A Letter from Ife

Dear friends,

One week after my arrival at the esteemed Obafemi Awolowo University at Ile-Ife, my preliminary conclusion is that educated Yoruba people are a danger to the world and need to be contained as soon as possible. Or maybe it’s just the ones that are seemingly too well-educated. I don’t know. But I know that the lecturers I have had the opportunity to come across are a very special breed, with very special quirks that I would like to share with you. And forgive the sarcastic bite that will probably accompany this whole email. I have nearly reached the pinnacle of my frustration with this place, and it’s starting to show in everything I do and say. Anyway, so we enter the part of this letter that I call: What I Have Learned About Yoruba Lecturers.

They truly enjoy writing on the blackboard, or whiteboard, as is the case with my classes. Despite the fact that they take the time to type out five pages of notes, complete with Yoruba diacritics (which requires a healthy amount of effort, I must say), print, collate, staple and disburse said notes to the entire class, they still re-write these notes—in full—on the board as they deliver their lectures. They also write their spoken sentences down, adding to the redundancy of the whole experience. It is truly fascinating.

Their love for writing on the board is not even halted by the lack of a working marker. Indeed, even if the marker is squeaking against the whiteboard, parched and searching for a drop of ink with which to deliver a legible line, my dear prof will press on, undeterred, oblivious to the fact that nobody can read the supposedly important notes that have been rendered invisible and, thus, imaginary.

They cannot stand any interruptions from their students, even if the student is interrupting to ask a question or go to the bathroom. While they will not necessarily say anything, the glares they shoot our way could kill. Many of my colleagues are walking around with singed hair in the backs of their heads as I type.

They are not allowed to be colorful in speech or mannerisms once they stand in front of the board. The board is the epicenter of the teaching experience, you see; it is what proves that they are indeed lecturers and supposed to be in the front of the room. It’s probably the reason they need to write on it, actually; it solidifies their authority. Without the board and accompanying marker, we may not be sure he is a lecturer. And monotonous speech is another requirement for the position. It’s amazing, really. A woman or man who is great fun outside the classroom suddenly has all the vivacity of a dead fish once they step within ten meters of a blackboard.

Only when singing is introduced to class time does life again enter the lecturer’s body. And boy do these Yorubas love to sing! We spent thirty minutes in my morning class singing the same three songs repeatedly. First, the teacher sang it about three or four times, then invited us to echo each line after him. We did this about three or four times. Then we sang it all together, then again one by one, then again together, each try punctuated by his loud, “Again!” vibrating in the air, as he gleefully hopped from one foot to the other to the beat of the song. We did this on Monday. And Tuesday. And Wednesday. Shocking!

Suffice it to say, my classroom experience here has been somewhat trying. Amusing, but trying nonetheless. It might be more bearable if I were actually being taught something I’ve never heard or before, but as it is, we have spent the past 4 days covering material that I mastered almost a full year ago. Today, we spent an hour and fifteen minutes studying pronouns. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

In other news: two of my classmates have already fallen ill from drinking palm wine. Yes, they are American and yes, they are white. I would have felt sorry for them, but they drove right past my house to go and get the palm wine and didn’t stop to ask me along, so a hale and hearty “Ha-ha!”, a la Nelson, do I send their way! They haven’t been able to eat for two days because they’re scared. Ntooo!

I’ve been given a nickname by one of the teachers here, Mrs. Faleye: ẹlẹrin ẹyẹ. It means that I have a fitting smile/laugh. As you can probably guess, she met me during the first two days that I was here, when my annoyance with Ife in particular and Yoruba people in general hadn’t gotten to this level. Ah, people! I have been very homesick for two days now and counting. Not for America, by the way, but for Port Harcourt. I just want to see my people. It all started when a gecko crawled all over my slippers right in front of me. It didn’t even have the courtesy to seem slightly nervous at my presence in the room! And it mightn’t have bothered me so much if it were still that pseudo-transparent peach color that they usually are, but this one had just come from a dark place, I assume, so it had those black spots on it that make it look even more disgusting than usual. It just reminded me of all the other things I’m not accustomed to experiencing and have been forced to undergo over the past seven days.

On a good note, though, I am a VIP in the household of one of my program mates. I’m not even sure why, but they have been asking for me to re-visit their house for the past three days. It’s weird. The first and only other time I’ve been there, I humiliated one of their cousins in a brain contest, and I think now he’s got a crush on me. But I’m enjoying the fact that I can go somewhere where the combination of my intelligence and fiery temper are welcome entertainment, and even attractive. I’ll be over there tomorrow. I hope I don’t disappoint. Oh, the pressure!

And finally, I spent the night on campus watching Man Talk, Woman Talk, a play by the great Ola Rotimi. I actually don’t think he was that great, but I still enjoy his plays. Anyway, it was put on by some of the drama students with whom I am lucky enough to share a space on this huge campus. I should make friends with some of them. They’re great performers, and they brought a life to the play that must have been pretty hard to do, given the dialogue. It was a little hard to follow their accents—that was new; have I been away THAT long??—but I laughed so hard, especially at the end. If you ever come across the play, go watch it!

This seems like a good place to end. Good day, good night, and take care of yourselves.

Much love,
kulutempa