Lagos Driving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God will help us in this our Lagos o.

AMEN!

Chimamanda Adichie: The danger of a single story

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

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

It seems to work faster on the website.

Coming Home Now...

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

The People

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

The City

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

The Fashion

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

The Food

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

For better or for worse.

"Why do you talk like that?!"

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

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

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

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

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

Trouble's Been Doggin' My Soul...

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

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

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

“You don’t have one?”

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

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

“What the f*@k?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble...

I'm Lovin it!

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

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

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

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

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

I Asked For It...

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

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

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

Couch Potato-ism:

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

J-O-Bism:

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

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