"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