Week 2: The Surprising Turn of Events

With my impending departure looming in the distance, I was more excited than ever about bringing this Abuja nightmare to an end. I wasn't making much headway on my research, what with people still postponing our scheduled interviews, or just not answering their phones anymore, and it was becoming more apparent that Nigeria just is not interested in writing anything down. By this, I mean that data is terribly scarce. For a federal government planning and statistics office to rely on publications from Western organizations for its data is sorry. Just plain sorry. I was missing the first two weeks of school, and I was beginning to feel that it was for nothing, when things suddenly took a surprising turn.

This was the week that I met SK and his lovely girlfriend, Mo (obviously not her real name). SK was introduced to me by a mutual friend in absentia, and he was going to help me find people who might have statistical data for me. The first time I spoke to him, I told him what I needed most, and his response was telling: "I think you'd be better off just making everything up. That's what these government people are doing anyway!" I laughed when he said it, but there was a hint of concern in my laughter as I wondered whether or not he was serious. There is a very real possibility that the government is conjuring a substantial portion of its databank, is there not? After all, these are Nigerians we're talking about. With our knack for creative story-telling and our gargantuan egos, it would not be surprising to hear that such grandiose assertions as Nigeria has the fastest-growing tourism industry in Africa are mere fabrications of an influential somebody's imagination. After all, if no one is collecting any data, how do they know? As I contemplated whether or not our federal offices were indeed collecting compilations of lies and dreams, SK and I made an appointment to meet the following day and see how much we could achieve.

This was the most productive day of my trip, and the first time I had felt happy since I arrived in the country. That morning, I interviewed Mrs. Omotayo Omotosho, first Director-General of the National Tourism Development Council, for an hour. She was a veritable mine of information. Then she dropped me off at the Planning, Research and Statistics office to supposedly pick up data. I think we all know how that went. The people there were incredibly kind and helpful but, you know, they didn't really have statistics. At any rate, I spent about an hour there as well, when SK called to let me know that he was sending a driver to come and get me. I decided to wait outside, so the driver could see me without too much trouble; I even told him that I'd be reading a book, so he'd make no mistakes. You'd think it was a gamble, but I was the only person around for miles reading anything: a book, a newspaper, a billboard. I suppose people were reading the numbers on their recharge cards before they flung them into the street, but that doesn't count. Nigerians just don't read. As I waited for the driver - I'll call him Gaius - people passed me on the sidewalk, looking quizzically at this woman in the flowing clothes and furry "caterpillars" on her head (I'd twisted my hair), standing and reading under the blazing sun. A group of men walked past me, and one of them said, "You're a girl o!" I responded angrily, "And so what?!" but he refused to answer. I'm still trying to figure out what he meant by that. I'm a girl, so I shouldn't read on the sidewalk? I'm a girl so I shouldn't be on the sidewalk? What?

Gaius pulled up eventually and we headed for the restaurant where SK was waiting to meet me. On the way, a kabukabu cut us off abruptly and subsequently scratched the car near the right headlight. Gaius seemed remarkably calm as he pulled off on the side of the road, instructing the kabukabu to do the same. I must admit that I was very surprised when the man complied. It's easy to forget that there are people in Nigeria who adhere to protocol - sometimes - especially in situations like these, where it would be so easy to speed off and never face the music for your action. Given his lack of reaction when we got hit, I assumed that Gaius was going to handle the matter quickly and efficiently so we could get where we were going. It was almost 1pm and I hadn't so much as had a drink of water all day; the restaurant was calling me. No such luck. This was definitely one of those instances where my acclimatization to the ways of oyinbo people was going to do my head in, because I had allowed myself to briefly forget that a Nigerian is a Nigerian is always a bloody Nigerian. When Gaius started shrieking and yelling like a banshee from hell, and attracting spectators and mediators from far and wide, I was taken aback. Then I realized that I had always known he was an agboro (tout), what with his red eyes, set jaw and jerrycurled hair, but had chosen to ignore all that for whatever reason. My shock, however, was quickly replaced with mischievous glee as I remembered that I had brought my camera along with me that day. I spent the next 8 minutes recording most of the fight that ensued: Gaius calling the kabukabu driver a "stupid idiot"; Gaius calling one of the spectators that questioned his driving skills "this stupid short one"; the self-named mediators asking the kabukabu driver "why don't you just beg him?"; the professional-looking passer-by that informed Gaius that "people can hear you from far." Nobody noticed the grinning chick in the back seat with the camera. It's priceless footage, I tell you.

The fight came to an end when one of the mediators quietly brought a turpentine-soaked rag and wiped off what only amounted to a paint scratch from our car. The crowd dispersed, the kabukabu driver quickly nipped back to his car and sped off...and Gaius stood on the sidewalk, yelling across the street at the spectator that had voiced the opinion that he was at fault. "Foolish man! You don't see anything that happen, you just come from across street to be talking nonsense! Stupid idiot! You are talking of my driving! Are you aware of my driving?! If I take you to my office now, na one week before they release you and na you go fix this car!" When he realized that the man wasn't paying attention and that he no longer had an audience, he bustled into the car and drove off, muttering. I could barely contain my laughter, and when I met SK, I immediately showed him my video, which turned out to be the perfect icebreaker.

That day, we didn't do anything pertaining to my thesis. Apparently, the fact that I was exposing my upper arms was a barrier to getting me into the Senate House. Instead, he took me home to meet his wifey, and I had the most entertaining conversation I'd had for days. I stayed until after dark, at which point SK took me home. That whole week, I spent almost every day with them. I met their friends, we had lunches, we chatted and laughed and...everything. It was such great fun. And they were the ones that introduced me to Blake Excellency Resort, where your average Nigerian rubs shoulders with drunk expatriates dancing like headless chickens. Blake Excellency Resort (or Blaaaaazzzeee, as the night's MC called it) smells like sex, looks like sex, is sex. And it deserves to stand alone as another post, complete with pictures.

to be continued...