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.
Showing posts with label SongSmith. Show all posts
Showing posts with label SongSmith. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
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.
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
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
Friday, May 14, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, February 22, 2010
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).
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).
Saturday, December 19, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
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.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
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
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
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
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.
Friday, September 11, 2009
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...
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...
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, August 14, 2009
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.
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.
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