Week 1

I have achieved absolutely nothing. After one whole week in this town, I have not talked to a single person (other than to schedule meetings - meetings that have consistently been put off until "tomorrow"), nor read a single pertinent document about the Nigerian tourism industry. But for the social horrors of this place - which makes for great stories - I would feel like I have completely wasted my time in this place. But luckily for you, I have stories to tell.

Now, there's good news and there's bad news when it comes to discussing this city. The good news is: Yakuza Suya Spot. Chineke God of Allah, when I say that Hausa men are making FANTASTIC suya and kilishi in Abuja, you berra believe it! As the name suggests, the beef in this small, slightly grimy outlet really hits the spot and makes you go begging for more. I bought N2000 (about $15) worth of kilishi two days ago, enough to feed a battalion of starving children, and only N500 worth remains in my fridge today. I would be ashamed, but I have not eaten kilishi for almost 4 years, and I make no apologies. I also managed to come across some succulent agbalumo/udala at Millennium Park, where I sucked on their tangy juices while being serenaded by a two-man Hausa band, who kept insisting that I give my "husband" - my friend, Mustapha, who introduced me to Yakuza - a "kiss/no be su-mall kiss/give am real kiss!" I got home, all hot and sweaty from the day, took a quick dip in the icy-cold pool out back, then chilled on the couch with a cranberry vodka and Africa Magic. All in all, that was the best day of this trip.

Now, the bad news abounds. Let's start with Tukano, the uppity lounge whose name should be changed to reflect what it is: a pickup joint. My brother took me there in a bid to entertain me, lest I grow bored sitting in the house all day. Little does he know that all I need is a working internet connection (which I have) and cable, the odd alcoholic beverage, and I'm set. No matter, I thought it'd be fun. The moment he said they played house music, there was no changing my mind: I was going to Tukano to see Nigerians dancing to techno, and I wasn't taking no for an answer. It's a members-only club, but apparently, you only have to prove your membership if you look broke or young. It was there that I got my first taste of what it now means to be female in Nigeria: apparently, people - and by "people", I mean men - no longer deem it necessary to practice manners in your presence. They will walk up to you and your crew, greet all the men, and ignore your curvy ass. At first I thought it was because I looked comparatively busted. I've made it a point to look as unattractive as possible before I step out of this house, so as to stave off unwanted attention. And Abuja Big Boys, as they are called, are arrogant pricks who only chase after the prettiest girls. In the following days, however, I realized that it has nothing whatsoever to do with my appearance. They just don't think they should have to say hello to women, because to them all women are hookers and gold diggers and should not be accorded respect, or indeed even common courtesy.

Past that display of inhospitality, you walk into Tukano and the first thing that greets you is the bar, and the pair of giant Arab tits behind it. The tits belong to an auburn-haired stripper, who is dancing on a huge flatscreen in plain view, with or without another well-endowed partner. I might have known that the night wouldn't bode well once I saw that, but I was too shocked to register premonitory feelings. As we slowly made our way through the darkness to the very back where it was hard to see even my white tank top, I remember being somewhat impressed with the decor. At least, I had somewhat forgotten that I was in Nigeria, so they did a pretty good job. Then the waiter came to take our drinks, and it was all pretty much downhill from there. I was encouraged, nay, tricked, into being comfortable enough to ask him, "Do you serve martinis?"

"Yes," he said.

"Excellent! I'd like an apple martini, please."

"No, we only have bweorijwer and roiwerwoe."

"What?"

"I say, we only have bweroier and roeiroweirh."

"Sorry, I don't underst--"

"Red or white!"

Oh, blanco or rosso. But wait: red or white? I was confused: did I order Kool-Aid or a martini? I decided to gamble. "I guess I'll try red."

He came back with a martini glass that looked like someone forgot to put any drink in it. As he turned to leave, I tapped his arm, and said, "Sorry, I asked for a martini."

"Dis is mah-tini. One shot. You want one shot or two?"

It was clear that I wasn't in Kansas anymore. Lately, I have prided myself on becoming something of a cocktail connoisseur; I thought perhaps I had jumped the gun. It was only midnight, but I was already weary. I said, weakly, "It's OK. Thank you."

The first sip was deadly. This so-called martini tasted like pounded ugwu leaf. I turned to my brother in dismay. "Taste it!" He took a sip and squirmed in his seat. "It tastes like...basil...or something, I dunno. That's disgusting!" I was, however, still determined to get tipsy as it was clear that I was going to have to lose some consciousness to make it through the night. For example, the house music was blaring so loudly that I had to holler at the top of my voice to be heard by the person pressed up right next to me. That required energy and a steady flow of drinks. But by the third sip, I decided I couldn't take it anymore. I went to talk to the bartender, who turned out to be four bartenders, each more incompetent than the last. They all ignored me. Eventually, my waiter stood beside me and said, "Yes, what do you want?"

I ignored the rudeness, and spoke with full Yankee foneh, lest they make any mistake about my status (I'll explain why this is important in subsequent blogs): "This isn't a martini. I don't know what it is, but it's not a martini."

"Ees mah-tini."

"No, it can't be. Look, the glass is not even full!"

"Ees mah-tini. See it there." He pointed behind the bar, where I saw two bottles plainly labeled "Martini: blanco" and "Martini: rosso".

"Ohhh," I sighed.

"Ehen, you see?"

"Yes, I see." I wanted to explain to him that the bottles were merely full of a liquer meant to accompany a martini. I wanted to explain to him that my martini was incomplete. I wanted to explain to him that it was unacceptable to serve me pounded ugwu and try to pass it off an alcoholic beverage. Instead, I again said, "OK, thank you," and went back to my dark corner to choke off the rest of it. I only ordered wine after that, which also turned out to only be available in "white or red".

to be continued...