 1pm on this Tuesday afternoon, the entire Consulate section was closed for Muslim prayers. No comment. After waiting in the air-conditioning for a half-hour, my cooled brain realized that I was on a fool’s errand and it was time to bust out. Hours of scouring the internet for information finally led me to a kindly gentleman on a message board who recommended I call my airline (DUH!). KLM-lady tells me that Embassy-lady is trippin’ and I would not even be requiring a transit visa at all as I am not leaving the transit area and am catching the next flight out. Several repeat calls to different KLM reps confirmed this.

But I’m pretty much holding my breath, crossing my fingers and systematically destroying my manicure until my butt is planted firmly in the seat of that 747 this Sunday.

Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble...

I'm Lovin it!

I could write down 100 things I HATE about living in Lagos...but I won't. Instead, I'm focusing on things i love about it.

I love the fact that Nigerians do not hide their religion. I don't know what it's like elsewhere but British people generally don't like talking about God and they really don't like any form of religious expression. This seems to be especially the case among youths. Look, I'm not one of those people that want to shove christianity down people's throats but I love the fact that in Naija I can say "God bless you" and not get funny looks like I've just killed your mother. I like having people to discuss anything spiritual with...whether its about doubts i may be having, a need for encouragement or if I'm feeling blessed and i just want to tell someone about it. I even have these conversations with my Muslim friends!

I'm so thrilled that I can get my hair done for the equivalent of 10 pounds or less in Lagos. When i was in England, I would spend close to 45 pounds to get a weave which meant that I could only change my hair once in a blue moon....every 3 months to be exact. For someone as restless as me, that was very annoying. I'm obsessed with my hair, I really do believe that a woman's hair is her crowning glory. You could be Miss Universe but if you have F-ed up hair, just forget it! That is all anybody will notice. The versatility of African/African American hair is both a blessing and a curse for me. You can do WHATEVER you want! Relaxed, braids, weave (straight, curly, kinky), natural...the list goes on. Having choices is great but that just makes me want to try it all (At the same time if i could, lol). I'm the type of person that asks my stylist "So for next time, do you think Rihanna's new haircut would look good on me?" to which she would reply "Honey! I'm not even finished yet and you're already planning your next do". Nowadays I change my hair as often as I like...braids, curly hair, straight, coloured, whatever! I'm rocking a short crop right now but you know I'm already planning my next trip to the salon :-)

I reeeally love having a group of friends again. I've met lots of nice people since I've been back and also reconnected with some old friends. It's nice having people to hang out and confide in.

I'm NOT loving the fact that I have a splitting headache right now from Malaria which is the reason I'm cutting this short!

I Asked For It...

I know I wrote a woe-is-me introduction and gave you the impression that moving back home was the best thing I'd done in a gazzillion years. Well, umm... I'm going to tell you a secret. Don't tell anyone; promise?

Bring your ear very close to the screen: "I miss being a couch potato."

You know the problem, it's this whole 9 - 5 bruhaha. (Or as it is in my case, 8:35 till anytime between 5:30 and 7pm). Lemme lay it down like it is.

Couch Potato-ism:

1. All I was doing was job hunting. I could afford to miss my alarm, on the days when I set it.
2. True that I was broke, but every bonafide couchpopato knows that you must have someone you can be mooching off of (you should be someone's parasite). I had one of those, and God bless her heart. I miss her so much. She worked and made money for both of us. I got used to not paying for anything, that my wallet got missing in my room, a few times.
3. I had too much time on my hands. I could afford to braid my friend's hair and do some mall hopping in the same day. And maybe crown it with dinner with my sugar-mama (babe who was spending money on me in '2').
4. I could spend time talking to my friends, on the phone, in person, or on messenger. We would just sit in the grass with sunglasses, sipping on smoothies, at 2.45pm. They were prolly between classes or taking a late lunch break, while I was just, you know, being...
5. I spent a lot of time in the kitchen. I love to cook, bake and experiment in general. So, there was always time to make another cake, and cook for my friend's boyfriend's sister's best friend's 'Girls Night In'.
6. I had time for things I really enjoyed - singing in the choir, bowling, baby-sitting, handcraft, wakadugbe (walking around, visiting people), writing, TV, and those other things that I don't have to feel bad about doing, even without a reward.
7. Even other people allowed me to be irresponsible. They knew I wasn't working, so I wasn't expected to give them gifts on their birthdays, or contribute to pot lucks, or pay for myself at a restaurant, or pay my own phone bill. (I love my friends!)

J-O-Bism:

1. What a catastrophe to miss the alarm.
2. I have my own personal parasites now. They are called younger siblings.
3. It took me three days to braid my hair myself, and I even had a weekend o. I haven't bought even a pair of slippers (as in 'Dunlop' salubata) since I moved back.
4. I'm always invisible on Yahoo messenger, always 'Busy' on Google chat and I don't remember my MSN password. The last time I had a smoothie was in March. I used to scold people for ignoring calls, I am now a PRO.
5. This is how my kitchen trips work: In the morning, I pop in to pick breakfast, when that's available; I always make myself a cup of tea. In the evening, I pop in to 'place an order' for dinner. Once in a light green moon, I'll bake, or make pancakes, or something I have a very bad craving for - like Spaghetti Bolognaise. (There should be a light green moon tonight...)
6. My 'trips' are seriously dulled by the fact that the 'older ones' think that they always need to know where I'm going. I mean, my G'Mama pratically followed me to a house party last night! (I'll whine about that later).
7. Irresponsible fire! I have to make a budget, and stick to it! It's exhausting.

I mean, I won't exactly say 'bring back the days of joblessness' but like do we have to work every week day?

...Cos I'm A Naija Boi!

Ha! And now I finally BLOG! This is a first, so I’m gonna try to do it differently. Lemme know what y’all think. You might understand why I get a tad too analytical occasionally and always give disclaimers even when speaking :D. Here goes…


Prelude

My father and I have developed a rather interesting relationship. For each major step in my life, he always provides advice and balanced, yet convincing, arguments. Decisions on specifics are generally left to me. Each decision I take however needs to be backed with solid reasons based on HARD facts to carry him along. Umm…yea, he’s a lawyer.

As some of you know,“¯I’m a 9ja boy!¯” to the bone <Big ups Eldee>. So it’s always been my intention to return home. “When” was always the issue. Just before graduation in December 2006, I had interviewed with a few companies who were offering all sorts of wonderful packages, but my then-efiko heart was yearning for graduate school. So I shunned them. I mean, my soon-to-be alma mater was offering me free graduate education with research assistant position and I’d been accepted into one of the best graduate engineering schools (hereafter, µBGES) around. What more could a pre-op efiko ask for?

Small problem: µBGES doesn’t start till the fall semester. But alma mater begins right away.

·Act 1, Scene 1 – The Decision

Light bulb! I get an ingenious idea.

Me, thinking: “Why don’t I attend alma mater now and then go start at µBGES in the fall? Costs me nothing to attend alma mater, no?”

ÉI discuss with dad. Dad thinks it’s a decent idea. Note: “decent idea” generally means “I’ll get back to you on that one.”

After three weeks of vacation in New York (# 5 on my Miss List), yours truly begins engineering graduate school at alma mater.

ÉDad calls.

Dad: “My guy, how far na? What about coming to Nigeria for the next six months until it’s time to go to µBGES? I don ‘rrange one joint like that plus like some 3 babes join for you.”

Me: “Ah pops, I don’t really understand Nigerian girls y’know.”

Dad: Small tin. You know say you be Yankee boi na. E go easy. Nuttin do you.

********** CUT! **********

Sorry guys, that’s not really part of the script. Getting carried away here; uh…let’s do this again.


*

*

********** ¸ ACTION! · **********

After three weeks of vacation in New York (# 5 on my Miss List), yours truly begins engineering graduate school at alma mater.

É Dad calls.

Dad: “Hey son, how about coming to Nigeria for the next six or seven months until it’s time to go to µBGES?”

Me: “Okay…that’s new…but what will I be doing there?”

Dad: “Well, I’ve arranged something for you. They should be calling you soon.”

Me: “Umm…I have other ideas. Lemme go think on it and I’ll get back to you.”

Honestly, I don’t want anything more! But I need to prove to him that it is the best option, all factors considered.

I carry out a comprehensive cost/risk analysis of all my options in preparation for my discourse with dad. Indulge me.

Cost vs Risk
1. Accept a job and work Low cost Low risk
2. Stay at alma mater Moderate cost Low risk
3. Return home High cost High risk


*Cost: Cost of travel, settling, fees, bills, etc
Risk: visa/immigration status (always a bitch eh?)


Me: “Look dad, I’ve done all my analyses and clearly, coming to Nigeria is the worst idea based on facts.”

Dad: “True, but I want you to come back and have a look-see. Check out the system. I’ve organized an internship for you at a multi-national where you’ll have firsthand view of the Nigerian business environment. See if it’s something you’d be interested in.”

Me, thinking: “God, after just 1 week of school, the mere fact that I had to sit through another class with even worse efikos (some undergraduate sef) immediately after graduation cantankerously and effectively nullified any elation I had experienced when I collected my B.Sc pali.”

No friends. Everyone has graduated and left respectably.

Apartment-search wahala.

No money for pocket. (As we all know, 9ja parents don’t send money once they hear you’re working. Doesn’t matter whether na $5.15 per hour at 10 hours a week you dey do.)


Me, thinking: “Omo mehn, I’m out! Back to the comfort of round-the-clock food service, driver, little or no expense, major cash inflow from the ‘rents, and just generally flossing. Nice!”

But wait.
Brothers and sisters, did I mention that my father is a lawyer? You HAVE to come correct. Verify and counter-verify contractual agreements before entering them cos mehn… you can be screwed over for your own carelessness.

I made sure I listed like 10,000 concerns, all of which he assuaged. Then:

Me: “OK, so this means you will bear the full cost of my flight, stay and return?”
Dad: “Yes.”
Me: “…and give me a whip to get around?”
Dad: “Yes.”
Me: “…and get me a job?”
Dad: “Yes.”
Me: “…and support me if the money I earn doesn’t cover all?”
Dad: “Uh…yes.”
Me: “…and pay off my credit card debt?”
Dad: “Uh…yea, that’s taking it too far. Na you carry gbese…pay it off yourself!”
Me: “Haha! OK! I’m in!”

a Call the special friend who doesn’t think too highly of the decision.
a Tell a few other buddies.
a Send off parties.
a Move two-thirds of my stuff to the H.
a Pack the remaining one-third in 2 suitcases.
a Kill off phone, water, electricity, etc.

The special friend drives me to DFW for the final goodbyes.

Me: “Hey, you know what? I’ll call you everyday. Plus I’ll be online all the time so we can chat. It’s like an extended vacation! I’ll be back on Aug 6! See my return ticket now.”


…little did I know!

The Miss List

I started packing the other day in anticipation of the big move home and got to thinking about all the little things that i'll miss. I'm wicked excited about this move (most days), but I have my reservations. Here goes;

I’ll miss walking around downtown at 2 in the morning and not feeling the least bit threatened.

I’ll miss going to concerts and hanging out with rockstars afterward. (Okay, that only happened the one time, but damn was it fun and i've got the pictures to prove it!)

I’ll miss advanced movie screenings of small-budget movies that will likely never get a huge theatrical release. I'll miss 'volunteering' at the Tribeca Film Festival (otherwise known as watching free movies, collecting free swag while not doing a damn thang!)

I’ll miss New York

I'll miss making good money.

I’ll miss my winter coat, hats and scarves, even though I never thought those words would escape my lips. I’ll miss how snow makes everything beautiful.

Good God, how I’ll miss my friends.

I’ll miss hopping on the train and arriving where I need to be twenty minutes later.

I’ll miss steady, constant, fast Internet, not to mention steady and constant electricity.

I’ll miss Friday Night Lights, The Office, 30 Rock, Entourage, Real Time, Jeopardy, Chuck, Flight of the Conchords... (I watch waaaay too much television)

I’ll miss my siblings.

I’ll miss my independence.

I’ll miss Macy’s, and shopping in general.

Oh, my beloved Barnes & Noble!

I’ll miss not being able to wear that sexy-ass trench coat I bought two months ago in anticipation of the fall.

However, I will NOT miss not having a job, not having enough money, being depressed all the time, not having a dog, being plan-less and purposeless., being an interloper in what feels like home...

So I suppose there’s always trade-offs.

We ARE our Biggest Problem

So, we were at Community Development (CD) yesterday, and the coordinator came in to talk to us about doing better at developing our community (Maybe I should start with some background info).

Every corper has a day during the week when he/she is expected to show up at the designated local government area office to take part in 'real community service'. So, a corper could be in the traffic management group, or the environmental group, etc. At each meeting, you'd do something related to the goal of your group, for the benefit of the local government area you belong to. After meetings, you should get your CD card signed as proof that you were present.

Anyway, so the lady spoke against our non-chalant attitudes and explained that the only reason she gives us grief is 'cause we've completely abandoned the real gist of CD and are only concerned about getting our cards signed, and disappearing. She then asked us to talk amongst ourselves about things/projects we could take on and, you know, get busy with what CD is all about.

As soon as she finished talking, this nincompoop started making noise, asking the President of the group to do something about getting our cards signed. And I'm thinking to myself: 'is she an idiot, or just pretending to be one?' It may be safe to say here that I'm not an oversabi house-babe. I don't love going to these meetings. In fact, I think the entire program is a joke, because what it has deteriorated into is a far cry from what it was intended to achieve. Corp members live in fear in some states, and some others finish the service year and are left roaming the streets, looking for jobs. Let's leave that for another post. Now, where was I?

Yes. So, though I do not love the program I believe there is a correct way to ensure that it works in your favor. What if everyone of us was as selfish and short-sighted as this 'colleague' of mine? The whole world would be in a major regression. Did she think that the rest of us enjoyed sitting and wasting away? Hell, we were even trying to help by discussing projects and stuff. (We had to show her minutes of our discussion before she'd sign the stupid cards).

This, I believe, all boils down to the Nigerianness that we have to unlearn, for a better future for this country. Say Girl and I ended up in the same organization in the future, (though I'm sure we won't work well together), I would not entrust any responsibilities to her, because my understanding of her attitude is that she is unable to think of anyone but herself.

Maybe I'm thinking too deep, 'cause it's just NYSC right? That's easy to say, but the truth is that it's not just NYSC. There's a Yoruba proverb that says: Iri ni si, ni iso'ni l'ojo. (Someone please help me translate it verbatim), but the general idea is that you judge someone by the picture they portray of themselves. My mind doesn't put the situation in context, and say: 'Oh, she was frustrated, yada yada'.

Ok, lemme just stop.

Unashamedly Nice

My job involves quite a lot of face time with the general public so I occasionally run into people I’ve met through work. It’s always the usual “Oh, how far, can’t stop, see you later” kind of thing.

On one particular occasion last week, I was out with a colleague at one of our other branches and as we were walking past a conference room, a man suddenly got up and started waving and smiling at me. I had to look behind me because only a close friend would be that happy to see you and as far as I knew, I didn’t have a tall, good looking gentleman friend in his late thirties/early forties. If not for the fact that he was well dressed in a fine suit, I would have run away thinking he was a lunatic.

I moved closer to the conference room where he opened the door and finally explained that I had helped him out with a transaction a few weeks ago when he came to my office. Suddenly, I remembered the smile and it all came flooding back. It had been my first week on the job. Everything was still new and I was pretty slow dealing with customers. The normal reaction was always impatience or anger but this man was just so cool about it. I remember thinking he was weird because he was just so pleasant. Is that normal? Since when did I start to see rudeness as the norm! I was actually discussing this with ISHA and she noted that people are generally not that nice to each other anymore especially in Jand and Yankee. I got used to seeing people walk straight past a person clearly in need of help...like 'This is none of my business'. Over here, at least someone would stop and ask what the problem is.

The encounter was short, all he wanted to say was hello and ask how I was doing at work. He was so genuine. I really hope I gave the right amount of kindness back but to be honest I was just in shock, lol!

Life makes you a little cynical at times. There are actually nice, decent people out there and we don’t always have to be on the defensive.

He may not have completely restored my faith in mankind but with that little gesture, that man totally made my day.

Taking A Leap of Faith

“I’m never going back to that hell hole!” Those were my own words only two years ago at the prospect of moving back to Nigeria. It’s funny how things change. Let me give you the background story. I moved to England when I was 17 years old, all bright eyed and bushy-tailed ready for a new adventure. I started off at a boarding school and took to British life pretty quickly, I mean who wouldn’t? It was the first time I experienced social order and an almost corruption-free environment. Everything was a bus or train ride away and there were lots of things to do to while away the time.

As the years went by, I was certain that I would never live in Nigeria again...at least not in my youth. After graduation I got a job, which wasn't my dream job, but you have to work your way up, right? I figured I'd gain some work experience and keep pursuing what I really wanted. I had it all planned out and it looked like it would all work out my way. Boy was i wrong!


I enjoyed being a working gal, waking up early running to catch the bus, having a productive day at work (not to mention the free tea and coffee!) and having extra money to spend on clothes and concerts (my two favourite things). It was all hunky dory before the credit crunch knocked on my door and double-slapped me.


My contract with the company was up for renewal but they couldn't afford to have two temps so it was decided that the foreign chick had to go. It made more sense to keep the person who was British and didn't have any issues with work visas. My situation: I had the right to work in the UK for another year and a half on my post-study work visa and I would need a company to apply for a work visa on my behalf if i was to continue to work after that period.

I was upset but stayed optimistic. "Ah! This is my chance to find that dream job". I spent most of the summer applying and interviewing for jobs but the work permit issue seemed to be a hurdle I couldn't get over.

Recruiter: "I'm sorry we can't afford to employ you for just a year, we'd rather train someone who will stay with us for a long time"
Me: "Doh! Get me a work permit after a year then"
Recruiter: "Er..I'm afraid that's against our policy"

This was the story for several months. I was beginning to lose confidence in myself with each application. It was so disappointing. I kept thinking 'Dammit! I have a degree and masters for God's sake'. My parents had spent over 70,000 pounds on just tuition alone in the past 7yrs and I had no job to show for it.

The days began to blend into each other. A typical day was like this.....

12.30pm - Literally drag myself out of bed and turn on my computer to see his i had any responses on the job front

1.00pm - Have lunch (or should i say Breakfast!) and then take a shower
1.30 - Send out some more CVs or go to an interview
3.00pm - Watch TV, eat, eat some more or fall asleep
6.00pm - Get the usual worried call from mum and pretend I'm alright
7.00pm - Chat with my best friend (SongSmith) in the US who knew exactly how it felt cos she was going through the same thing
8.00pm - Call my sis and gist for like an hour courtesy of Vodafone 'stop the clock'. Lol.
9.00pm - Look for more vacancies to apply for
12 in the morning - Eat some more
2am - Cry and call my friend again
3am - Go to bed, the bed i hardly got out of! I would toss and turn till about 7 or 8am


With all the eating and weird sleeping patterns, it doesn't take a genius to figure out i was deeply unhappy and turning into a hermit! I didn't have a lot of friends around after Uni ended because most of them were foreign and had the good sense to go back to their respective countries. The others lived too far away for me to hang out with them on a regular basis.

Eventually my parents told me "If you ever want to have a real career, you had better come back home to Lagos! What EXACTLY are you doing there? Even if you get a permit, there is only so much you can achieve in another man's country."

It was one of the hardest thing I've ever had to do and sometimes i still wonder if i made the right decision. I didn't want to leave my sister and the comforts of Jand but I had to trust that God was in control. It was like a bungee jump...I just shut my eyes and Jumped! And here I am in Lagos doing my NYSC. I've been here for almost eight months and its been....different! Lol! I can't think of a better word.

Having called somewhere else home for over seven years, it was like being in a foreign country again. It's different when you come to Nigeria for school holidays. You'll experience culture shock like you did when you first went away and re-adjusting takes time. I'm not going to lie. You'll probably hate the first few months and resent the fact that you are back (depending on the circumstances in which you came) . It's frustrating to go from an ordered society with 24hr electricity to NEPA, where you'll be lucky to get two hours per day if at all, heavy road traffic, armed robbery and corruption.

You have to have your wits about you. You have to become a 'type A personality' because having any other personality will surely ensure that you always finish last. Nice means push-over here! It's a trait that should only be shown to close family and friends. Lol! I'm working on it.

Also, if you're female, you'll probably find it difficult living under your parents roof again because it's unsafe for a lady to live alone in Naija. It was a shock to go from practically answering to no one and then all of a sudden have some of that independence taken away from you.

At least for now I'm living a life and not existing in a land called LIMBO! It's better to move forward however challenging it may be.

Homeward Bound

I made the decision to return to Nigeria last Tuesday. I was sitting on a couch with my brother-in-law in Brooklyn and he asked me a simple question I couldn’t answer. “What are you doing here?” Simple as that. “What are you doing here?” You’re allowed to be uncertain about a lot of things in life but I’m fairly confident that your reason for being shouldn’t be one of them.

I’ll give you some background. America, in its infinite wisdom, decided that the most sensible basis upon which to award work visas was a lottery. And as with every other lottery I’ve ever entered into, my name was conspicuously absent from the shortlist when all was said and done. I hung around the US for a year after that hoping for – I dunno – a visa to fall out the sky or something. I worked a couple of odd jobs here and there and got by on my swiftly diminishing savings and the kindness of strangers. Finally, that afternoon on the couch, I was forced to own up to the fact that I was killing myself to stay in a country that, by all appearances, no longer wanted me. It had given me no job. It had given me no money. It had given me no joy. I was in a relationship that was well past its sell-by date. In fact, I was no longer in a relationship; I was in a relation-shit and it was time to end it.

So, it was with this understanding that I made the decision to go back home. I use this term ‘home’ loosely because we are talking about a place that I haven’t been to, or really wanted to go to in seven years. I’ve done all my growing up in Washington DC; went on my first date, went to my first concert, got my first job, bought my first home. Sure, Lagos was where I was born, but how would I fit in there as a fully-formed, incredibly opinionated woman? How would I live in a city where you have to drive everywhere when I’ve spent the last seven years living in one with a subway stop on every corner? How would I live in a city where a good day means you got two hours of constant electricity instead of one?

They say you can never go home again? Well, for my sake, let’s hope that’s not true.

Gasp! What have I done?!

I remember the day I was moving back home.

I had been booked on a BA flight. I got to the airport about 3hrs ahead of time with three weighty bags and sweaty palms. It was going too smoothly to be true. And then of course, I hadn't thought I'd need a transit visa to go to Lagos through London, but with the new Terminal at Heathrow... 'Sorry Ma'am, you won't be able to travel today, or anytime in the next few weeks because you have to get a transit visa'. See crying... I think the tears were really because of the uncertainty I was feeling; they were just masked in the uncomfortable situation at the time. It was all fixed somehow, and I still travelled that day.

Wait, why did I start this epistle... Oh yes! The day I moved back home... So, I called my 'sisters' to say good bye, and it was time to switch off all electronic devices and I was like, 'Shit, what have I done?'. At that point, it had all come to an end. There was no turning back, I couldn't pull a 'Stop the plane, I can't leave the love of my life' stunt, like in the movies.

I started school in Chicago at the age of 17. I was so excited. My family friends had been at the same school, and there was so much to look forward to. I had been itching for my freedom, and I finally had it. Whoa! I didn't become a wild child, but I definitely enjoyed the liberty of going out without permission, and doing my homework when I felt like it, not when Daddy ordered for it to be done. School was fun! (Not needing permission to hang out with boys too was a blast! Lol)

I did two interships in my Junior and Senior years, and I somewhat established myself in the industry, so I had to reason to think there wouldn't be any glitches when it was time to get a job. Right? Wrong!

Finals ended on the 14th of December, 2007. I gave myself a two month holiday, anticipating that the offer letters would pour in, and I'd be confused about which job to choose. How foolish. By the time my family came to celebrate my graduation the following May (2008), I was still waiting to be confused, and the recession was getting fatter. Did I mention being broke? Meeeeen! I was the definition of broke. My folks had stopped sending me pocket money when I got my first on-campus job. At this point though, they knew I was struggling, so they helped out once in a while. It was not a pretty sight. I braided hair, did flower arrangements, catered for my friends' get-togethers, did administrative work at my church and all other sorts to make sure I didn't see red in my bank account.

The companies were not excited about hiring this intelligent black female engineer (sorry, I had to toast myself a lil), cos she was a foreign student. They would have to prove that there was no American citizen who could take up the job she was to be hired for. Plus, they would make this huge investment to get her a work wisa, without a guarantee that she would get it. It wasn't worth the hassle, as far as they were concerned. Meanwhile, my work permit was wasting away. It was valid from February 2008 to February 2009.

I got fat because I cooked for therapy. I was very excited about feeding people, and myself of course. It was pretty much the only feeling of fulfilment I got. I remember picking up my phone one day after talking to God, and sending a text: "Mummy, I want to come back home". She called me immediately because she thought I was crying. I was so calm about it, that I was sure I was doing the right thing.

Somehow, I found myself in New Jersey for three months that I dreaded with all my life; living in a village and working as a sales personnel at Joyce Leslie.

I think the best thing about being back home for me is that I am doing something. I've been called a busybody many times, so that's not suprising actually. I mean, it's not been a jolly ride all along. I miss the CTA. I miss going out because I want to, not because Daddy finally allowed me. I miss my church.

Though I wake up some days longing for the security and irresponsibility that a classroom allows you, and though I haven't the faintest idea what I'd have done with myself in the next year or two, I love that I'm at home. I love that this is my own land of opportunity.

I'm just as excited as you to see where my life goes from here.

About Us

Foreign Exchange gives you a unique look at life in Nigeria from the perspective of four young individuals who have lived abroad for most of their adult life and have now moved back home for one reason or the other.

We started this Blog as a resource for anyone faced with the question “Should I move back to Nigeria?”. For most, this is probably one of the hardest decisions you'll make in life depending on your feelings about Nigeria. We hope that through writing about our experiences, we might help someone make that decision. We'll tell you EXACTLY how it is (no sugar-coating) so you'll know what to expect. We are all at different stages....one of us is already in the process of moving back, two of us are currently on the NYSC program and the last person recently completed the NYSC service year and is working.

Foreign students now living in Nigeria are viewed as the ajebotas. So, though we beg to differ, you can accept our P.O.V. as 'the worst it can be'. If that makes any sense. (You get? As in, it can't be worse than these Ajebotas think it is).

Each one of us will follow this post with introductions to help you familiarize yourselves with the characters. We're so excited about this movement, I think mostly because we also are excited to see the lengths and breadths that this blog will attain, if it will get anywhere at all.