Sexuality Article - A Snippet

All right, so this is part of the article that I needed all your input for. The editors are changing it, but this is the version I wrote. It might get published, it might not. But, without further ado, I present...

Virgins and Whores: The Matter of Sexuality in Nigeria

Nigerians don’t talk about sex. There are 140 million of us, so we know that we’re having it (and superfluously so), but nobody talks about it. Oh, we’ll hash out the gritty, raw details within the relative “privacy” of our neighborhoods, the juicy gossip flitting furtively from family compound to beer parlor and back. But as far as public discourse is concerned, we might as well all be eunuchs. It was clear to me from a very young age that Nigerians constitute a fairly randy population, but I’ve often wondered why we ostensibly prefer to blindfold ourselves to our own promiscuity. “Don’t ask, don’t tell” seems to be the policy generally accepted in society, at the expense of our collective health and even our culture. Gone are the days when sex and intimacy went hand in hand. Nowadays, in a land that has become increasingly commercial, sex is just another commodity to be haggled over and sold on the open market.

Recently, I’ve heard several of our young women refer to their sexuality as a tool with which they can “make ends meet”, as though they completely lack other legitimate resources to achieve these ends. Their perspective, however, reflects a large-scale transformation in the national psyche. If I remember correctly, it wasn’t too long ago that such women were aggressively eschewed and derided for utilizing their bodies in the pursuit of monetary gain. But now, things have changed. It was a gradual shift, barely perceptible to me until I realized, with mild shock, that we as a nation have embraced a casual sort of prostitution and simply called it by another name. As women, we are no longer [sleeping around] for money; we’re simply “making ends meet”, because that, somehow, sounds nobler than admitting the truth. What I find most shocking, however, is how the society at large has merely adjusted itself, so that it is now molded around this new mentality, rather than rejecting it with the same defiance and force with which it sets suspected thieves ablaze in the street.

I’m not arguing for the quick and fiery death of young women who don’t know what better to do with their talents. I don’t even think promiscuity is inherently bad. I just want to understand what has happened to our values over the past decade or so, and why we were so willing to let them go. We certainly work very hard to create the illusion of sexual propriety; so who exactly are we trying to deceive?

* The rest of this article might (or might not) appear in the first edition of the BHF magazine, to be launched this summer. "Grab your copy NOOOOOW!" Or later. When there are copies to grab.

Thank You!

Thanks to everyone who filled out my questionnaire. Your responses were very helpful in giving me a clearer idea of how we view sexuality in Nigeria, but more than anything, I learned that Nigerian men are lazy, lazy, lazy (when it comes to writing...and thinking?). More than half of my respondents were male, and a significant chunk of them (over 80%) never got past the question that asked them to state their gender. Que lastima! They'll have as much sex as possible; just won't talk about it. Boo!

But to the rest of you, you were awesome! I didn't get the number of responses that would allow me come to statistically sound conclusions about our people as a whole, but I can at least make the sort of sweeping generalizations that have granted us infamy :). I truly appreciate y'all.

Have a great weekend!

Call for Surveys: Extension

Thanks to everyone who has already responded.

To anyone who would rather fill out the survey anonymously, I've painstakingly created a survey online at this site: http://www.surveymonkey.com/s.asp?u=265893817261.

I previously stated that the deadline for the survey was May 5. I've extended it until May 8. The survey will be closed thereafter.

I anticipate your participation, and preemptively thank you. :)

Call for Surveys

Hello people!

I'm writing an article this week about the value of virginity to Nigerian women, and I was wondering if anyone would be willing to take a survey/questionnaire that I've drawn up.

It's pretty straightforward - just a few questions about your feelings and opinions on the issue in general. There are one or two questions that are pretty personal, and you, of course, need not answer if you don't want to (though I'd really love it if you did).

If you're interested in this survey, email me at kulutempa@aim.com and I'll shoot you a copy. I'd very much like it back by the end of the week, i.e. by Saturday night. Your personal information will never be made public; and if you really don't trust me, you can always fill the survey under a pseudonym.

Nigerian men are welcome to participate in this as well, by the way. You'll have to tweak the questions (mentally) to make it relevant to you, cuz I'm not creating another one :-p! Just make a note of your genotype somewhere in there.

For my non-Nigerians, I apologize: this is not intended to be an exclusionary exercise - I'm just minimizing my workload.

Respond!

I'M DONE!!!

I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'M FINISHED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

With my thesis, that is. The world is a better place.

The Floater

I've been camping out at Sterling library for a little over a week now. Or maybe it's been two weeks; I'm losing track of time. In any case, I've been "working on my thesis", sequestered away from the comforts of home so that I will be forced to do nothing but type the words that are my ticket out of New Haven. I've looked forward to these moments since September 2006, when I discovered the synonymity between the words "Yale" and "slow death". But now I'm squandering them, these precious, precious minutes. Like a belligerent toddler refusing to be spoonfed her mashed-broccoli dinner, I find myself throwing inner tantrums when I lower myself into one of the green pleather armchairs in my "lair" to work. But because I am 24, not 2, I cannot fling my computer at the wall like a spoonful of green goo, satisfied that I will no longer be expected to finish that which I came here to do. Alas.

The stress is taking its toll. I barely sleep anymore, because when I sleep my dreams are filled with the unfinished paragraphs, running sentences and incoherent thoughts that I am certain fill the pages of my yet-uncompleted first draft. When I do manage to get those coveted forty winks, the first thing I think about when I wake up is my thesis. When I'm splashing water on my recently-acquired crow's feet, I'm thinking about my thesis. On my morning walk to campus, I no longer worry that someone will mistake my temporary, music-induced deafness for rudeness and beat me; I worry about how to write the next 80 pages of my thesis.

Because I have $3.52 in my bank account, I have no choice but to enforce austerity measures on myself (much like the ones IBB implemented during the SAP era that I'm writing about - again, I come back to this godawful thesis), so I'm down to one meal a day. The armed robbers who call themselves restaurant owners in New Haven think that everybody is George Bush's child, so they charge us accordingly for our meals. Therefore, I have taken to buying my singular meal from the Roomba Burrito man's cart: chicken burrito, no beans, extra hot sauce, extra cabbage. $4.50 at SOM, $5 at Elm Street. The Roomba Burrito man has saved me from slow, sure death by starvation. I don't eat my burrito; I inhale my burrito. I eat in seclusion so I can attack my burrito the way a pig attacks his trough of slop, and to avoid any backlash for being uncivilized. The meal is always over too soon, and I always look at the newly-shredded foil paper that once tenderly wrapped it with a mixture of satisfaction and remorse.

But man shall not live by burrito alone, and all this stress on my system has thrown a wrench in the works, if you catch my drift. I'm usually as regular as clockwork; you could set your watch by me. Seriously. I go every day, sometimes twice a day. But now...now things have changed. For one, I'm no longer at home at the time I normally go. Now I'm at Sterling. And secondly, nothing about my recent life is agreeing with me or my large intestine. So now, when I have to go, I not only have to deal with the fact that things aren't flowing as smoothly as they did in the past, but I also have to contend with the lack of privacy that comes with having to go in a public restroom. When you're the kind of person that needs a 20ft. radius of peace and quiet to handle your business comfortably, this presents yet another problem. A very unwelcome one, when it was going to be hard enough to complete this morning ritual already without the added complication of performance anxiety.

But I can't not go, so every day I trudge to the public restroom, grumpy and pouting, and lay down my layers of toilet paper systematically. Two long double layers for each lateral side, two shorter ones for the front and back, and then another layer just in case; carefully woven so that there won't be any slippage or subsequent risk of my tushy touching the seat. If I've forgotten to bring reading material, I read my old text messages - they serve the same purpose. On a "normal" day, I'm out of there in about eight minutes (more, if I have to coax myself back into action after someone has ungraciously stormed into the restroom and thrown things in reverse). These days, I leave feeling a bit defeated, but realizing that there was nothing more I could have done short of reaching in and yanking it all out. But today was different. Today, I dropped...a floater.

It was a rare morning. There were few women in the library today, it seemed, or perhaps today they decided to go at home for a change. So I had it all to myself: the sterile stalls, the silent sinks. All was peaceful. So maybe it was the fact that I could finally simulate the enviroment I am accustomed to or maybe my body is finally adjusting to its new routine, but things went well today. I experienced a cleansing like none that I've experienced in recent times. It made the whole world seem more promising: I would finish Chapter 3 today, I would stumble upon a stray $5 note so I could buy milk and finally have a steamy bowl of sticky oatmeal. I even hummed a little ditty and swayed my hips as I zipped up my jeans. When I raised my foot to press down the flusher (I never touch anything in a public restroom with my bare hands), I did it with a bit of a flourish. I tore a bit of toilet paper off that I could use to unlatch the door and turned round to double-check that all was well. That was when I saw it: the one that didn't go away.

I was horrified. I have never in my life deposited a floater; I had come to accept that my body just didn't make them. And yet, here I was, faced with the hard evidence of my poor nutritional habits - literally. I had started to panic when I realized that there was no one in the restroom with me. Nobody knew except me what was happening in stall #3. I took a deep, calming breath and raised my foot again, applied pressure. The water gushed out like a small tsunami; I was certain that the turd would be washed away by the seemingly crushing flood. It tottered and swayed for a while, destabilized. It started to disappear into the vacuum created by the whirling waters...and when the water stopped sucking, it came back.

At this point, I started to consider my options: I could stay and fight this thing, or I could walk out on it. It was, after all, a public restroom - it could be anyone's turd after I abandoned it. But then I thought: what if someone walks in just as I'm walking out, and they walk to or past stall #3? They'll know I did it. They'll know it's my turd that's staring them defiantly in the face. There was no way I was going to let that happen. This library has become like my second home, my face is well-known here. I could not allow myself to be hereafter known as The Girl Who Dropped the Bomb and Walked Away. No. I would stay and fight.

I flushed and I flushed. I flushed until I started sweating and became delusional. I could have sworn that the turd smiled mischievously at me once; I might have taken an oath that I saw it holding the sides of the toilet so that the water could only rush over it, never pushing it down. I held my hair with both hands: what was I going to do? And then, the worst happened: someone came in. I panicked! Immediately, the first thought that came to my mind was: jump on the toilet seat! Don't let them identify your shoes! In my half-crazed state, the worst that could happen would be if they saw my shoes through the gap in the stall, then saw me walk out three hours later - it would be as embarrassing as them seeing the turd itself. It would be written all over my face and I would be labeled The Girl Who Spent Three Hours Flushing Down Her Floater. In mid-leap, the turd winked at me. I realized then that jumping on the seat would be signaling defeat. I begat this turd, it did not beget me; I would not be belittled by this floating mass of undigestable crap.

I'll never know what the lady in stall #1 thought when she heard me crash-land on the floor of stall #3. My privacy no longer mattered at that point; the stomping had alerted her to my presence anyway. What mattered was conquering my shite. I cracked my knuckles and planned my strategy. The floater, by this point, had withstood approximately twenty gallons of water crashing down on it. It may have been strong, but it was not reinforced with steel; it would have to break sooner or later. I knew that this was my time to win, but I had to ensure that it was a swift victory, one that would ensure I didn't have to look into the eyes of the woman in stall #1 (I may have been at war, but I still had my pride). I listened; she was in #1, doing a #1. I didn't have much time. Quickly, I ripped off a few sheets of toilet paper, a.k.a. friction. I carefully dropped them right over the turd, so that they covered it like a soft, papery blanket. The lady in stall #1 was fidgeting; she was about to start ripping her own sheets of toilet paper. I took a deep breath, held it and flushed.

It put up a struggle, the turd did. But the friction that my t.p. created was unmatched and easily overpowered it. As the water sucked it out of sight, my turd squealed helplessly. Gleeful, I internally high-fived myself. I would have stayed to gloat, but I had no time. I had to get out of there, quickly. I could hear the woman wrapping her sheets in preparation for the wipe. Hurriedly, I unlatched the door and fled to the sinks. Two pumps of antibacterial soap, a quick rubbing of the hands under the flow of hot water. She was pulling up her bottoms now. Hand towels! Where were the paper towels?! I looked in the mirror and saw their reflection; they were behind me. I whipped round, grabbed one, frantically rubbed it over my hands. I could see her feet - she was turning around to flush! Soon, she'd be out of the stall and looking at my face! In one fluid motion, I opened the door and deposited the hand towel in the nearby trash can. As I bolted through the door to safety, I heard the woman in stall #1 unlatch her door and rush out, probably hoping to catch a glimpse of me, the Weird-Noise Chick in Stall #3. In the safety of the hallway, I raised my fists in triumph, grinning for all I was worth ($3.52; -$527.39 if you count my credit cards). I won!

It was a mere four minutes of my day, but they were a priceless four minutes. Because they were four minutes when I did not, could not, think about how to intelligibly write about tourism in Nigeria. All this, I owe to the turd. O valiant, vanquished turd! Your struggle has not gone unnoticed; you were of great service and will be remembered. As you maneuver the stinky sewers of this unglorious city (and hopefully - eventually - disintegrate), know that I think of you somewhat fondly, though I won't miss you much, and that I am grateful.

And to all, I bid you...adieu. Until next time.

Bullet!

When was the last time you heard and/or laughed at a verbal grammatical error? I remember a time in the not-too-distant past when I could not let one slide without saying "Tiaun!", "Bend down for the ahhhh-rowww!" or one of any number of colorful colloquialisms designed to inform nearby listeners that the speaker supposedly could not speak English. I still remember, very vividly, our senior Bible class at Hillcrest about Islam, which was taught by guest lecturer Mallam Musa, a recent Christian convert. For one full week, the entire class was entertained by this cheerfully ignorant man who insisted on speaking this language that he had clearly not fully grasped. He continually and consistently gave us classics like "Mohammed was in danger. When he heard they were coming to kill him, he flied to Medina!" and "He was asleep on the mountain when just of a sudden...." I personally couldn't understand why he chose to lay emphasis on the arrows themselves when he spoke, but it made for great comedy. For the first time in Bible class history, every last one of us looked forward to the end of the day when we could sit in front of him and attend his free show, Mallam Musa ostensibly pleased by our enthusiasm but clearly wondering why we were rolling on the floor in stitches instead of sitting quietly in our seats.

I've since changed my mind about the importance of speaking perfect English, particulary if it's not your first language, but that doesn't make an arrow any less hilarious when I hear a good one.

Clearly, I'm not alone; there's a group on Facebook whose sole purpose is to serve simple folks like me gut-wrenching laughter borne of reading long-forgotten and freshly-shot bullets. I was checking it out today (instead of doing the work that I left my house and came to the library to do), and saw this one that I absolutely cannot stop laughing at:

"See economic growt. America did it, Japan did it, China did it...why can't we did it?" - OBJ

Una helep me o! I don't know whether the actual bullet is funny, or whether it's funny because na Baba talk am, but I'm almost crying, envisioning the seriousness with which he undoubtedly said it and wondering whether anyone was tempted to shout "Bullet!" during his speech. Whichever it is, I now have an insatiable desire for more arrows with which to pierce my funny bone. So now I'm calling all Belly readers: give me your best shots!

Still Procrastinating...

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

I got this off Omodudu's page and it's so fun! I like that it's dead-on, despite Omodudu's doubts about its ability to gauge a Naija person. Though why I take so much pleasure in hearing another person tell me what I already know to be true about myself is beyond me...

The Beginning of the End

I was cross-legged on my couch, half-watching Bridget Jones's Diary 2, half-writing my thesis when I found the loose end of some elastic from the waistband of my underwear. I yanked at it sharply, hoping to break it off and in so doing preserve the integrity of my panties, when I felt it shift a little on my right hip. It was a slightly pleasant sensation, so I kept pulling. As the springy length of string slithered around my waist, I was absent-mindedly intrigued. But the moment the other end snapped against my right palm, I was stung by an epiphany: I can't stop playing around.

We've all been here, more of us than I'd previously imagined. We claim to need the adrenaline rush that is associated with pressure to get our work done. When the work itself does not inspire excitement or the heart palpitations we need, we take matters - and time - into our own hands. We sit back and do nothing but cross days off the calendar, days that could potentially have been spent doing good work, days that would have added up to leisurely reward for a job well done. We tick off those days, and in the meantime we watch TV, write meaningless blogs, have meaningless conversations and attend meaningless parties (if you live in New Haven, you just sit at home and drink beer alone). To the uninitiated observer, we are merely wasting time. But those who have been anointed into the inner circle know that this is merely the ritual, preparation for a time when we will attempt to cram three months' work into the two weeks we have left. We will curse, we will cry, we will not sleep and we will not bathe. We will make false promises never to inflict this punishment on ourselves again, and our ids will snigger, knowing that we will certainly, inevitably fail.

Why, God, am I on Blogger? At least 30 single-spaced pages to go, and I'm only on page 2. It's taken me two days to get here, and I only have 10 days left. This is my thesis. The key to the end of my miserable existence in New Haven and I'm on Blogger. I am dead.

Humanity!

My poor baby had her first taste of that blatant, in-your-face, so-cold-it-left-you-shivering racism yesterday...which was ironic, since it has been ridiculously cold in our neck of the woods for a few days now (she lives in Boston). My baby is my best friend, Amaka, and she called me crying yesterday while I was trying to pay for my groceries. She told me she had been trying to dig her car out of the snow and ice for an hour, without tools, and wasn't making any headway. Her hands were cracked and bleeding, and no one was offering to help her. It was at this point that a white lady came out of her house, walked over to her car and prepared to tackle the same problem that Amaka was having. No sooner had she begun kicking away at the ice that pinned her tyres to the road than four white men pulled over and helped push her car out of the snow. My darling girl was watching all this, and patiently waiting for a chance to ask for help, though she was desperate, cold and late for work already.

After the other lady thanked her rescuers and went off on her merry way, Amaka walked up to those bastards and politely asked if they could please help her as well. It wasn't even so much that they refused to help her, it was the way in which they did it. They never even responded to her. They just entered their vehicles and drove off! I was shocked to hear it, so I can only imagine how shocked she was to experience it, and how insulted. There's a certain helplessness I associate with rejection by complete strangers that fills me with so much rage! And this girl is like my other half; it was so painful to me that I couldn't be there to help her and injure one or two people on her behalf.

What really gets to me, though, is that those people are walking around thinking of themselves as good Samaritans, when they would treat a fellow human being in obvious need with so much disregard. She had to sit in her car and wait for AAA, when there were able-bodied men around, who were clearly willing to help someone - just not her. I don't even know how to finish this, or what else to say. I'm so angry!

Photo Blurb: Blake Excellency Resort

It's hard to write about Blake Excellency Resort. I can't even think where to begin. Do I start with its name? Blake Excellency Resort: even I have to admit that it's ingenious. It's very unlike other Nigerian establishment names that are clearly just two names smooshed together into an empty moniker that sounds very much like household cleaner: Hensol, Remdan, etc., etc. Whoever named it (I like to imagine that he is a sharp-minded, money-miss-road type named Chuks, who always wears a hat and carries a very large, elaborately carved walking stick that he doesn't need) was clever enough to call his joint a resort, invoking visions of cool breezes, impeccable service, and a relaxing atmosphere. You don't get any of this at Blake Excellency Resort, but when you hear that there's an outdoor nightclub with a live band named Blake Excellency Resort, you don't ask questions. You just go. Besides, it's got the word "excellency" right there in the middle. It's risky business to assume that anything in Nigeria that claims to be excellent actually is, but still, I found myself powerfully drawn to this place with the funny name.

The first thing I noticed when I got out of SK's car at Blake's was that I was over-dressed. My friends are very aware that dressing up for any occasion tends to be difficult for me because I can't put in the "necessary" effort to look dolled-up for anyone. These days, I consider myself dressed-up when I pin up my hair and slap on some shiny lip-gloss. But because I was in Nigeria, where effyzie levels are high, I decided to don red stilettos and a wide red belt over my black T and jeans. As far as I was concerned, I'd still be underdressed by Nigerian standards, but at least I wouldn't stand out and subsequently be forced to deal with my shyness by drinking heavily all night. However, seeing the folks at Blake, I was momentarily confused as it dawned on me that this was a different kind of crowd altogether. So I compromised: I took off my red belt. I knew that this was going to be an experience, but I was in no way prepared for what I got.

Blake Resort, Blake Resort, Blake Excellency Resort. I really have no words. From the band which played Lionel Richie and Kool and the Gang songs to the dancers who did marvelous things with their jelly-like waists; from the horrible Igbo performing duo just in from some country in eastern Europe to the plastered expatriates from Italy, Brazil, England and America who could not help flailing their limbs wildly to anything the band played, particularly when they could "dance" with a Nigerian P.Y.T., I spent most of the night alternating between picking up my jaw, applauding things no one else seemed to think were remarkable, boo-ing the Igbo duo, and taking pictures. Four hours flew by and I didn't even realize until it was 3:45am and I was literally using my forefingers to prop open my eyelids.

I'm infinitely grateful to SK, Mo and RD for giving me this night. It was the first time I had fun in Abuja, and it preempted the best time I've had in Nigeria since high school. Highlights include: the band playing this song that no one except the songwriter has ever known the words to (which meant that they were all chewing their mouths for at least a minute - great fun); the Fela impersonator with the money-stuffed panties that stripped so quickly as to inspire one drunken audience member to do the same; the white Brazilian chick who gave the band dancers a run for their bootylicious ass-gyrating money; the hilarious post-show comedians who kept following the Brazilian chick around, asking her to marry them, and to "sheck her blood well" for Nigerian traces; the "after-party" which consisted of a Fuji singer praising a married man in the audience who has a reputation for only maintaining affairs with other married women in Abuja and was dancing with about three of them; the band member who politely chopped the N500 I gave him to play Osadebe's "Onuigbo" for me, despite repeated harassment from me and SK; and the very obvious homosexual behavior of many of the audience members. This isn't a judgment against them; I just found it extremely interesting that Nigerian homos now feel comfortable enough to display their "forbidden behaviors" in public. Look out for our first gay parade! I will so be there!

Some of my pictures are below. No videos, though, because the sync problem is annoying me. Have a good week!

Just one quadrant of Blake's. It extends way into the background, there's a balcony area, and the enormous courtyard outside with the suya men easily seats about a hundred people as well. The sea of cars outside the gate is unparalleled in Nigeria except in front of churches. Oh, and we sang church songs at Blake as well. I told you, the place is amazing. You must all go!

The Fela impersonator, post-strip, pre-stuffing

Being stuffed by an audience member

Talk about a moneybag

The audience member he inspired, pre-inspiration...

...and after.

You didn't see that well enough. Here's the money shot.

The comedians went on and on about his ass, too. They warned him to take it easy, "make e no come tomorrow, open front for us, de dance!"

Street Brawl

The loud-mouthed one is Gaius. The guy in the red pants in the kabukabu driver that "bash his car". The guy in the white and blue shirt who went away briefly is the one who came with the turpentine (you can see him sort of cleaning the paint off).

Some filler info: the kabukabu driver had a passenger who faded from the scene as soon as we cleared off the road. That's who Gaius is talking about at the end. That guy he's talking to at the end is the same one from across the street that he stood yelling at after everyone had left. I'm still struck by how much time they spent "conversing" patiently, especially since dude from across the street really didn't need to stick around to be yelled at!

So sorry about the sync problem - dunno how to fix it. Hope you can enjoy it anyway.

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...

Week 1, Part Deux

Continuing with the bad news theme (see previous post), I must discuss the way men in Abuja are treating women. Now, I've always known that respect and equality do not come easily to the females in this country, but the Abuja Big Boys are taking it to a whole new level. I'm not sure who to blame. It would be easiest to say that these men are callous, badly raised, ignorant, disdainful mysogynists, but I dare say it wouldn't be accurate. There are also the women - the golddiggers, the prostitutes, the university girls who might as well be prostitutes - who are giving other women - the intellectuals, the hard-working entrepreneurs, the creative artists - a bad name. I cannot walk into a single establishment in Abuja and be taken seriously as a respectable individual, by men or women alike. Because I'm young and moderately attractive, they assume I'm on the prowl to snatch someone's husband/boyfriend for monetary gain. It's simply unfair.

Take what happened to me the other day, at the Hilton. In any other country, a hotel of this caliber would be a respectable location, where people of taste and some sophistication go to relax and take in some sun by the sparkling pool. Not in Nigeria. Yes, you do find those people and they do do those things, but you also find milling in the lobby "businessmen" of all races and levels, making deals and exchanging business cards. They're working, but out of the corners of their eye, they are on the lookout for their newest "catch" of the day, each of them waiting and ready to pounce on the best-looking (or cheapest-looking) girl that walks past. On this particular day, I was with my brother, who had a meeting with someone in the hotel. I was going to wait for him in the lobby and work on my interview questions (though, at the time, I still had no one to interview). As we walked in, we were greeted by a gentleman in a fancy Italian suit. Let's call him Basil. He was Igbo, and you'll understand why I made this distinction soon enough. When he spotted Basil in the distance, my brother said to me, "This is the man I was telling you about that speaks fluent Italian." I braced myself to be impressed. When my brother shook his hand and playfully said, "Buon giorno," Basil said, with some degree of stuffiness, "You don't speak Italian!" Each of those four words was coated with the unique twang that distinguishes my Igbo brethren from the rest of the world. So thick was Basil's Igbo accent that I was hard pressed to believe that the man had even inhaled the smog in Rome, not to talk of having lived there long enough to pick up the language. At any rate, I was soon too angry to be interested in whether or not he could speak his language, and here's why.

My brother introduced me as his sister, to which Basil responded, with an angry,dismissive flick of his hand, "Oh, come on! There's no need for such pretenses, I know what you mean by sister!" I was still trying to pick up my jaw when my brother, trying really hard to convince Basil, said, "No, really, she's my sister!" Basil said, "Are you sure?" He looked at me. "Are you sure you're his sister?" Trying to smile, I said, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure we're related." Basil again looked at my brother, breathless with shock, "You don't mean it!" His gaze flashed back to me. "You're his sister. You? So pretty!" My brother recounted with a "As pretty as she is, am I not handsome?" Basil just looked at me, his 32 individually-spaced multi-colored teeth grinning with admiration.

At this point, I expected that we would all go our separate ways: my brother to his meeting, me to the lobby, Basil to his lair. So you can imagine my subsequent shock when, in the middle of my cheery "It was nice to meet you," my brother said to Basil, "Why don't you buy her a drink?" I don't think either of them noticed the dismay on my face as Basil cheerily intoned, "Oh, why not!" He ushered me forward with a "Segnora" and began to ask me about what I do. With as much haughtiness as I could muster, I said as loudly as I could without being obnoxious, "I'm a graduate student at Yale. I'm here doing research for my thesis." It was crucial that I sound self-important for a number of reasons. One, neither Basil nor any man within earshot could think of me as a hotel call girl or I would kill someone. The Hilton is a notorious hotspot for female escorts looking for cash. In fact, young women are frequently harrassed by hotel security just in case they are prostitutes because guests have been known to complain about women knocking on their doors, asking if anyone would be interested in "a bit of sex". Two, I wanted the surrounding clientele to know that, even if I wasn't a call girl, I certainly wasn't just one of those chicks who loafs around doing nothing. And by nothing, I mean, waiting around for some guy with money to spend it all on me. I have a brain, and I use it! Lastly, I wanted to make sure that Basil, if he dared to hit on me, would know that I was not going to make it easy. He would definitely have his work cut out for him if he tried to tackle this "princess".

Basil was pleased to hear that I was getting an education at Yale, but he was not about to be one-upped by "this small girl". He began to spout of a list of his credentials including the fact that he went to Harvard and MIT, some other school in Italy, bla bla bla. I must admit that I was impressed; it's not often that I meet an Igbo guy with a whole bunch of advanced degrees like that. (I'm not trying to insult Igbo men o! I'm just speaking from my own experience.) As we approached the lobby, I was struck by the overwhelming number of men just sitting around. Some of them were discussing business with their foreign associates (greasy-looking, pot-bellied white men who looked like they could use a shower); others were watching TV or reading a newspaper. As Basil and I descended the short flight of stairs into the lobby, I noticed how each and everyone one of them stared at me, hungrily. I imagined them all thinking that Basil had paid for my time, which would be easy to believe the way he was strutting with his chest stuck out. I wanted to yell out, angrily, "I don't even want to sit with this man!" But that would have been inappropriate. I just simmered in silence.

We sat. "What do you want to drink?" Basil asked me.

"Just water, thanks." If I had ordered anything else, I would definitely have looked like the cheap hooker everyone thought I was pretending not to be.

"Only water?! Why don't you get soft drink, or stout? Do you drink stout?"

Jehovah! So upon all my yans about being a Yalie, this idiot was still intent on treating me like a common prostitute! It was time to pull out my spare ammunition: my foneh.

"No, I'll just have the wah-der. It's so haht in this country, and I get dehydray-ded so quickly!"

"Ah, ok, no problem. I'm going to have coffee," he pronounced. Good for you, I thought. "Don't you want anything to chew?"

"Anything to what?" For the first time, I was dying to laugh, but by some miracle, I was able to control myself.

"To chew, to chew! I mean, to eat. Do you want to eat something? Why not order something from the bar, like meatpie, or scotch egg, or even salad?" He pronounced "salad", sah-LAHD.

It was too much for me. I had to let myself smile at least as I again refused his offer. Anyone who knows me knows that holding back the laughter was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. We then proceeded to have a conversation about the state of the nation, giving me yet another opportunity to show him that I had some intellectual capacity. But Basil managed to turn this conversation into a pseudo-interview, as he tried to ascertain whether I was the wife he has been looking for his whole life. That was when I learned that he was about 50 years old, and apparently very picky. According to him, he was looking for a wife whose presence beside him on the streets of NEW York wouldn't be an embarrassment. My brother's meeting couldn't have ended soon enough; I don't think Basil even heard my "goodbye" as I fled the Hilton lobby.

I have several stories similar to this, to denote how little respect men accord women here. I won't tell them all, but I must talk about Chief and Ada. Chief is one of my brother's business associates, also Igbo. He came to the house to talk about something with my brother and he brought Ada with him. My brother isn't sure whether or not Chief brought Ada for him, as a sort of gift to smooth their business deal. If he did, Chief must really re-evaluate his tastes. Ada is a masquerade, a truly terrifying specimen of female. She towers about six feet tall, and must weigh about 180 pounds of pure tits-and-ass. She sauntered into our living room, and scared me from across the room when she turned around to greet me and exposed her warpaint makeup. The reddest lipstick coated the thickest lips I have ever seen; her eyes were outlined with black eyeliner, the same eyeliner which she used to paint on her thick devilish eyebrows. Her man-like, beefy hands were tipped with red acrylic claws, and as she sank into my brother's couch, I remember being fearful that it would not be able to hold her up. She made me feel tiny and plain, and I could not take my eyes off her.

I sat behind the couch, working at my laptop as I always do when I'm at home. My brother pointed in my general direction, said to Chief, "That's my sister." I waved, "Hello, good evening." Chief looked at me and decided that he already knew what was going on. "Hello, good eefnin," he answered. Then he gestured at Ada and said, "Ehn, dats my sister too." I couldn't even be upset. For the umpteenth time, nobody was prepared to believe that I could actually be related to my own brother, but the flippancy with which Chief expressed himself was borderline hilarious. Me, with my linen pants and natural face, was now on the same level as the Adas of Nigeria. It's not their fault.

to be continued...

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...

Au Abuja

At 4:20am, the New Haven train station seems to be caught somewhere between reality and the land of dreams. It is quiet, except for the muted laughter of two janitors on the far end, exchanging jokes and cigarettes in the darkness of morning. What few passengers there are in the station are sitting on the bench closest to the schedule board, staring up at the glowing red numbers of the digital clock. 4:21. I had been at the station for three minutes at this point, and was struggling to stay awake so as not to miss my 4:42 train to New York. When I looked around at my fellow travelers, we all seemed to be blinking in unison, and very slowly. I looked back up at the clock. The "1" swelled and twisted around itself, transformed into a "2". 4:22.

I was on my way to Nigeria. Abuja, to be specific. I had planned to be excited about it, but I was now too exhausted to care. Though I meant to go to bed at 9 the night before, giving myself six hours' of sleep by the time I woke up at 3, I ended up sleeping by 12:30am. By the time 3 o'clock rolled around, I opened my eyes, realizing that I had never really fallen asleep the whole time. My red eyes burned with fatigue, but I struggled to my feet and into the shower. I woke up a little when the warm water touched my body; by the time the taxi came, adrenaline kicked in as I rushed down the porch stairs to meet it, my extra-large duffel bag stuffed with two weeks' worth of clothes. And now, I waited.

4:26. In ten minutes, I would head to the platform. To keep my heavy eyelids from closing shut, I pulled out a People magazine that I'd found on a plane a few days earlier and pretended to be interested in the inane articles within. Brad and Angelina seen together in public for the first time, Lindsay Lohan clubbing just one day after her appendectomy. Cute accessories every woman must have. I looked at the words, but let my mind drift to more relevant matters: if I stay awake on the train, I can sleep on the flight to London, but not for long, because I have to save enough sleep for the flight to Abuja, so I don't get jetlagged. Important matters. Then I started thinking about the work that prompted this trip in the first place: my master's thesis. Over the next two weeks, I have to collect enough data and conduct enough interviews about Nigeria's tourism industry to bolster what little work I've done so far and create a research masterpiece (insert "Evil Genius" laughter here). I mentally went over the list of people I had to talk to: Omotayo Omotosho (former DG of the National Tourism Development Corporation), Femi Fani-Kayode (if I could find him), bla bla bla at the Ministry of Information and bla bla bla somewhere else. Got a lot to do, but in the words of Joe Nigeria, I am "up to de tax".

The entire trip was pretty uneventful. I had interesting seat partners on both legs: the first, a beefy English man reminiscent of every British mob movie ever made. He looked like his nickname was Boxer and he pounded Carlsberg lagers throughout the flight. The beer cans were dwarfed by his large, meaty fingers, which were equally dwarfed by the enormous gold twisted-metal rings that adorned them. They looked sturdy. Good for punching someone's teeth out. My seat partner on the flight from London to Abuja was also on the chubby side, but squat. And smelly. Before I saw him, I was greeted by his very striking body odor, which was only outshone by the fecal scent that oozed from his mouth when he opened it to speak. I still believe the flight would have been tolerable, if he hadn't insisted on falling asleep with his fat arms halfway into my chair. Twice, I lambasted him for infringing on my personal space: "Excuse me, you're in my space. You're in my space!" As if I didn't pay the same money as him to fly on that plane. Nonsense.

The toasting started pretty much as soon as we disembarked from the plane. Waiting for my bag, praying that it made it, I was approached by this man in a wide-brimmed hat. He needed a pen to fill out the immigration form that we were handed as we walked through customs. Go figure. Only in Nigeria are you expected to fill out immigration forms after you're cleared through customs. I gave him the pen, noticed that he didn't offer it back even though he was done writing. An inexperienced person might have assumed that he was just trying to find a way to escape with my pen; after all, it's a nice pen. But I knew. When, out of the blue, he asked me if I saw my bag, I was certain. This man was going to toast me. I was immediately irritated. Why do I always get the freaks and the losers? It's 2007. Who the hell wears a wide-brimmed hat in 2007? At least he planned his moves right, so as not to "embarrass" himself (embarrassment being the worst fate that can befall a Nigerian. If you don't believe me, just watch Sharon Stone in Abuja, where she had a gun pointed in her face and was threatening the gun bearer with embarrassment if he should pull the trigger). He accosted me outside, where I stood waiting for Mtama, my uncle/cousin/brother, hand-in-hand with another woman named Jane (really - her name was actually Jane).

I have to give it to Nigerian men - they are relentless. And they have absolutely no understanding of sarcasm, which is my favorite weapon but sadly useless within these borders. I won't bore you with all the details, but we went back and forth for about five minutes, him asking me for my name, me cleaning my teeth, him asking me again for my name, me scrutinizing my nails. Suddenly, he noticed that Jane was attached to his hand, at which point he introduced her saying, "Oh, are you shy because of her? Don't worry, she's just a friend. She works here. On your way back, you can talk to her, she'll help you get through customs and everything." I wanted to tell him that I had been through customs many times without anyone's help, but that would have encouraged him, so I shut up. Not that ignoring him was helping. I literally had to tell him that my silence meant that I wasn't going to tell him my name. That didn't help either. Then Jane, grinning, said, "Just leave her, maybe she's shy because of me. Maybe next time, she will come around." They walked off laughing. I was fuming and incredulous. Shy? I was doing my very best to be stupendously rude, and those morons were calling me shy?? And who the hell did Jane think she was, acting like my pimp? She is what is wrong with Nigerian women today, the ones who make it OK for men to behave like panting dogs, moronic assholes, blind mysogynists, oblivious to their own unacceptable behavior.

But whatever, pretty soon Mtama came and got me, and I have spent the past couple of days catching up to my jetlag (I slept all the way to London, and not a wink between London and Abuja on a flight that landed at 5:40am). It's been dusty and hazy, and I'm getting used to constantly having dry skin since I didn't think to bring or buy Vaseline, the only remedy for harmattan. Despite the fact that Abuja is supposedly "more civilized" than the rest of the country, I find that I'm clutching my seatbelt in every vehicle I enter, afraid of what I imagine will be certain death on roads where every driver seems to think he's driving a Dodgem car. It's nice to be back, though. My brother has wireless internet that actually works (!!), I get to watch Nigerian movies whenever I want (thank you, DSTV!), and Grace (the house help - why are they always named Grace?) is very attentive. Gawd, I have missed being asked what I want to eat! Imagine, I've spent so many years making my own food, when I could have had a Grace! Grace makes most of my meals, Grace prepares all the ingredients when I want to cook for myself so I don't have to do anything but mix, Grace makes my bed, and Grace takes my plate back to the kitchen when I don't want to. And she calls me Aunty. I officially love and will miss Grace terribly. I choose this over New Haven any day!

Drinking Seawater II

By the time my partner returned from his reef exploring, I was beside myself with sadness. He looked at the tears streaming down my face with a shade of disbelief and a heavy dose of confusion. He asked, "Are you OK??" I couldn't even muster the energy to answer; I shook my head, morosely. Too embarrassed to look him in the eye, I kept my gaze downwards and focused intently on the yellow fibers of the salt-stained raft. He said, "Are you ready to swim back?" An inexplicable shudder ran through my body when I pictured myself entering the deep blue sea, and a fresh batch of tears poured from my eyes. At this time, I looked him dead in the eye, pleading as loudly as I could: "Please don't make me. I can't. I can't. Can't you swim back and tell the guy with the boat to come and get me?"

My partner was trying to be sensitive, but I was bordering on ludicrous now. He shook his head, closed his eyes - perhaps looking at me would have made him burst out laughing - and said, "No, come on, you can do it." We proceeded to spend the next five or ten minutes in a battle of wills, which he eventually won despite the fact that I had to attempt to get into the water three times. Each time, I would get thigh-deep in ocean water, become overwhelmed by the fear, and scramble back onto the raft, howling. The last time, he grabbed me by the ankles and dragged me into the water, so I had no choice but to swim. But I refused to look back down, and good thing too. He told me later that there was a giant barracuda swimming right under us, with a huge scar running down its back where it had been attacked by something. His fervent prayers to Providence, begging Him to keep my head above water, were answered. And my life was spared...for the meantime.

The tide was coming in, and the water was getting rougher. Remember the horrific flippers? Well, this was not a good time to have them on our feet. I'm panicky and out of shape. My partner was out of shape and this was making him panic, but at least he kept it a secret lest I freak out and die. You see, he had told me that I could hold his hand the whole way back as well, so I had to see him as a rock, a point of stability in this cold, wet, deep world of waves. Alas, our lack of cardio activity was about to bite us in the ass. Halfway to the first rest station we'd stopped at previously, I felt my lungs giving up. All this time, I had been breathing through my mouth, which is surprisingly exhausting. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe anymore. And because the flippers weren't really doing anything to propel me forward, my legs were tired as well. I tried to float, but I was too scared to concentrate and anyway, the sun was directly in my eyes, which I couldn't take. I knew then that this is how I was going to die, and I absolutely could not believe it. In my distress, I contemplated climbing on my partner's back, having flashbacks of a time when I was four years old and riding on my eleven-year-old sister's back in a pool. Of course, then I weighed about an eighth of what I weigh now, but I was too frantic to reason. I placed a heavy hand on my partner's shoulder in preparation for my leap onto his back, and pushed him underwater. He came up sputtering and angry. Bless his heart, he was still being very kind to me, so he didn't give me the slap I deserved. All he said was, "STOP THAT!"

I didn't even apologize, asshole that I am. I just kept saying, "I can't swim anymore, I can't swim anymore," over and over. He was trying to save himself from drowning, given that he was also exhausted, but the poor guy had to keep reassuring me that I would be fine. Soon he stopped to float and encouraged me to do the same, but every time I noticed him standing still in the water, I would just try to clamber up to his head, falsely assuming that he was standing on the ocean bed. And every time I tried to do this, he dipped a foot underwater. After my third attempt to kill him, he pushed me away - which was very wise - so I decided that it was time to get Hitler's attention. Forget what he said, he was gonna come get me! The frontal lobes of my brain were still running on fear, however, so while one arm was waving for rescue, the other arm was still attempting to grab my partner's shoulder - and effectively drown him. Repeatedly, he would rise up from under the water, see me waving for help, and slap my hand down, saying "Stop doing that!" Because he knew what I refused to comprehend: we were not too far away from the shallow water, I would soon be able to stand on my own, and it would absolutely mortifying, breathtakingly embarrassing for Hitler to bring his boat to where we were. But I could not be stopped. I kept waving, kept getting my hand smacked down, and I was too out of breath to even yell at him what my brain was screaming at me: I'M DROWNING AND I AM GOING TO DIE IN THIS OCEAN IF THAT MAN DOESN'T COME AND GET ME!!!

Eventually, however, I realized that I have been swimming since I was three and that I didn't have to rely solely on the flippers to propel myself through the water. So I gave my arms a break from waving and used them to swim to the shallow water, where I began to walk as soon as I could. I stomped to the beach, swearing and cursing the Bahama reef, the flippers, the fish, the snorkeling gear - everything. When we got close to Hitler, he said jovially, "So how did you enjoy your trip?" I shrieked, "I was drowning and you didn't even notice!" He looked at me, puzzled, and said, "Well, then, you should have waved." I was weak. To avert what would have probably ended in an argument, I just said, "You're right. I forgot," and walked off to rinse the salt out of my hair.

Snorkeling. Bah!

Drinking Seawater

Tourism is the most important industry in the Bahamas; it's their moneymaker. You wouldn't know it to look at Freeport, but this is what they claim. I'm not in the moneymaking business, but even I could recognize how many dollars they were letting slip through their fingers due to bad management. At any rate, they are making a little bit of money, which they're taking from the rednecks who leave North Carolina, Virginia and Georgia to max out their credit cards and "live it up" at the Sheraton and the Westin resorts on Lucaya Beach. The result is a carnival-esque atmosphere, comprising a massive grilling operation serving cheeseburgers (why leave America just to do the same things you do when you're in your own backyard?) and watery beers; a major section of the beach dedicated to every watersport you can imagine (jet skiing, parasailing, windsurfing, kayaking); this huge grotesque water slide built to resemble a castle turret; bahamian women cornrowing white girls' hair for $120; a LOUD man with an equally loud sound system blasting random soca jams and teaching burly white women in too-small swimsuits how to dance; all topped off with the one-man band struggling to be heard over the madness as he performed for drunken white men drinking rum punch out of coconuts. I quickly realized that, if I were to have any fun whatsoever on that island, I would have to find a place where these people did not go.

Soon, my partner and I rented a car and proceeded to spend the next couple of days exploring Grand Bahama Island, looking for - and finding - remote, secluded beaches where we were the only ones around for miles. We lay on the sand, gazed out over the sun-brighted, blue blue ocean, talked only when it was absolutely necessary. We found a restaurant that few people seemed to know about where the best banana bread is baked, ate conch and drank the best Bahamian beer - Lucaya, it's called. Originality is not important over there, apparently. We let the cool breezes whip through our clothes and hair and soothe the harshness of the sun's rays on our skin. There were very few people around, and they were equally blissful and oblivious to anyone else's presence. We were pleased to be relatively alone and in the Bahamas, with no cacophonic drivel disturbing our peace. I was so happy.

But apparently, I was not content. When my partner suggested we go snorkeling, I pictured myself calmly drifting through shallow clear water, observing sea life, pointing at interesting creatures, smiling. It was an attractive picture, and so I agreed; I just knew it would be great fun. I didn't realize that I was not actually the person smiling and pointing in my imagination; rather, I was visualizing the small white child - the snorkel model, if you will - that appeared in the Bahamas guide book I purchased before the trip. I suppose it doesn't matter that I didn't notice what my subconscious was doing. Either way, I was ignorant of what the activity entailed and gravely mistaken when I assumed it would be "great fun". I was about to realize that the guide book was a liar, and that I was going to be in for a hell of a time.

We drove our rickety Island-mobile to Paradise Cove, where a very tan, gruff instructor gave us curt instructions about how to snorkel in his equipment. "Don't walk on the grass, don't kick up sand, don't touch the coral or you'll kill it. If there's an emergency, wave your hands and I will come in my boat and get you. Don't wave if you're scared because you see a big fish. And don't walk in my flippers. Enjoy yourselves!" My partner and I walked away from ol' Hitler, and entered the water. It was the first time I'd ever snorkeled, and I was excited about it, but also scared. Now, this is why I don't do anything too new: because I cannot be trusted to take care of myself properly. There's too much going on for me to think about everything that should concern me and I inevitably leave something out. In this instance, I was too busy thinking about Hitler's equipment and breathing properly to remember the following:

1) I had never swam in the ocean before
2) I am scared of heights, and in the ocean, depth = height
3) I hate wildlife, especially fish
4) I don't like the way things look underwater

It wasn't until I took my first step in the water and realized that I was surrounded by hundreds of tiny fish - at which point I took a flying leap back onto the sand - that I remembered points 3 and 4. With my partner coaxing me back into the water, I tried again and stepped on squishy grass, which grossed me out so thoroughly that I turned to run back to shore again. My partner quickly grabbed my arm and gave me a good talking-to. "Don't worry, you'll be fine. None of the fish will ever touch you or swim too close. I'll hold your hand the whole time."

"The whole time?" I asked, incredulously.

"The whole time. I promise."

"You swear?"

"I swear."

"You'll hold my hand the whole time?"

"Yes! Come on, let's go."

And so, I went. I had a couple of false starts: the water was too cold, seeing grass growing on the ocean floor was so disgusting, everything was brownish-gray and eerie...even now, I'm getting chills thinking about it. Also, it was a bit weird listening to myself breathe through the snorkel tube, and I had to keep reminding myself not to breathe so fast lest I make myself dizzy. But eventually, I made it and started swimming and observing. When I saw my first fish, it was silver, thin and ugly, but I only jumped a little bit. I began to believe that I would indeed be all right, that I was even a bit excited by what I was doing. I hadn't begun to think about points 1 and 2, yet. About 50 or 60 meters away from shore, we got to the first rest station, a giant floating round raft. My partner had begun to worry about the quality of our flippers, which didn't seem to be doing much to propel us forward in the water, but he never said anything about it. I can't yet decide if that was smart or stupid, because had he voiced his concern, I probably would not have swum the next 60 meters to the next rest stop, where the water was deeper. On the other hand, I might have continued on and then I would have been even more mentally fucked when the katakata bust. And God knows it bust, right out of the water.

We resumed swimming, and the water was becoming a deeper shade of blue. My breathing was quickening, as my anticipation of what would come next grew. However, I began to notice that the water was becoming more and more choppy, the waves stronger as we swam...and we also weren't moving forward as fast as we had been before. In fact, we seemed to be standing still most of the time, no matter how much we paddled our legs and I was growing tired. I still wasn't seeing much sea life, and every time I looked up, I saw that we weren't that much closer to the rest station. I was beginning to worry, but only ever so slightly, when suddenly the ocean floor plummeted to 40ft, and I was looking down at tons of fish. Points 1 and 2 immediately flashed to the forefront of my mind, and I panicked.

What the HELL am I doing swimming in the ocean? My mother - rest her soul - nearly lost her mind at Bar Beach in 1987 when she saw me at the water's edge, and then me I brought myself to the deepest of the deep to look at ordinary fish?? Chineke, this water deep o! Why is it so dark?? Where is that fucking rest station????

In my state of panic, I forgot to breathe through my mouth and somehow I ended up swallowing sea water. It was just a little bit, but enough to remind me that people get dehydrated when there is too much salt in their system. I lost it. I started frantically thrashing towards the rest station, abandoned my partner's hand and kicked him in the face for good measure, screaming through my snorkel tube. Ten hours later when I got to the rest station, I used my newly-acquired superhuman strength to hoist myself on top of it, where I tried to catch my breath and gain some inner peace. My partner eventually reached me, with deep worry etched on his face, asking me if I was all right. I shook my head, too weary to talk. He asked if I wanted to go back. Realizing that this was his vacation too, I (very selflessly) said, "No, no. You go ahead and snorkel. I'll stay here and try to calm down." He reassured me that he would be back soon, and went exploring the reef. The big, ugly reef, with waves crashing violently against it. I lay on the raft, too afraid to sit up because I was suddenly aware that I might as well be on top of a building waiting to plummet to my death below where fish would eat me, bit by bit.

With every passing minute, I became more aware of my surroundings. With every passing minute, I became more of a basket case. I was floating on a fucking raft, over 100 meters away from the safety of the beach and over 40 feet above land. (In a mind where depth translates to height, it wasn't that the ocean was 40ft deep; it was that my feet 40ft were too high from the ground and had to stay that way unless I wanted to die a slow, painful death.) I was surrounded by all manner of fish that I didn't even recognize and which were scaring me with their beady eyes and emotionless faces, and I knew that there were barracudas around because the other snorkelers kept talking about the ones they had seen. You know what a barracuda is? A shark! Ok, they wouldn't eat me, but what the hell was that supposed to mean to me at that point in time? A shark is a shark is a shark. When I realized that this was the hostile environment I had to swim through to get back to shore, when I realized that I had willingly put myself in this predicament, when I realized that Hitler would not come and get me simply because I was afraid - I began to cry. Like a scared little kulutempa puppy, I sobbed and lamented my fate and wondered what would become of me.

(to be continued...)

Glorious Sunshine!

Just in from a sunny vacation in Freeport, Grand Bahama Island.

Grand Bahama Island is a most interesting place, and I hope not to go back any time soon. Ok, that's unfair. Like every other place in the world, it had its plusses and minuses. I almost drowned in the ocean, but there were no mosquitoes. There were too many rednecks with too much money, but the food was spectacular. All the rednecks assumed that I was Bahamian and therefore an employee everywhere I happened to be at the time. Because, you know, all the Bahamians are there to serve the visiting whiteys. In the course of 5 days, I have been a waitress, hotel receptionist, janitor and the girlfriend of a dwarf gas station attendant all because I am black. I don't blame them; na me carry myself go Bahamas.

It was still great fun, though. And I would go back again. I snorkeled for the first time, I gambled for the first time, I was given free drinks by a very handsome bartender for the first time in a long time...all in all, it was a fruitful vacation. This post will just be of a couple of my favorite pictures; later, I'll tell you how I nearly drowned without anyone noticing, a drowning which would most certainly have occurred if I had looked into the water and seen the giant barracuda that was apparently swimming right under me. God is good!

Happy New Year, everybody!

Marry or Die

Everyone's doing it. Jumping the broom, tying the knot, lugging the ol' ball-and-chain - call it what you will, it just keeps happening: marriage. The incessant influx of wedding websites to Adaure's blog is a very obvious indication that people, especially my people, just cannot seem to wait any longer to join themselves in holy matrimony, 'til death or divorce do them part. And they're taking the single ones along for the ride. From flashy engagement ceremonies in Nigeria to elaborate church weddings in New York, our young men and women are eager to show their love to anyone who will respond to their invitations, and promises of a buffet and open bar. An open bar gets me every time - I can never resist a dance with Monsieur Chardonnay and his friends, Jose, Jack and Sam (Adams, that is). But I cannot help but think that this rush to the altar is just a chain of reactions to the actions of a few deluded couples who think marriage will complete them. A herd reaction, if you will.

I'm not a cynic, and I don't think that everyone who gets married will get divorced (though the stats speak for themselves). I just think that our reasons are wrong, especially among Nigerians. The top three reasons our people get married are, in a word, ridiculous:

1) It is our responsibility as children of God
2) We got pregnant
3) It was just time

The third reason is the one most commonly used by the men. You see, when it is "time", the very next girl who agrees to enter into a relationship with them is inevitably, unavoidably, The One. Excellent strategy, gentlemen. Availability trumps romance, and the messiness of true courtship can be avoided since the girl is almost instantly thrown into planning the wedding. I don't suppose they can be blamed, though. It's the young women who allow themselves to be flattered by a marriage proposition right off the bat. And yes, it is a proposition, not a proposal. Because, you see, for these men, marriage is like a business transaction that must be completed in a timely fashion before the stock value falls. Whose stock? Theirs. If the young lady actually requests some time to get to know him a little better before she agrees to his offer of instant-marriage, it's a deal breaker. Because she might actually discover one or two things about him that he needs to work on before he drags someone into a lifelong contract, in which case he would actually have to become a better man. And that's too much work. Now or never, darling, he laughingly threatens, a sinister glistening in the back of his eye. And the young lady, prodded on by nosy aunts, sisters and her mother, a barrage of websites detailing weddings to die for, and the fact that "nobody has ever been so serious about marrying me before", stupidly resolves that this is God's will for her and agrees to marry this man she barely knows. Five years and four children later, when she realizes that he's been hitting on all her friends, including the maid of honor at her wedding, who was extremely flattered that he would make her his mistress - and potential second wife - so soon, she wonders why life is so unfair.

I speak from experience. But I'm suspicious even of people who eat too quickly, so I backed out, declared that I needed more time. Three months later, he sent me an invitation to his Mediterranean wedding and now, he just pops up occasionally to invite me to be his paramour and ask me why I ruined all our plans. Our plans? Hm.

Personally, I don't think I'm hardwired for that phase of life. I see people exchanging handcuffs - I mean, rings - and I get nauseous. What's so wrong with dating, people? The white man even came up with a brilliant solution for people like me: common law marriage. If you can stick it out long enough, you might as well be married, so he declares that you are. And you don't even have to worry about spending all that money on a frivolous wedding. Brilliant! Of course, Nigerians wouldn't allow that. Marry or die, that's the motto where I come from. But I wonder why anyone wants to marry a Nigerian man anyway. Noncommital, irresponsible, selfish, arrogant, inconsistent, and dishonest - all in a half-assed package that isn't even gift-wrapped. They show their asses right up front - unless they want to get married, of course. Then you have the pleasure of discovering your grave mistake either moments or decades after you've made it, but certainly only after it's too late to do anything about it. Try, and risk the weight of society bearing down on you: your parents complaining that you want to bring shame on the family; your so-called friends waiting to laugh behind your back, even as they commiserate with you on your failed life plan; your children who will certainly be abandoned and forced to go to a badly-funded public school, perhaps helping you sell akara to pay their school fees, or even worse, they will be taken from you and raised by an evil stepmother who gives them whippings for breakfast; your pastor condemning you to hell for even thinking about breaking your vow before God and man. Forget that he broke the vow first; as a woman, you must be the strong one, the cross bearer. Forgive him, and while you're at it, bring him back to Jesus - now that's he's your husband, it's your responsibility to see that he makes it to heaven.

To be fair, Nigerian girls aren't much better either, these days. The country is facing a moral crisis and the future mothers of the nation are getting sucked into this ethical black hole. If they're not marrying for money, they're numb to the immorality of men and, indeed, encourage the underhanded behaviors that take place in the dark of night (or the light of day, depending on schedules and the degree of callousness). Why else would it be all right for a man to employ, for the lack of a better word, confusing methods to approach a young lady? Because in Nigeria these days, men no longer deem it necessary to look you in the eye or even talk to you directly when they want to get you in bed. Like blind cave-dwelling bats, all they need to do now is register your feminine form with their (uncanny) radar before they swoop in for the sex. They toss a flippant greeting in your general direction, then walk right past you and send their personal assistant back to get you. Not your number - you. This happened to me too. Apparently, he thought I was playing hard to get because I kept rejecting his third-party advances. Eventually, when the PA approached me for the fourth time, a nearby security guard took it upon himself to get rid of him and warn me that "these men are touts". But clearly, more than a few Nigerian girls respond positively to these inane gestures - insulting gestures, actually - or the men would not continue to behave thusly. So what does this say about our people? A mass Christian movement, hours spent in communication with God, a culture that supposedly does not support such loose behavior, and still this is what we are?

Methinks I'd rather die than marry that, if I must marry at all.
What say you?