To Live and Date in Lagos

My mother wants grandchildren. This has been made clear to me in no uncertain terms. She has five children, so she’s hedged her bets pretty well, but as I am the only one of her spawn to have recently taken up residence in Lagos, the onus has fallen upon my head to bear seed first. Why? Because Lagos is the land where people meet, marry and make babies in the span of a year. The streets of Lagos are paved with eligible men. They’re arriving by the boatload off the shores of Ember Creek. Lagos is the veritable marital Promised Land.

Or at least this is what they told me.

In the year I have been back in Lagos, I have found one thing to be true: it is impossible to date in Lagos. It is not difficult. It is not tricky. It is downright impossible. This is true for several reasons. First of all, even with a population of almost 20 million, Lagos is a smaller town than Coffeeville, Alabama (pop. 389). You cannot so much as smile at the cute guy by the bar without learning that he and your best friend were embroiled in a passionate, if brief, love affair that ended in a fantastical shouting match at your cousin’s wedding last December, or that he is actually your second cousin twice-removed.

Once you’ve managed to eliminate all your relatives (and the men who will obliterate life-long friendships) from your dating pool, you are left with a dazzling array of posers, slackers, felons, perverts, dimwits and sugar-daddies to choose from. The poser won’t talk to you; the slacker will try to get you to buy him a drink; the felon will probably get you arrested for unwittingly smuggling his cocaine across the border; the pervert will try to feel you up; the dimwit will bore you to tears and the sugar-daddy will manage to accomplish all of the above whilst simultaneously being the actual daddy of your college roommate.

In the very unlikely event that you are miraculously able to extract a potential mate from this motley crew, the very city of Lagos itself offers a giant wrench for your best-laid plans. There’s a joke that’s often told about a man who drops his girlfriend off at the international airport for her flight to London. By the time she calls him to say she’s landed safely at Heathrow and claimed her luggage, he’s still stuck in traffic at the Chevron roundabout battling his way back home to Ajah. Between the ridiculous work schedules and the mind-numbing traffic, romance does not stand a chance. In the time it takes you to fight your way from work through the horrific traffic to spend some quality time with your newest love, he has started dating the girl next door, just out of sheer convenience.

Finally, there’s the matter of the married man. Forget the old-school married man; creepy, crusty and old enough to have been schoolyard pals with your grandfather. You’re too smart to be taken in by that guy. The 21st Century has given us the new breed of married man; early 30s, good-looking, mature and married for just under six months. These are the men who conveniently deem jewelry “unmanly” so there is nary a wedding band in sight. These are the men who would like to eat their proverbial cake and have it too. You are in a full-blown, committed relationship with this man before one of your friends realizes that your new love is actually her brother-in-law. By the time you are able to delicately extricate yourself from the situation, you’ve already been branded The Other Woman, doomed to singledom forever.

Dating in Lagos is not quite the bed of roses I was promised. Honestly, It’s more like a minefield. It seems, sadly, that my mother will have to content herself with my empty, as-yet-fruitless womb for a little while longer.

Traffic Woes (2)

Time, t = 5mins

1. STOP!!! Didn't you see the No U-Turn sign? I said STOP! We will puncture your tire o.
2. GBAO!!! Where did that car come from?! I was only trying to dodge this LASTMA drama. Drat!

Time, t = 18mins

 None of the LASTMA officials has gone to help out with the accident yet. There's 'no money' in that situation. However, 'jay-walkers' have been 'captured'. (The pedestrian bridge is nowhere in sight, by the way.)

Time, t = 45mins

Accident 'victims' haven't resolved the situation yet because party at fault is a youth corper who does not have Vehicle Insurance. Spot one uninterested LASTMA official.

The Nigerian Rat Race

You see I had to specially qualify this rat race, because if I'd simply written 'The Rat Race', all you Western-World-Living folk would have started nodding about experiencing the same thing. Big. Fat. Lie. There's the Nigerian Rat Race, and then every other kind.

I was just about to bbm the other contributors and scold them for not posting, when I remembered that one of them is outta town for work-related matters, one is prolly not home from work yet, and the other is most likely too tired to even look at her phone. It's a quarter to 11, at night, as we 'speak'.

I'm writing this post on my phone, 'cause I don't even feel like looking at a Computer right now. What's the point if you spend more time going to and coming from work, than you do actually being AT work. A comedian cracked a joke about a guy who went to drop his woman at the airport for her trip to London. After her plane took off, he got into his car to embark on his trip to Ajah. It so happened that girlfriend called dude just as he was getting to the third roundabout, that her flight landed safely. It may be funny, but I won't be shocked if someone has experienced this.

Oh, and God help you if your company is a one man business. You can't complain about working late all the time, because the boss'll tell you that the work hours listed on your appointment letter were only gotten from a template. 'You stay at work as long as necessary, my friend. What? You live in Festac and the Office is in Ikorodu? And you don't have a car? Well, I'm sure you're not the only one. Think of all the people who don't have jobs. Suck it up!'

See but what is interesting is that people don't quit. They'll keep waking up at 4am so that they can get to work on time. They keep responding 'Yes Sir' and crying in the toilet so they can keep their jobs; money is so important.

. . .

I can't think anymore. The electricity just went out.

Visit http://naijabloke.blogspot.com, then follow the series till the end of this month.

"What's your opinion?" - Naija Early-Momo Evangelism

So, a few times over the last two weeks, I have woken up to the sound of evangelism.

I am very aware of fact that as Christians, it's our duty to spread the Good News of salvation to ALL men. However, isn't the purpose of evangelism defeated when you are barging in on the peace that sleepy-heads are enjoying? More likely than not, they are trying to enjoy the last 20 minutes of sleep (which we know are the sweetest), before getting up to join the pile-up of cars already on the Mainland-to-Island bridges. It's more likely that instead of getting up and asking you to pray with them, they'll start the morning by cussing you out. What then is the point?

Maybe I have not considered this from all angles. I am a Christian, but I don't think this is the best way to go about evangelism.

What say you?

('What's your Opinion?' may become a series. Let's see what the other contributors think.)

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

I used to have gorgeous hair. I don’t mind telling you that myself. When there was a cool autumnal breeze, it whipped through my hair tousling it about without a care. When curious passersby came close enough to my head to bask in its magnificence, they were often rewarded with a glimpse of their own reflection bouncing off my shiny tresses. My locks were just about long enough to keep my poor shoulders warm in the cruel winter months. While my friends spent hours in hair salons affixing to their scalps the latest furry imports from India, Brazil and Venezuela, I would simply run a carefree hand through my hair, shake it about and set about my business.

This all came to a swift and abrupt end in October 2009, a month after I relocated to the fair city of Lagos. Now, just shy of a year later, my formerly luxurious mane is thin, brittle and sad. I could cut open envelopes with its sharp, jagged edges. It’s barely long enough to tickle my earlobes. Strangers cross the street to avoid its dull, angry glare. If I listen closely at night, I can hear my hair softly weeping.

I approached the salon the first time with some trepidation, as I recalled vividly the over-relaxed, over-greased, over-processed hair of my youth. I selected my salon carefully; avoiding the roadside head-butchers and opting instead for the more ‘upscale’, believing foolishly that price was somehow correlated to the quality of the service to be provided. I have since learned that this is untrue of hair salons and indeed any other service provider in this town. Life is all about learning lessons and my wallet is grateful to have learned this one early.

The most culpable characters in this mess are the hairdressers. In many other societies, hairstyling is usually a trade entered into by choice, not because you couldn’t cut it (no pun intended) in sewing school. Hairdressers are normally skilled professionals, having undergone some form of training at a school of cosmetology of some kind. The stylists are not all great, and some are quite honestly insane, but they are generally aware that a) one cannot brush violently through wet hair, b) one cannot trim hair with a rusty razor blade, c) one need not take off the topmost layer of skin from a scalp to properly shampoo it, d) one probably wants to fetch water to rinse the relaxer out before one puts the relaxer in (believe me, I did not make this one up) and e) if one’s customer is weeping for mercy in one’s chair, it is probably a good time to stop whatever the heck it is that one was doing.

The only thing worse than the hairdressers’ ignorance is their ignorance of their own ignorance. They are sure they know what the best products for your hair-type are (it is common knowledge that the chemical compound “sodium lauryl sulfate” is extremely drying and damaging particularly to chemically-treated hair and yet it is present in every shampoo in the salon); they are sure they know what treatments you need (they try to sell you on their deep-conditioning or steaming treatments which make no discernible difference to your hair except for the lovely dandruff) and they are sure they know what hairstyle suits you best. Any argument to the contrary on this particular matter will undoubtedly end in fisticuffs.

Heavens forbid a young lady has “natural”, un-relaxed hair. Her entrance into the salon is met with, at best, averted gazes and, at worst, scowls of contempt. Appeals to her to just stop being stubborn and relax her hair are endless. Several stylists will refuse to touch the unkempt, unruly mass claiming that the hair is too “due” to be managed (they mean that it is due for a perm, as if this were the default hair state and not the man-made alternative). To compensate for their own inadequacies, they bathe her head in grease as though intent on deep-fat-frying it. It never ends well.

As someone who has been to hair-hell and is just now on her way back, let me share with you some nuggets of wisdom, to hopefully spare you some of my agony. Always set aside 12-18 hours to spend at the salon. Always take your own products. Always be prepared to fight. Do your research; understand your hair-type and know how your hair needs to be treated. And finally, disabuse yourself of the notion that a paid professional should have any idea what she is doing.

Or better yet, just go to cosmetology school.

Lagos Living....and Loving?

On the eve of the one-year anniversary of my repatriation (Gasp!! One year? How did that happen???), I’ve decided to that a bit of a change in tone from my regular posts is in order. I am guilty of doing more than my fair share of pissing and moaning about just how awful things in Lagos actually are. And they are awful, don’t get me wrong. But for a change though, I thought I’d bring you a little snapshot of three of the things I absolutely adore about this cesspool I have come to call home. Enjoy and feel free to add to the list in the comments.

“Big Brother”

When I was a kid, I always wanted to live in a small town. I told my mama I’d live in a small town somewhere in South Carolina; somewhere that had one post office, one general store, one school, one church, a local sheriff. The sort of town where everyone knows your name and your friends’ parents all grew up together. The kind of place where everyone knows everyone else’s history and if you acted up, some kind neighborly aunt would smack you back into line. My mother mostly worried that I would be lynched in such a town, but I was intoxicated by the sense of community, the feeling of belonging that living in such a town might engender. I never realized that I didn’t have to wander very far to find it. Lagos; a small town of just about 20 million people. The sort of town where, if the postman falls ill, you don’t get your package for a month. The sort of town where the security guard watching over 1,000 cars knows exactly where yours is parked, even if you don’t. The sort of town where your parents know all your friends’ parents and which of them has embezzled exactly how much from which company. The sort of town where you can’t go clubbing and randomly make out with the cute boy in the back because, chances are, your Sunday School classmate (and, let’s face it, probably your Sunday School teacher too) is lurking somewhere in the club as well. Not that you would ever…do…that. Ahem.

The sense of anonymity that living in a city like DC or NY affords you can sometimes be alienating and often lets you get away with things you otherwise might not think about if your momma was watching. In Lagos, your momma is always watching. Don’t be freaked out by the Orwellian freakiness of it all. I promise you, on most days, it is oddly comforting.

“Fat-titude”

I constantly wonder how everyone in this town is not morbidly obese. I understand that a lot of people here are “healthy” or “big-boned” or “plumpy” (yes, “plumpy”) but you seldom ever get those types you see in the US: the knees-can-barely-support-their-girth, buy-two-seats-on-an-airplane, oh-God-please-tell-me-he’s-not-sitting-next-to-me mammoth types. The only reason that the absence of these characters confounds me is because all anyone eats in this place is carbohydrates. Doughnut and sausage roll for breakfast, fried rice and chicken with a side of moin-moin and spaghetti for lunch and pounded yam and egusi soup to round things off nicely at dinner. And what makes it even worse (read: awesome!) is the fact that the food is dirt-cheap. At my local buhka, you can procure for yourself a feast fit for an average-sized village at lunch time for as little as N500 (and this is factoring in the buhka’s Victoria Island rent). That’s a whopping $3 + change on the more expensive part of town. If I wanted to get me a sad, sorry sandwich or a leafy little salad from Corner Bakery in DC at lunchtime, I was looking at dropping at least $10 and to add insult to grave injury, I was hungry again by home-time. I was also a dress-size smaller, but that’s neither here nor there. It’s the perfect sanctuary for my kind; members of the Fatty/Cheapskate Persuasion.

“Bedside Assistance”

I love the fact that, in Lagos, if you play your cards right, aside from the occasional forays from your room to wash and feed, you really never have to leave your bed. A resourceful cat in this town can have everything done for them and brought to them at, at worst, a very minimal fee. Now, I’m not talking about your househelps or cooks or washmen (who are awesome, by the way). I’m talking about the phenomenon of “I got a guy”. You need foreign exchange but don’t have time to leave the office? I got a guy. You need to buy fabric but it’s your driver’s day off? I got a guy. You need to get your eyebrows done but are too tired to get dressed? I got a guy. You need to get your hair braided in your pajamas at 2am? I got a guy. People say we don’t have a customer-oriented society here but I beg to differ; it really all just depends on the service you need provided. Everything on your time, at your convenience and best of all, in your house.

It’s a random list for sure, but I guess it shows you what’s most important to me in life; my momma, my food and my bed.

Haggling!

Oh! What! Joy!

You know what? If I was going to choose 5 favorite things about being in Naija, haggle-able prices would be among the top three. It gives you so much freedom. I hop a cab home from work, every single day. The 15-minute trip is always done against traffic; I don't pay more than N700.00, and that only happens when I'm feeling generous. Do you have any idea how painful it was to sit in traffic in a taxi in Chicago, and watch the fare meter count on, even though the cab had only moved an one mile in 10 minutes? It's rocks to be able to price the taxi.

What I've realized, especially with taxi drivers, is that things are not always as they seem. Taxi drivers, for example, will try to charge you for whatever traffic they may get into after dropping you off, not regarding that you're not in the car with them at the time. Bollocks abi?! My sentiments exactly! I remember a friend of mine, who lives in Ajah and works in VI, telling me about her taxi experiences when she first moved back. She would hail a cab, and the driver would ask her to pay N2,500. She would then smile and ask to pay N2,200 instead, thinking she was getting a bargain. Now, she doesn't pay more than N1,200 and that only happens when she's in a good mood. Lol.

Anyways, here are a few things I've learned:

1. Know the town- be familiar with basic costs, and even when you're not sure, don't let that uncertainty be obvious. The traders will notice it, and use it to their advantage.
   
   
   
2. Consider your options - you think it's cool to shop at Park & Shop, but you have a budget. Well, not all markets are rowdy. Truth is, you can save an average of at least N50 on every item, if you go to Sura/Sandgrouse, instead of SuperMega.
   
   
3. Get a customer - there are a few perks that come with going to the same person all the time. You get discounts even before you ask; you get fi si (extras); and with some items like fresh fish, your customer may spoil you with deliveries :D
   
   
4. Speak vernacular, or at least pidgin - Each word you spray at the trader/taxi driver hikes up your price by like N50. I don't understand the mentality, but an 'assorted' accent somehow translates to having overflowing pockets. It confuses me too, but I make sure to remain on the same 'level' as whoever I'm haggling prices with. It let's them know that I cannot be gbaju-ed (cheated).
   
   
5. Shakara - When you've named your price and it receives some head-shaking, start walking away, slowly but with determination. It lets them know that you have options, and you are ready to use them. More often than not, you will hear "Oya come and take it. I am only doing customer for you o, so you will come back next time", before you walk too far away.
   
   
6. Don't feel bad - This morning, I stopped at the market to pick up some things I needed for tomorrow. I asked the woman for Styrofoam packs, and she said I would pay N1000 for 100 white ones. She was so aggressive. It was obvious that she was anxious to make her first sale of the day, but it didn't feel right - they weren't supposed to be that expensive. I went a few stalls down and found a woman with a wider variety; she told me a pack of 100 blue ones was N700. Just imagine that! The truth is that these people will always try to squeeze a little more than necessary out of your pocket. Even when you ask for a price cut, they've prepared for it - i.e. Wholesale price of a crate of eggs could be as little as N550. The trader then puts on transportation, 'labor', and pain and suffering, and it becomes N700, but she will sell it to you at N800. So, even when you knock the price down to N750, she's still happy.

Happy haggling

"Worry a little - A guy who's not intimidated by your fabulousity is one in a million..."

Ignore the title, it's not a rebuff of Isha's post - it's a fine-tuning . Isha, I feel you and agree with you for the most part. Some of my views are slightly different though. I wish I had time to really expound this post as much as I want to, but I need to post in time or never. :D Plus, I just realized that in 20 days, it'll be a YEAR since my last post! Can't let that atrocity happen!

PREAMBLE

So I just had this same discussion with someone last night. Her problem was Yoruba guys and how they want someone who will cower in their presence, who is nothing without them...y'know the whole OLORI-ORI (literally, owner of my head, my crown) me thing. She's right - for all Nigerians really. At least, as far as today's society goes.

Simple facts of life in today's world (particularly Nigeria):

1. Men are to be bread-winners. Men are wired to be a cover, a provider. That's why society says to the jobless man, "How will you take care of your wife?" It shakes its head in disapproval when the woman's taking care of the family (in the presence of a man).

2. Women "look up," men "look down." Men and women of the same age are offset. It's rooted in this fact: women develop faster than men - phsychologically, physiologically, socially and mentally. That's why many women marry older guys and many men marry younger women.

3. Per society, between a man and a woman, leadership in these developmental traits generally come with educational/material leadership. Consequently, a woman who's done her masters (in one HARD major) and is earning a high paying job is considered to have achieved a LOT more than a man of the same status. It's just what it is.

I assume y'all would agree with the facts.

THE KOKO

It's important to note that the whole intimidation thing really depends on the kind of guy. The ones you don't want (like the gold-diggerish one or the super-rich-just-want-you-for-pleasure one) obviously won't really send your achievements.

But we're talking about the one that you want. There are a few guys that have learnt not to be intimidated, but they're few and far between. Like Isha said, if you're objective enough, it's easy to see how the kind of guy you'd want to approach you is likely to be intimidated especially if he thinks you stack up too well against him - whether you agree or not.

For you, he's successful enough for you to be interested in him. In fact, chances are you believe he has the capacity to outperform his present self...and you...and that's part of why you like him.

For him, he's not successful enough to keep that interest or give you the life he wants for you. He also fears you'll be carried away by the 100 "more eligible" guys that are always blazing your phone.

For his own sake, he just needs to be able to impress you, afford to take you out or at the very least feel needed by you (financial or otherwise). Because that's how he's wired.

PEP

With all this said, I don't think it's so much about whether a woman is super-educated or she's making mad dough. I think it's more about the way she handles those things and carries herself.

So if you keep meeting guys who are intimidated by your significant achievements, you will definitely have to find a way to ensure they're not so all-up-in-his-face that he's too intimidated to come talk to/ hang out with you.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying downplay yours, but you NEED to give a brother a confidence boost. "Up-play" his own achievements. Find and magnify his other strengths that you admire. I mean, for many a guy, he must have expended 80% of his confidence to come and talk to you in the first place. LoL!

Obviously, Isha's aunt's carrying it too far to ask that a woman dumb-down. In fact, that's archaic thought; but she old, so we pardon her. But it's just what guys are. It's just what society is. So if you're super-educated and following that whole American "I'm young, fly, independent, grown, sexy, don't need a man," then be prepared to NOT have a decent man.

All I'm saying is this: In this game of dating/marriage, there are rules. And to be in the game, you MUST play by its rules.

My Next Post: Will address why you should give yourself some time and stop putting unnecessary pressure about single-ninity.

"Don't worry a guy who's not intimidated by your fabulousity will come around"

Long before I called Mother and told her I was ready to come home, she'd been luring me back to Nigeria by talking about all the amazing eligible bachelors in Lagos waiting to sweep me off my feet. This, of course, was not the reason I decided to move back. Oh, puh-lease, I coulda had whatever man I wanted in the US; I just didn't bother myself with petty things like ... dating/relationships. I moved back solely because I was interested in the career opportunities available for a young female Electrical Engineer, in Nigeria. *clears throat*. Now though, I think that because my job doesn't occupy enough of my time, I've been 'reflecting' and come to the realization that ... Mama lied! Ok, well not really; She didn't have the full picture. Plus, she's VERY happily married, and has been since last century; what would she know about the present 'dating industry'?

Anyway, I've been a bonafide Lagosian for the last 20 months, and I'm still waiting to be swept off my feet. I am not saying that this is the experience of all those who have moved back, but a good number of my 'returnee' friends are still single. I've been trying to understand the situation - there are many grey areas.

Initially, it was solely my fault - I wasn't getting out enough, not meeting enough people, not wearing enough makeup, always wearing flats instead of heels, not paying enough attention to my appearance, etc. The most shocking of these my alleged faults was that I always 'flaunted' my intelligence, and spoke proudly of my academic/professional/career achievements and aspirations. What?! That's a bad thing?! "Yes dear", replied an auntie on one occasion, "you're too manly - proud electrical engineer, with too many career expectations. Nice, responsible, deserving men would be intimidated and would stay away. They would feel like you don't need them". Oh, excuuuse me! So, what's a girl supposed to do? Play dumb because it'd make a man more comfortable. No, thank you. It's not that serious. (I resent that bit about being manly though - has she seen my jugs?!)

The average marriage age of Nigerian women is increasing. That's not a bad thing, from a feminist's P.O.V., since it's mostly because more women are becoming career oriented, and what not. But, we need to stop giving these phantom reasons for not dating. You are single because that's just what it is - You're single! In fact, you are probably lonely, and sometimes wishing there was someone to call and talk with after a long day, or share that box of pizza with. I don't understand how the woman who's chatting with a friend on her BB-bought-by-Mugu1, with BIS-paid-for-by-Mugu2 can talk about a guy who's intimidated by her successes.

Maybe I need to spend some money and do some 'restructuring' in my closet. I definitely know that I need to get out more. I acknowledge that there are some things with respect to my lifestyle that I can do differently, to 'expose' myself to dating opportunities. I'm just confused about the whole intimidation thing. It's in two parts I.M.O.:

1. I think it's just clear that someone who's not comfortable with a woman's assertive personality (if that is what she has) is obviously not the one for her. Simple.
   
   
   
2. It's an unfair generalization for a woman to say that men don't approach her because they're intimidated. It may be that she has a terrible B.O., for example. *snickers*
   

In preaching equality of the sexes, it also follows, in my understanding, that if a woman doesn't stand to be intimidated by a man's successes, women shouldn't make this a poster-board situation either. I anticipate a lot of disagreement on this issue, because arguments can be made with respect to the man being ordained as the head of the marital relationship, the man's ego, etc. Women don't have egos? They don't have a solid position in the marital relationship?

It may seem like I'm bashing the sisterhood, but we sometimes need to be objective. Yes, there are men who avoid women with more successful careers. There are also women who need to get off their high horses. Makes sense?

(I could use some plantain chips right now...)

Cha-ching, No Scrubs Allowed

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."
Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

This is the first sentence of Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen and it pretty much sums up the entire plot. In real terms, the reverse is true. The female characters in the book are concerned with the pursuit and acquisition of “single men in possession of a good fortune”. This was nineteenth-century English society. A single woman's options were quite limited so it would make sense that she would be desperate for a husband that could offer some social advantage.

Isn't it funny that in our own society today, even after the feminist movement, Jane Austen's words still hold true? People are very focused on money. Men have to be be affluent if they ever hope to get married which is why most men have this “I can't get married because I’m not rich” attitude. I am by no means saying that people should not be concerned about finances when looking at a potential life partner but I think people really miss the point of marriage and relationships.

Let's take it out of the context of marriage and talk about the dating scene (boyfriend/girlfriend). I actually feel a little sorry for Nigerian guys. I remember having a conversation with a friend and he was complaining about how he was too broke to afford a girlfriend. I was like "What is this dude talking about?". He went on to explain that there were too many expenses that came with 'toasting' a girl. Money for cinema trips, money for lunch and dinner, money in case she brings her friends, money for fuel to take her on miscellaneous errands and the one that always baffles me...money for her HAIR!

First of all. Who are these women and don't they have jobs? I originally assumed it was just a situation unique to dating a university girl but apparently not. It must be terrible for a brother in this age of 'Brazilian' hair. He's probably looking at spending 77k plus the 3500 it takes to fix the weave. I find it rather unfortunate. Why should my man be saddled with the responsibility of making sure my hair looks hot?

Now on to the car. If you are a Naija guy trying to get a girlfriend and you have no car, my heart goes out to you. Your options are pretty limited. I understand this to a certain extent because of the way Lagos is structured. The transportation system is appalling and getting around is generally frustrating with the traffic and all. Its easier to date a girl if you can pick her up and take her back to her house when your date is over. Ain't nobody tryna get public transport after 10pm! I however do not think that women should use their boyfriend’s car as an on-call taxi service for she and her friends.

So lets say you are dating a girl and you take her out for a meal. It is only in a Nollywood movie that a guy can get away with taking his date to TFC and Mr Biggs. Its going to have to be somewhere swanky and you are paying for the whole shebang...eyah poor you (lol). A guy paying for dinner still makes more sense to me than the hair issue.

I guess the point of all this is simply “Isn't it just polite to offer to pay half the bill when you go out for dinner with a guy?” Or am I the one who is weird? I went out for lunch with a friend last week and although it wasn't a date he paid for the food. Then we got to the cinema and I brought out money to pay for the tickets and he said "what are you doing?!" To which I simply replied "Paying for the tickets". He was impressed that I wanted to pay for something but really, what's there to be impressed by? In my opinion it is just the decent thing to do. Relationships irrespective of whether they are romantic or not should be symbiotic. If the other person insists on paying then fine but it should not be automatically expected. One must not aim to be a ‘taker’ all the time.

Women have more options now and some women earn more money than their male counterparts. I think it gives men permission to treat a woman badly if she is always seen to be asking for financial support especially when you are not even married. Forget about the stay-at-home mom, THAT IS A JOB! But generally if a person is contributing all the money in a marriage then it gives said person the controlling power. Lets say you reach an impasse during a discussion about which school your kid is going to attend or some other important decision, the phrase “Is it your money?’ comes to mind.

Anyway most of these women know there are guys who would never stand for it so they target the mugu who doesn’t mind having a liability on his arm. I think it is pretty selfish for a woman to be dating a guy with the same salary grade and then burden him with the responsibility of paying for everything. If it is an aristo (sugar daddy) situation then yes…I guess that’s what the deal is. I accept that in the Nigerian culture, the man is seen to be the provider and thus responsible for a lot more. A man may feel like he is not a ‘real man’ if his wife is constantly trying to contribute financially. However, some ladies really need to stop taking the piss and pay for your own damn hair!

Please I would really appreciate some feedback on this in case I am the one who needs to get with the programme. Sorry about being MIA for so long.

Disclaimer: To my future husband. You are not allowed to hold this as evidence against me. Your money is OUR money and my money is MY money. I will contribute some and promise not to spend yours on designer handbags. Got it?

This Is Lagos - Part 1

There are a few things you can't not know about, or experience in Lagos:

1. Heavy Traffic: We can never say enough about Lagos traffic. One of the radio stations here asks commuters to call in during rush hour and describe the traffic situation wherever they are. There are different grades: a) 'Bumper to Bumper'. b) 'This go-slow tie wrapper o'. c) (There's also something else that involves witches that I don't quite remember). Anyways, go-slow gat Lagos like white on rice. Now, some may argue that I don't really have a say in traffic discussions, because I live in VI, work in Dolphin, and I'm always going against traffic. Still, I write on behalf of people who have to travel between Magodo and VI, or Ajah and Surulere daily. Not fun. And you may not always 'see' the reason for the hold-up. I think people just plan from home that they''ll drive slowly until they get to one off-ramp, and then pick up the pace after that spot. Oh, and tell me why people don't use their brains when they're driving?! We're on a 2-lane road yeah? One going, one coming. Someone please explain to me why I'll now see people forming a third lane in the middle!!! I mean, I can't blame them, those of us who are 'queueing up' are obviously stupid and don't have a life ambition. Do they not know that both lanes would still have to merge into one??!! Nigerian road users have taught me that common sense is NOT common.



2. Iya Basira: I'm assuming you know the song that goes by this title. If not, take a break, listen/watch here, and then come back (Ok, the video is not fantastic, but you get the gist). One thing I love about Nigeria is that a man who says he can't get anything to eat is definitely not trying. You can get a deliciously satisfying meal of Jollof Rice, Dodo, a cube-sized piece of meat, and a bag of pure water for N100.00. You may be posh and not be the pure water type; you can upgrade. See, I used to think myself posh, and would stop at one of the upscale eateries on Adeola Odeku Street in VI, for a sandwich, everyday. The chicken-slapped-on-two-slices-of-bread-with-tomatoes-lettuce-and-'special'-mayo, started out at N380. I would fill-up with a huge flask of tea and tell myself I had a good breakfast. When it was increased to N420, I told myself it wasn't too bad a price hike, besides that sandwich is the truth. The first time I paid N500 for that thing, was the last time I ate it. It's not like I didn't eat the oh-so-satisfying N50 Agege bread at camp. (I need to stop lying to myself that I'm posh). I understand that with buka situations, people complain about cleanliness of the food, serving areas, servers, etc. You just have to 'survey the land', and make sure you're not eating idoti with your food. I was ordering a piece of chicken at a so-called posh eatery on Akin Adesola Street in VI, when I spied the server licking the mouth of the salad dressing bottle after serving someone from it. Of course, I yelled at him. There goes your clean upscale restaurant. Imagine how many times he's done that crap. And to think I used to order their salad all the time. Maybe that's why I'm not as slim as I'd like - saliva-spiced salad dressing.



3. Area Boys: I grew up in Festac Town, Lagos. During my nursery school years, the school bus picked me from the front of my house and dropped me at the same spot everyday. There was a playground right in front of my house. We went on strolls in the evenings. We did our shopping at Tejuoso market, which was really good then, from what I'm made to understand. I didn't know what the words 'area boy' meant. I lived a suburban life. I remember one time (I was 5 or 6) when my Grandma got us excited about going to the Bar Beach. We tried on our beach shorts, halter tops, and thong sandals everyday, and sang to all our friends about the beach trip we were looking forward to. D-day, Granny drove us to the beach, parked about a mile from the water (Ok, half a mile), and pushed down the locks of the car. We were going to watch the water from the car, because of area boys! I still get mad when I think about it. I never again got to enjoy a beach till I went to Takwa Bay when I was in SS2! Area boys run Lagos. They are the horse trainers at the beach, so you pay them N1000 when you ride the horse. They 'watch' your car when you park at the designated parking spaces of EmberCreek (it doesn't matter that the place hires guards), so you pay them N200. They wash your car windshields even when you don't ask, so you pay them too. In Lagos, monkey/ode/I dey work, baboon dey chop. What baffles me is how they believe they have a right to your money. When the driver picked me up after the salsa class yesterday, the guy who was 'watching' the car (though the driver only got there about 5 minutes before I walked out), called me stingy because I never give them anything. What the ...?! Why don't you find a job punk! Being the nice person that I am, I apologized and said I only had N10.00. He said, 'Oya give me N50'. Obvoiusly, I wasn't communicating.
   
   
   
4. Shopping: I have been decongesting my wardrobe without recongesting. Now, I don't have clothes to wear to work anymore. I can't go to Lagos stores to buy clothes, because I still convert prices on clothes tags to their dollar equivalents when I want to shop. NOTHING will make me pay N15, 000/$100 for a blouse, except I don't plan to wear anything else with it. So, I really haven't done any shopping since I moved back. On my 'New' list I have: 6 pair of shoes, 1 polo shirt, 1 blouse and 1 freakum-dress. Finish. I need to fix that, because... Let's just say I need new clothes. I was recently introduced to the upscale part of Balogun market where you can be sure that the clothes you're buying haven't been worn before. There are also those people who bring stuff in from Yankee and Jand when they travel though. You'll see them lugging suitcases in the trunks of their cars. They help a lot, and they're not very expensive. Another trick - regularly find yourself some very good material, and a very good tailor (all the best with that), and customize your wardrobe with TailorLoRan designs.
   

Tailor-Made

It seems that we’ve approached the age when every single person we have ever met in our entire lives is getting married. We are, of course, happy for them and happy to attend their pre-wedding dinners, engagement lunches, bridal showers, bachelor/bachelerotte parties, traditional engagements and incredibly overblown white weddings. We are more than happy to buy them gifts and put our own jobs and families on hold to help them plan their big day(s). We are thrilled to collect their aso-ebi and celebrate with them in curiously coordinated outfits. (For the uninitiated, "aso-ebi", which literally translates as "family cloth" is fabric distributed by the families of the bride/groom to their guests, who wear them to show solidarity and affiliation). The only problem with said aso-ebi is that, at some point, it must go from raw French lace or simple Ankara to fabulous halter dress or sexy mini-dress . Herein comes a visit to the professional that is dreaded and feared far above any dentist, gynecologist or mortician on the planet; the Nigerian Tailor

If you don’t have war wounds inflicted upon you by a psychotic tailor, you either are not female or you do not live in Lagos. End of story. First of all, there’s the trouble of finding one. You ask your friends because their outfits are generally hip and trendy and mostly well-made. You become alarmed when your friends stop returning your phone-calls and start avoiding you in public. Finally, one of them is kind enough to explain to you that the quickest way to expose yourself as the mannerless, gauche plebeian that you are is to ask another woman who her tailor is. Strike One. You then resort to asking your mother and her friends, but generally the styles that those tailors are capable of are not any that have been seen out in public on the more recent side of 1970. Strike Two. Finally, you decide that you’ll thumb through the pages of the fashion magazines and go with the Designer du Jour. Sure, she might be twice as expensive as anyone that’s been recommended to you thus far, but you’re willing to pay for quality. You are not going to be upstaged at this wedding. Not by anyone. It’s bad enough your dress is going to be made of exactly the same fabric as 665 other guests’ at this shindig.

You get to the designer’s little store on Victoria Island, the front for her mainland operation. Madam is not around (tending to far more important clients, naturally) and her girl will have to take your measurements. Fine, if Madam has put her trust in her, why shouldn’t you? Vamonos! Measurements: taken. Deposit: paid. Fabric: left. All systems go.

You return to the shop two weeks later, as instructed. As a matter of fact, you give them a few days grace period because this is Lagos and things happen and you’re an extremely understanding and benevolent person. The assistant apologizes profusely and tells you that your dress is not ready because the tailor has been taken ill with a violent case of explosive diarrhea, but it’s almost done, please be patient, let him just finish it now now ehn. You are pissed, fuming even, but you figure you’ll sit and wait for it. You make that decision before you spy your fabric, still in its original packaging sitting expectantly in a corner by the wall. That was absolutely the last straw. You call up the designer and are informed by some mysterious character on the phone that she’s off buying fabric in Dubai and won’t be back for another month. It’s just between you and Patience now and she was about to see what happened when you lost all of yours.

You return for your fitting two days later following a sheepish phone-call from Patience. Unfortunately for you, it’s the day of the wedding but you remember observing her as she took your measurements (as you had been warned to do) and she got them just right, so you should be fine. You try on your gorgeous dress -- the one you spent hours and hours poring over seventeen issues of Vogue to find -- and it looks like your favorite part of Old Navy pajamas. The straps are falling off your shoulders, the bust area is pushing your boobs up and flattening your chest at the same time, the sleek pencil skirt is closer to a balloon skirt, the embellishments look like they came off a Christmas tree, the zipper is exposed, the hems are undone, and the dress is not lined. Murphy’s Law is in full effect on your outfit; everything that can go wrong absolutely and most disastrously has.

This monstrosity needs to be taken apart immediately so you grab the tailor by the scruff of his neck and set him to work. He’s clearly still in recovery because he is slow as molasses and by the time your dress has gotten to a state where you would even contemplate wearing it out in polite company, you are receiving calls from your friends on their way home from the wedding, asking if you and the bride are fighting. “If you didn’t want to come to her wedding, why bother taking the aso-ebi in the first place? That’s just really tacky.”

Strike frigging Three.

People spend so much time thinking up catchy names for their hot, new boutiques, but I think every clothes shop in Lagos should be called exactly the same thing; Caveat Emptor. Proceed, dear friends, at your own risk.

Frustrations of a Fattie...err...Foodie.

This is how things went in my house at meal-times. Dinner was ready, you were hungry, you went in the kitchen, grabbed a plate, put food in said plate and ate it. (This routine only varied slightly on Sundays when lunch was served at the table and eaten as a family). In general though, in my house, if you sat around waiting for anyone to invite you to eat, you would die. Quickly, painfully, certainly.

This is why I don’t understand this phenomenon of “Come and join me to eat”. I never noticed it before I left Naija (i\m sure it existed but I never noticed it), but apparently, it is the height of rudeness to grab a plate of food and not offer some of whatever it is to the people in your immediate surroundings. Doesn’t matter what food it is (it could be things easily shared like cookies, or frigging eba and okra), doesn’t matter who the people are (your boss, a complete stranger, your co-worker who is intent on spreading his latest bout of viral plague) and it certainly does not matter if you’re starving and barely have enough food for yourself. The reason it does not matter is that it is also considered the height of rudeness to accept such an offer. So let me get this ish straight. It’s rude of me not to offer but it’s rude of you to accept said offer. So what the hell are we all doing?

I was chastised this week for walking into the office with my regular breakfast sandwich and having the gall to begin to eat it without so much as a thought towards anyone else.

Co-worker: “Nawa o. SongSmith. You’re just a Chop-Alone sha”

Me: “I’m sorry. I’m a what?”

Co-worker: A Chop-Alone. You didn’t even offer anybody. And you know what they say about he who chops alone. He dies alone.”

Me: “Is that right? And how many of your closest friends and family were you planning on taking with you when you die because you offered them a piece of your sandwich?”

Co-worker: **backs away slowly**

I don’t like this custom. I think it’s disingenuous. I think it’s annoying. I think it’s insincere. If I genuinely would like you to have a piece of my Snickers, I will offer it in the hopes that you accept. If I would like to eat my Snickers by myself, I would like to be able to do so without being threatened with a solitary death.

That’s all. Now, I’m hungry. Gimme your lunch. It’s rude of you not to. No home-training.

6 Reasons that 'Hand Sanitizer' is the 2nd most important item in your purse.

I don't understand, mehn. Is it that there are no germs in Nigeria? Or people just go around with that 'Dirty no dey kill African man' nonsense? I see things sometimes, and I'm like, what the ...??!!

Anyways, you have to agree with this list:

1. Solo in your office wipes him runny nose with his right hand, rubs the right hand on his chair, or shirt, and then handles a file that you have to pick up after he's done. *Gag*
   
2. Baba Risi the taxi driver steps out of the cab, while you're in traffic to weewee, then he has to give you change when you're getting down from the cab, and his hand 'has' to brush yours.
   
3. Santos runs his hand through his dandruff infested hair, and grabs your hand tightly, because that's what people do when they salsa - they hold hands.
   
4. Iya Ibukun sells you some boli (roasted plantain), takes time out to 'dislodge a wedgie' and then hands you your change. (I always tell myself that the coal fire burns out all possible germs from the boli. Same goes for roasted corn, and suya).
   
5. Bright, your driver, scratches his underarms/armpit and then opens the door for you from inside the car. What to do when you want to let yourself out at your destination?
   
6. Mr. Mohammed never washes his hands after using the toilet. Yet, he 'must' touch all the door knobs, shelves and furniture that you use.
   

Maybe I'm a germaphobe...

I think the #1 most important this is your eye pencil. I kid. Your cellphone (with credit on it).

A Life Uncommon

We often get incredibly cynical in this town and who can blame us? Those of us lucky enough to remember the last vestiges of Nigeria’s glory days have watched things slowly and steadily devolve into an unrecognizable mess. We’ve watched those few of us brave enough to stand up for what believe in get Dele-Giwa’d and Saro-Wiwa’d. My generation has been taught to sit down and shut up, to get with it or get the hell out.

Much to my own chagrin, I became comfortable with that notion as well. I moved to Yankee and when there was a cause I believed in, I signed petitions, I hoisted signs, I put my money where my mouth was. But as soon as I moved back to Las Gidi, I backed away into my quiet corner, content to accept the status quo in exchange for the safety of my life and limb.

This is why when a fellow Youth Corper asked me to join in her efforts to abolish the ridiculous pregnancy tests we were all subjected to at camp (refresh your memory here), I was skeptical. “Who would listen? Who would care? Who would do anything? Would the three or five of us be able to kick up enough of a fuss as to a) get the attention of anyone in power and/or b) get them to give a rat’s ass?”

Ladies and gents, it is with incredible pride that I tell you today that, according to the NYSC newsletter, owing to “media backlash”, the pregnancy tests are no longer being offered as of the first batch of 2010. Following articles and editorials published in The Guardian and Next newspapers and incredible support from online readers, NYSC has been forced to cancel this farce with immediate effect and automatic alacrity (shout-out to New Masquerade!). They didn’t go down without a fight, I should point out. The State Coordinator issued a rebuttal to the newspaper claiming that our original article was full of lies and that the tests were performed in the most hygienic of conditions and with the utmost care. (The poor dear probably really believed that, as a hurriedly-dug hole in the ground most likely represents the height of sanitary sophistication to him.) Following an even angrier response to his rebuttal than to the original article itself, the pregnancy tests were quietly and swiftly done away with.

I’ll leave you with a line from a song that has been on repeat in my head ever since I moved back home and have been confronted with “principle versus practicality” decisions almost every day.

“And lend your voices only to sounds of freedom
No longer lend your strength to that which you wish to be free from
Fill your lives with love and bravery
and you shall lead
A life uncommon.”

-- Jewel

We’re either a part of the solution or we’re a part of the problem. No middle-ground. Here’s hoping future NYSC batches will continue to pay it forward. Maybe we can snatch back this program, if not the whole damn country, from the grip of ineptitude, greed, cronyism, nepotism, vulgarity and flat-out stupidity

How to Lose a Woman in 10 Minutes

Omo, mehn. Naija guys, step your game up.

There are obviously exceptions (and if you’re sophisticated enough to be reading or contributing to this blog, you’re probably one of them J), but in general, Naija guys’ pimp-game has obviously been involved in a ghastly auto accident and is in need of desperate emergency resuscitation .

I’ve heard this complaint from many of my friends, so I know it’s not just me. You can’t be friendly with a Naija guy. You can’t be playful or teasing, or heavens forbid, flirtatious. If you make this fatal rookie mistake, you may find yourself the unwilling recipient of a marriage proposal, the unwitting filer of a sexual harassment lawsuit or the grateful beneficiary of an effective restraining order.

Case in point:

One afternoon, I came home from Abuja, where I went to register for the ridiculous NYSC. My neighbor (who I do not know) was standing outside and my mother chose to engage him as she knew he had finished NYSC not long before. He was friendly, funny even, so I started to let my guard down. He kept throwing out stupid compliments like “Ah, by the time you go to camp now, all their heads will just scatter mehn. All those guys will not even know what to do.” Hehehehe, whatever, weirdo. Polite conversation ends and this guy is on some “What’s your name on Facebook?” See, I would have responded with, “I’m not on Facebook” had he not followed his question with, “I see you in your window as you’re checking your facebook in the evening”. WHAT, weirdo? ?? I politely replied with my name (because honestly, how do you come back from the shock?) and went about my business.

That evening, I was alerted via email that Stanley something-or-the-other had added me on Facebook. No big deal, I’ll accept it when next I go online, I thought. The next morning, I get a message that says, “Why haven’t you added me? Add me so we can chat”. My intention was to add his weird ass and put him on the most limited of limited profiles, but somehow in my haste, I made all the changes but forgot to hit “Save All Changes” or whatnot. I was away from the computer for a bit, and by the time I got back the next afternoon, had no fewer than 12 notifications courtesy of Stanely Something-Or-The –Other. Comments on pictures, wall posts, messages, comments on wall posts, liking of statuses – this dude had completely defecated all over my damn profile. The content ranged from “U ar so hot”, “U ar so wonderful” to a message simply containing his phone number. He was blocked and deleted with a quickness, but it got me thinking. Do Naija women in this country respond to this sort of tomfoolery? It has to work or they’d have stopped doing it, right?

Nuance, subtlety, suave sophistication – this is all that is needed. You don’t have to be James Bond, but please don’t be creepy-stalker-guy either. It is not necessary to text me at 7am talking about “How is your day?” Negro, it hasn’t even started yet! It is not necessary for you to request to hang out every spare moment I have. Dude, I have friends! What do you think this is? It is not necessary for you offer to buy me recharge card. It’s 2010. Let’s face it; I probably make more money than you anyway. It’s not necessary to call me repeatedly when your last 82 calls have gone unanswered. You’ve seen He’s Just Not That Into You? It works both ways.

The Nigerian women I know are smart, complex, funny. financially independent powerhouses. We want to be wooed, not worn down. We need you to take charge, but not be overpowering. We need you to be decisive, but not inconsiderate. We need you to be sensitive, but not weak. We need you to be sweet, but not sappy. We need you to be playful, but not childish. We need you to be sexy, but not smarmy. (see Javier Bardem in Vicky Cristina Barcelona for inspiration). Pay attention, boys. The old rules no longer apply.

The Fabulous Life ... of Nigerian Celebrities

(I should pay royalties to E!)

I must start this post with a small tutorial. Nigerian celebrity-ship is nothing like what you're used to in the Western world. Celebrities abroad are defined by what they do - movies, TV, music, fashion/modelling (sometimes), etc. Celebrities in Nigeria are defined by who they know, what their last name is, where they party at, what kinda clothes they wear, how many times they've travelled out of the country, what kinda car they drive, etc. Celebrities in Nigeria may not be known by everyone, as long as the tabloids know them, we're straight.

Classic example: I was at a bridal shower last weekend, and we played a game called 'Celebrity Couples'. The idea was to write the names of as many celebrity couples as possible before the aloted time ran out. While we were scoring one another's responses, there was a heated debate about a certain Nigerian Celebrity couple. There was one other person (besides the person who listed them), who knew about the couple. When asked why they were celebrities, she responded - 'I see them in CityPeople*, all the time!' Gbam! (That's my new favorite exclamation. Lol).

I've been trying to figure out how it works, and I think I have a theory now. Say you attend a show in Lagos, a fashion show for example, where all the big names - Stella Damasus, Patrick Doyle, Genevieve Nnaji, Dare Art-Alade, etc - are present, you can be sure that paparazzi will be there. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how important the Celebrity status is to you), you're looking supa dupa fly, and you get a few of your photos taken, when the photo is to be printed in his tabloid, the photo editor makes very good use of the '2° of seperation' phenomenon, finds out your life history and publishes it. He's also smart enough to put in juicy gist that'll make people want to find out more about you. You've become a celebrity, just like that!

Now, I don't have issues with people who like to be in the public eye, I'm just a little concerned about the kind of spending/lifestyle 'skills', that mark the celebrity territory. I understand that there are so many stupendously rich people in Nigeria, who can spending millions of dollars (yes, dollars), without blinking. I also know that there are those people who apparently live this fabulous life 'on credit'. I only have one question - WHY?!

Why's it important to spend so much money on the lace *aso-ebi for someone else's daughter's wedding? Why is it a taboo to 're-rock' outfits or jewelry or accessories (they weren't made to be disposable anyways)? Why, oh dear me, why is what other people think about your outfit important (except you need the Fashion Police of course)?

Sigh.

*City People is a popular Nigerian Tabloid
*Aso-ebi - literal meaning 'clothes/outfit of the family. Refers to outfit worn by friends and family of the celebrants at events - weddings, birthdays, burials, etc.

Vernacular

My parents always comment that one of the mistakes that they made while raising my siblings and I is that they didn't make Yoruba our first language. (They're trying to repair that now, because we read the Yoruba Bible and Daily Guide every morning at devotion. I must say that it's working).

When I was younger though, so many kids thought it was razz to speak in your mother tongue. Everyone wanted a British accent; and the 'wrist dangle' to go with it.

Fast forward to March 2009 when I was at NYSC camp, everyone spoke Yoruba! (We were at camp in Oyo State). I remember getting into an argument with one naughty girl who want to bump my water pail from the line, and I gave her a piece of my mind - in clean unadultrated Yoruba! I was so proud of myself.

It's very interesting that understanding, and speaking, the native language of wherever you're at is rather necessary for progress. I remember a friend of mine telling me that he wasn't able to rub minds with the important powers, and climb up the ladder, at his pretigious job in Abuja because he didn't speak Hausa very well. I thought he was being delusional till I started noticing it for myself. Some traders at the market in Festac won't be nice to you if you don't speak Igbo. The money changers at Federal Palace Hotel respond to their Hausa speaking customers better. The taxi driver who took me to Festac one day, dropped the attitude and started smiling at me when he heard me speak Yoruba on the phone. (I might have paid N300.00 less if I'd negotiated the price in Yoruba).

I have also heard that when you put your (real) foreign, or an I-have-hot-yam-in-my-mouth, accent foot forward, it's very likely that people turn their noses up at your because they believe you're being pretentious and rubbing your traveller self (or foreign movie watcher self, depending on where you gained your funny accent from), in their faces.

I can't say that it is fair that people are responded to based on how they sound. I just think it' interesting that as much as we want to sound like the foreigners, it's how well we know our own local languages that counts. I have a friend whose accent is British, laced with American, and they're both genuine. (Lol). He raps Yoruba sharply too. It's real sexy.

Color Me Crazy

Hi there! I would be remiss if I did not explain my extended absence from the blog. You see, I’ve been incarcerated. Not for killing someone (though this was closer to being a reality than I’m really comfortable with), but for another grave error in judgment. Apparently, deciding that I would be an auditor in Lagos was essentially me signing up for a sweet helping of indentured servitude. Sixteen hours a day. Every day (yep, even on my CD days). For five weeks. Locked up in a hotel with a tiny little prison cell window. WOE IS ME!!!

Anyhow, I’m free now (FREE AT LAST!) so back to regularly scheduled programming.
There’s many strange things I’ve observed since I’ve been back. Little oddities and peculiarities that I’m not certain existed before I left (or perhaps I was too deeply ensconced in my little cocoon to have noticed). I shall share them with you now and invite you to continue the list with your observations.

Men holding hands: I just…I don’t even know what to say about this one. I’m talking grown-butt men holding hands and swinging them as they walk down the street to lunch. I’m talking big, burly dudes, macho African males types with fingers intertwined skipping merrily down the lane. My favorite part of this phenomenon is seeing the uninitiated, newly-returned-from-the-West male unwittingly dragged into this mess, all the while trying unsuccessfully to mask his vaguely homophobic horror.

Men with long fingernails: It’s never all the fingers either -- just one long, gnarled, dirty, gross, vomit-inducing fingernail. Last week, when I was finally fed up of seeing this affront to all human sensibilities, I called a co-worker aside and asked him why. He responded that he just hadn’t happened upon a nail cutter lately. I asked him if he had a girlfriend. He said no. I then asked him to consider whether keeping that one long fingernail was worth the sacrifice.

“How was the night?”: But what’s happened to a simple “Good morning, how are you?” It seems that at some point, everyone got together and decided that instead of just hoping I have a good day, they instead would rather inquire into my nocturnal activities. The very next time I am asked this, I am going to respond with a simple, “My night was mostly disappointing actually. My lover performed rather unsatisfactorily and has left me feeling rather bereft. Thank you so much for asking!” You know, just to see what happens.

“Phaffing” and “Knacking teeth”: So from what I’ve gathered, ‘phaffing” just means messing about and doing absolutamente nada, especially at a time when you should absolutely be doing something else. “Knacking teeth” seems to refer to talking for the sake of it, without anyone paying particular attention to the drivel falling out of your face-hole. I can’t go off for too long on these two because I’ve actually become quite partial to both of them. So I shall stop knocking teeth on this point and move right along.

Car Horns: Someone once told me that you can drive in Lagos without brakes, without a clutch, hell, without an accelerator, but if your car horn isn’t working, it’s best to go and park that crapbox because you WILL get dead. Drivers in Lagos believe that rearview mirrors are purely decorative, merely there for okada drivers to break off at will. As such, you can expect at least 42 cars to unceremoniously swerve into your lane on any given road and God help you if you haven’t got a functioning horn to alert them to your presence. They will not hesitate to yell out of their window, “Madam, you no sabi horn?? Abi you want make I jam your car?” Remarkable.

THE HEAT: I’m sorry – say what you will about global warming – it was NOT this hot in this city when I left. I walked from the stupid local government to the car today and I am now rubbing aloe vera and tea leaves on the nastiest sunburn I’ve sustained since orientation camp. WHAT GIVES? Al Gore was right, people!!! We’re all going to die on a melting ice-cap!!!!

There’s loads more bizarre idiosyncrasies but I shall stop here before I start to question the sanity of my people (might be a little late for that). On balance though, in a country with a list of flaws long as the Chrysler building is tall, it helps to have a few quirks that keep you giggling crazily to yourself throughout the day (not that I really needed an excuse to do that in the first place).

Spoling the American name...

Ok, maybe not just the American name but the Western name in general.

I was out at a Salsa joint with a few friends the other day, and we came across this babe who was dancing in a baby doll dress that did the Marilyn Monroe each time she twirled. Underneath, she wasn't wearing anything but black draws...

Someone passed a comment about it, and another person responded: "free her jo, it's because of where she's coming from. She's lived in the U.S. for a while." I did the double-blink like w.t.f? I don't know anything about the underwear dancer, but I've heard her speak before and her Nigerian accent is more serious than mine (and we all know that mine is rather serious too). Plus, I know people who have definitely lived in America longer than she has, and they don't go around showing their underwear.

Yes, we know that the American environment is more liberal, but don't go blaming your nudist tendencies on where you're coming from! That's just ludicrous. Why do we have to blame the Western world for all immorality? A wise man has said: 'we all have our demons; how well do you hide yours?' The truth is that every person has the tendency to be evil/immoral/lawless/etc. It all depends on how well you 'curb your enthusiasm'. I guess I should also say that's it's true that the free societies of the Western World allow you to express your tendencies without being judged.

Draws are a product of the West, I believe, and even they call them underwear. People need to learn to call a spade, "spade", and take responsibilities for the decisions they make. When she stepped out of her house that day, she knew she was going to dance, and she knew that Salsa would involve twirling and twirling would involve rising of babydoll dress; yet she gave herself a wink in the mirror and stepped out. Not because Obama told her to go out without leggings, but because she felt like it. There are days I've had peek-a-boo bra incidents; I can assure you that it's not because I lived in America, but because I didn't feel like wearing another layer of clothing, i.e. camisole, because of the heat.

I'm sure that some Americans will be offended by that 'because she lived in America' statement.

Just my 2 Kobo.

Good morning.

Before & After

I would like to apologize on behalf of all of us who run this blog. I'm not sure what our excuses are, but really, we've been away for too long, and that's not acceptable. We're supposed to be giving you blow by blow accounts of our experiences at home, but with all the time spent in traffic, at work meetings, going through NYSC bruhaha, and on the highly coveted sleep, we open our eyes, and Bam! it's February, 2010.

I have good news though, Drops of Glamour and I are about to complete our NYSC programs (on February 11th); give Jesus a wiper(a wave)! This completion is the koko of my little schpill today.

NYSC is a good program in the sense that for about a year, you have a steady job and steady income, and, you know, a sense of being 'useful'. You can hang up your job hunting suit, and if you're lucky you won't need it anymore.

Now, the problem is the 'if you're lucky' clause in that last statement. I started my NYSC program in March last year. There are people who finished up at about that time and are still job hunting. I'm not even sure what can be done differently, given the conditions of the job market right now. However though, what's the point of going through the gruelling NYSC camp experience, enduring one year of dealing with those shady peeps at the LGA, and then ending up right where you started (knocking on office doors and hoping someone finds you attractive enough for a job?) What's the point if the 'after' is not so much better than the 'before'?

It's even worse for some people because when they were green out of college, with no experience, etc, the rejection letters they received were justifiable. After a year of experience, and mingling with the real world some, what acceptable excuse is there? You could say it's like what to expect after an internship; still I argue that with NYSC on one's belt, you've supposedly given yourself the qualification that 'opens doors for you'.

I'm not expecting every company to retain the Youth Corpers who serve with them; (some of them already tell you from the beginning that you shouldn't expect them to automatically keep you after the Service Year).

What do we do about all of these highly qualified people? I mean, NYSC is 'such a big deal'! One of my friends got fired last year because of some discrepancies during his service year, about 8 years ago! What more do you need after B.Sc., M.Sc. MBA and NYSC?