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

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

Anyways, you have to agree with this list:

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

Maybe I'm a germaphobe...

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

A Life Uncommon

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

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

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

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

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

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

-- Jewel

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

How to Lose a Woman in 10 Minutes

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

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

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

Case in point:

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

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

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

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

The Fabulous Life ... of Nigerian Celebrities

(I should pay royalties to E!)

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh.

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

Vernacular

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

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

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

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

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

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

Color Me Crazy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spoling the American name...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just my 2 Kobo.

Good morning.