A Woman Of A Certain Age (2)

Considering Cradle Snatching
Ok so we’ve talked Biological Clocks and flab around the mid-section. Now it’s on to point 3 on the list of Things That Happen To A Woman Of A Certain Age: appreciating the younger men who find one attractive.

First let me define ‘younger men’: ‘younger’ means anyone up to an hour younger than you. (Yes, the rules are stringent but one needs order in this chaotic world.) ‘Men’ means anyone who’s not a woman. Put that together and ‘younger men’ means someone you never took seriously because you assumed they would be juvenile.

So, you’re thirty. And single. And searching, though you act like you’re not. And after attending the wedding of the last guy you know who is older than you, you realize that what was a shallow pool of eligible men slowly dried up into a puddle and then – right before your eyes – into a mud hole.

You’re just leaving the abovementioned wedding reception when your phone rings. *Aargh!* It’s him again. ‘Him’ being the persistent, much-younger suitor who refuses to accept that you’re Just Not Interested. Oh what the heck, I’ll take his call one last time. You answer. And talk. And laugh. And laugh again. (Hmm he’s funny) And smile at something he says (Aww, he’s sweet.)

You hang up and realize - in absolute horror - that you forgot to take some wedding cake home! Ok that’s not what you realize. Just kidding. What you really realize is that the only reason you blew your baby suitor off all this time was that you were being narrow minded; assuming that a younger man could not be your match mentally, emotionally or intellectually. You locked out a whole ocean of potential partners and allowed your ageist mentality to keep you splashing lamely in the shallow pool of older men; a pool that’s now dried up.

It’s definitely a *Eureka!* moment and you go home in high spirits, grateful that your eyes were opened to possibilities, before it was too late.

You get home in a state of excitement and tell your twenty-something year old sister everything you’ve realized.

“Hmm” she says, looking unconvinced. “Younger men. So you’re now officially a spinster?”

A Woman of a Certain Age

Several things supposedly happen when a single woman hits 30:

1. Her biological clock starts ticking (very loudly)
2. She develops the beginning of middle-age spread
3. She begins to appreciate the younger men who find her attractive
4. Family members stop hinting about marriage and ask outright
5. She discovers herself
6. She gets a significant pay raise at work

Okay the last point isn’t necessarily true, but apparently the first five are to be expected. So did any of those things happen to me??...

Tick Tock
Ah, the Biological Clock, that imaginary device whose constant ticking serves as a reminder to women to “Have A Baby Soon, Have A Baby Soon.”

At some point I thought I might have to take my Clock in for repairs – most times it didn’t tick at all, though I did notice a very faint ‘tick tock’ when I saw a bathed, powdered, well-behaved baby. At one point I got worried – shouldn’t I be desperate to have a child? Shouldn’t I be staring wistfully at other people’s children? Maybe my Biological Clock needed new batteries?

Then I met J, then a two and a half month old and suddenly my phone is full of his photos. I clapped enthusiastically when he tried his first mouthful of solid food and celebrated when he tried to crawl. My Clock is working perfectly!

Looking Flabulous
*sigh* A few years ago I remember staring at my cousin's belly with disdain. If it was possible to have a conceited tummy, mine was it. It was flat and firm and looked down on any that was less than perfect.
As far as I was concerned a sagging belly on a woman without kids was the result of indiscipline! lack of self control! gluttony! I was the disciplined one. I was controlled, strong willed and yet, before I knew it I was on the way to displaying the genes I shared with my cousin.

I tried sit ups. I'd wake up half an hour earlier, stuff my feet under the couch in the living room and huff & puff my way through them. I'd read that Destiny's Child did about 300 sit ups a day and used that to motivate myself but I'd usually only manage five and a half before I gave up, telling myself "they do that because they earn their living from looking great. I don't have to"

As my suddenly-snug shirts confirm, I can no longer carelessly reach for one more doughnut and have taken to occasionally choosing tops which allow me the luxury of breathing. No more tight fitting tops if it means I have to walk around Lagos with my tummy sucked in.

Here's a great tip for anyone who wants to hang loose at work, especially after lunch: (assuming you have an adjustable swivel chair)
1. jack your seat down really low
2. pull yourself in towards your desk and...
3. voila! your tummy is neatly tucked away under your desk. Try it, it works. :-)

Bored & Boyfriendless

The old diary I found is so so precious; it captured who I was when I was 22: a skinny young wannabe writer with an exaggerated sense of humour and no boyfriend.

I wrote in the diary when I was bored, when I was happy, when I was frustrated, I just wrote and wrote and wrote.
It wasn’t a proper diary to start with, so dismiss any images of a leather-bound journal and picture this: a faded orange exercise book with “Three Star Big Exercise Book”, “60 Leaves” and “Made in Nigeria by Star Paper Mill” on the cover, with the mandatory metric tables on the outside back cover. Anyone who went to school in Naija knows what I’m talkin’ about!

Did anyone *ever* use those conversion tables printed on the back?? “Linear Measure”, “Mass and Weight Measure” and “Capacity Measure” (Fluid Volume) Thank God those awful school days spent calculating are over.

Anyway that exercise book was my ‘diary’ for the month of July 1997. In it I recorded the details of my first Weight Gain Programme and the day I heard Gianni Versace had been murdered. I was still stuck in the East at my Grandmother’s and since I had no friends I spent a lot of my time writing about all the stuff happening around me.

On July 2nd (which was a Wednesday) my mum sent me and a male cousin of mine (“O”) to a town a couple of hours away, to pick up something she had commissioned a local artist to paint. I wrote:

Went with O to look for the artist mum commissioned. The journey wasn’t too long, along the way I spotted a sign with ‘Alliance Francais French Language and Cultural Centre’ on it and made a mental note to stop by on our way back.

The taxi driver on the last leg of the trip was very kind; (we had to change taxis twice) he drove us straight to the artist’s house at no extra charge. We knocked, no one answered so we sat on the steps and gossiped about Cousin N’s second boyfriend. I’m starting to get very worried about the fact that everyone else seems to leap effortlessly from one relationship to another with minimum recovery time in between, while it takes me forever to even find someone to relate to: where are all the men?? I can count all the relationships I’ve had on two fingers.

Anyway, there we were talking when the door opened and a hostile-looking woman with dried out jerry curls appeared in the doorway. Talk about delayed reaction: we’d knocked nearly fifteen minutes earlier. Anyway she lived up to her appearance and hostilely asked who I was. I told her who we were and what our mission was, dispelling her fears that I was a student who was pregnant for her husband or something.
She let us in, put the fan and radio on and handed us photo albums as a source of entertainment while we waited for her husband, who wasn’t back from work.

“Why do people here always assume visitors want to look through their photos?” I whispered to O. “Eh, that’s what people here like” he replied. I certainly don’t like it but was forced to look through black & white photos dating back to the Sixties so as not to offend our hostess who sat at the dining table, staring at us.
Only one photo interested me: a recent one of a very good looking guy who, from the landmarks in the photo, was in England. After admiring his cute smile for several seconds I remembered my boyfriendless state and quickly became depressed. The artist came home shortly afterwards, apparently he has a day job as a teacher. Though he hadn’t started work designing anything, he had taken the photos he’d need to work with. After talking to him for several minutes, O and I got up to leave but the artist forced us to eat ‘oji’. His wife brought out a saucer of kolanuts and garden eggs (we’re too young for this!) and we rushed through the ceremony. I wasn’t sure whether he was praying over the saucer or whether he was giving blessings so I lowered my eyes just in case, and examined my left big toe. I stubbed it on a stool yesterday and it looked like a blood clot was forming.

On the way back to town we got in a taxi with a girl with a beard. Not a full-grown Barry White-ish sort of beard but just short of a goatee.
I stared in fascination; this brings to about two million, the number of women with hairy chins that I’ve seen here in the past month. Immac sales obviously aren’t sky high here.

Witty Words of Wisdom

Still on the stuff I dug out of my old bag of books; I also found an old email I'd printed out, which had some really funny one-liners.

The email had been forwarded to me and though I usually delete forwarded mails on the spot, (especially those annoying, threatening ones that instruct you to forward to several other people or risk developing boils in your armpit) this one was quite funny.

I don’t know where the quotes originally came from but here they are:

Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you criticize them, you’re a mile away and you’ve got their shoes.

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a flat tyre and a broken fan belt

Always remember you’re unique. Just like everyone else.

The quickest way to double your money is to fold it in half and put it back in your pocket

If at first you don’t succeed, skydiving is not for you.

Don’t be irreplaceable. If you can’t be replaced, you can’t be promoted.

And my absolute favourite:
Don’t walk behind me, for I may not lead. Don’t walk ahead of me, for I may not follow. Don’t walk beside me for the path is narrow. In fact, just f*ck off and leave me alone.

Back to Work...and Chicken Wings

The strike is over.

After hours and hours of negotiations over the weekend, the Labour Unions called off the strike, saying they had reached an agreement with the FG.

Petrol pump price is still N70/litre but the Unions got the Government to commit to no further increases of petroleum product prices for a year. In addition, the FG is not to penalize any worker who took part in the strike.

So that’s it, the mini-holiday is over. No more watching movies til 3am, sleeping til late and all the other mini-holiday activities; it’s back to work tomorrow. I’m already dreading the traffic on 3rd Mainland; I’m sure every man, woman and dog will be on that bridge as from 6am. *aargh*

Now that VAT has been reverted to 5%, those chicken wings had better be back to N500 a portion by tomorrow, or else...

Where There’s a Will…

When you’re cooped up at home for several days because of a strike, what better way to occupy yourself than to go digging into your past.

There’s this huge bag at home that’s filled with books and magazines and journals and all sorts of scribblings from the years when I was young and foolish. For over a year I’ve been meaning to sort out the stuff in it but haven’t had the time or the inclination to.

Yesterday I finally opened the bag and in its dusty depths I found a notebook dated July 1997, a decade ago when I was stuck in my Grandma’s house and hating it.
The book served as my diary at the time and there’s all sorts of interesting stuff in it. However what stood out for me and really made me laugh is the Will I wrote one night when I thought I was going to die.
It was about 9pm and I was lying on the couch in my Grandma’s living room. I was always lying on the couch in my Grandma’s living room simply because there wasn’t much else to do around there, ‘there’ being my Grandma’s village in the heart of Ibo land. (We’ll get to my complicated family tree one day)

I didn’t speak the language so I had no friends. I was the snooty older one who lay on the couch all day, reading, while my younger brother and sister made friends with the ‘natives’ and spent their days swimming in streams, climbing trees, cooking bush meat over open fires on the farms and generally being real.

I can’t remember where everyone else was at 9pm that night of Thursday 10th July 1997; it wasn’t that late so they must’ve been around somewhere. I wrote the Will because I was going to the British Council office in Enugu the following day and all my mother’s warnings about the treacherous roads and high incidence of car accidents had made me paranoid. (Present day thought: ten years later the roads are still death traps…)

Anyways here’s an edited version of what I wrote in my diary:

“Called the Port Harcourt branch of the British Council to find out if the ’97 edition of the Writers & Artists Yearbook is in the library. The lady who answered the phone said they only had the ’96 edition. Fat lot of use that is to me; I need info on competition deadlines…..I tried the Enugu office but the phone rang and rang so I’ll go there tomorrow. Mum is reluctant to let me go to Enugu alone; I’m 22 for God’s sake! (more or less) The most that can happen is that I’ll die in an accident and I’m not as afraid of dying as I used to be. But I’d better write out my Will just in case…

MY LAST WILL & TESTAMENT (Haven’t had much experience in this but this will just have to do)

I, (my name; on this blog I’m simply zaza) aged 22 (more or less) and being of sound mind do hereby declare that in the event of my death, my paltry possessions should be disposed of and distributed as stated below: (pause while I think hard about what constitutes my estate)

CLOTHING (aka Very Limited Wardrobe)
1) Since I am the shortest of us three, none of my jeans do I bequeath to my siblings (present day thought: I really liked big words when I was younger)
Instead, my jeans should be shared amongst the children in Grandma’s compound. (Pause while I mentally cross out those who do not deserve my old denims)

2) My shirts I dispose of as follows:
Black & white striped shirt – reverts to its original owner, (my brother.) So also my blue long sleeved shirt and gray short sleeved shirt.
Pink sleeveless top – reverts to original owner, my mother.
My turquoise T-shirt I bequeath to my brother, who’s been hounding me for it.
The rest of my shirts and cream skirt I bequeath to my sister.
My favourite black trousers and green silk shirt should be buried with me, thank you very much.

JEWELLERY: none in existence. I am even currently sans earrings.

SHOES: my black slip-ons and silver mules I bequeath to my mother. Since my beige mules are the only things my sister can squeeze her large feet into, they go to her. My clumpy platforms go to whoever’s keen on retro.
My black loafers, my faithful beloved loafers go the way of the black trousers and silk shirt.

OTHERS AKA MISCELLANEOUS:
My bag goes to my sister, and the contents as follows:
Lipbalm: my sis
Nail polish, various shades: my mother and sister
Superglue – goes to my brother
My ‘Z’ pendant either goes to ‘Zulu or to my brother, in case he falls in love with a girl whose name starts with ‘Z’. This is at my mum’s discretion.
Perfume – my mum
Letters, address books and other papers as directed under DOCUMENTS
Green wide-toothed comb, perfect for those knots and tangles – my mum and sister
Tube of Bonjela – to be disposed of at my mum’s discretion
Tweezers – my mum
2 tablets of Valium – my mum
1 lozenge – Aunty Ada (who told me the other day when I visited her that she has a cold coming on)
My mix tape – between my sis & brother, whoever likes Seal, Anita Baker and Mariah Carey the most.
1 diskette containing coursework from my 6 week computer class – goes to whoever wants it
Video club card – my brother & sister (valid until Nov ’97)

*I interrupt this Will to announce that the power just came back on and now I’m listening to jazz on Minaj Radio. The presenter should please shut up and let me listen to the music.*

DOCUMENTS
Comprising address books, journals, notes and letters, including F’s steamy love letters: I’m torn between having them all burnt and having them published as a book. I bequeath them all to my mum. Mum I swear my letters to F were decent, nothing as graphic as his.

The beneficiaries of this Will are mainly members of my immediate family because I have nothing to give my friends, except:

To A and N: copies of the photos we took together in ’94.
To T: the portrait of you that I commissioned as your 21st birthday present, even though you’re now 22. (more or less)

This I declare to be my last Will and Testament, written Thursday 10th July, at about 9pm,
Signed by: Me. Witnessed by: Me. ”

Present day thought: I’ve always wanted to be a writer and even ten years ago I was willing to make the ‘dangerous journey’, risking life and short limbs on treacherous roads to get to a copy of the Writers & Artists Yearbook…

Finding this old diary really made my day and you could say finding it made the strike worthwhile for me in a very personal way.

So What Do We Have in Common with South Africa?

Industrial actions, for one.
Apparently South African workers have been striking for three weeks to demand higher pay.

Hopefully ours won’t last that long as dialogue is ongoing between the Federal Government and the Unions. I’m hopeful of a positive outcome; a strike becomes very uncomfortable if it lasts longer than 3 days, particularly if electricity and water gets shut off…and there was talk of that happening.

I don’t have a lot of info on the South African strike; apparently it has affected schools, hospitals and transportation, with negotiations between the SA Government and the Congress of South African Trade Unions currently deadlocked. (For more info, check out the Reuters and BBC sites.)

It’s just past 11 pm now. A few hours ago a tired looking Baba Gana Kingibe, Secretary to the FG, emerged after a six hour stakeholder meeting held to resolve the issues surrounding the strike. No agreements yet so they went on break and will meet again at midnight.

Barney Goes to the Farm (And So Does Obasanjo)

Day 2 (Strike 1)

The strike is still on. The roads are deserted, most people are home and the Government and Trade Unions are meeting today.

PHCN has been quite kind these past couple of days; we’ve had power most of the time. When the power does goes off the whole place goes deathly quiet, which is normal. What’s strange is how long the quiet lasts. I’ve noticed that the neighbours aren’t in any hurry to put their gens on - with the fuel situation its best to conserve diesel, eh?

It's now I realize that there’s a lot of background noise we take for granted - the hum of the fridge, the maiguard’s radio blaring by the gate, your neighbour’s kids watching the same episode of Barney - at full volume - for the 1,000th time…speaking of which, the other day I bought some new Barney DVDs for the kids in my mum’s daycare. “Thank God” said Georgina when I showed her the new collection. She’s the lady who looks after the children and she’s understandably sick and tired of the “Barney Goes to the Farm” episode that’s been in the player since February. She even knows all the songs & most of the dialogue…

Civil Rights activist Femi Falana was on TV earlier today, talking about the fact that VAT was increased without the National Assembly’s involvement, and about the 14 day ultimatum the Unions gave the Government before the strike commenced. And in the other corner we have the Government saying (repeatedly) that the Unions have a political agenda.
There’s a lot of back & forth and I’m starting to feel cooped up at home, waiting around to hear the latest on the strike - is it still on, has it been called off, will it still be on tomorrow…its like being in a bad relationship and not being sure whether you’re still together!

Heard something funny on TV this morning during all the coverage on the situation: the presenter said that Obasanjo caused problems for Yar'Adua and then retired to his farm, instead of allowing Yar'Adua to cause his own palaver. It’s interesting to note that we believe our leaders are there to cause problems. But it does make sense to ensure that any trouble you cause is solely your own.

The Empress Decrees: Benjamin Can Stay

On TV they showed clips of how deserted the roads are because of the strike.

It wasn’t that much different this past week, during the petrol scarcity. A couple of days ago when I gave someone a ride home from work, we were amazed that the journey home which normally takes at least 2 hours lasted only 35 minutes. We talked about what Lagos was like in the ‘good old days’: no traffic, getting around was no issue etc. I was talkin’ way back in the 80’s but it turned out not everyone in the car was on the same page.

I said “Wouldn’t it be great if everyone who’s lived here for less than 15 years would move out so we could have the roads free again?” I got no response to this from my colleague and noticed Benjamin squirming a bit. He probably thinks I have the power to make that happen!
So I asked my colleague in the back seat how long she’d lived in Lagos, turns out she’s only been here about 4 years. Hmm, no wonder she didn’t think much of my idea.
“Benjamin, how long have you been here?” He said twelve years, so in my little role play as Empress of Lagos I altered the law to read ‘anyone who’s been here less than 12 years…’ so that Benjamin can stay because I need him to get to work. He looked pleased that I allowed him to stay in Lagos.

Lagos in the 80’s was paradise compared to now. I wrote an article in Island News a couple of years ago about what Falomo Bridge was like back then; you could zip across in a matter of minutes, visit a friend, zip back home, remember you forgot something at your friend’s place and even consider going back to get it. Now it’s a long slow crawl spent maneuvering around beggars and hawkers.

But it’s not all pleasant memories - the part I hated was the descent from the bridge to the roundabout, where if your windows weren’t up you risked getting blinded by a bunch of plantains. There used to be some women and their kids stationed at the roundabout, armed with huge loaves of bread and massive plantains, waiting for motorists to slow down so they could fling their wares in through the open windows. The thinking probably was that whoever got their plantains in first, clinched the sale.
It really didn’t matter whether or not the people in the car wanted to buy anything.

They would run alongside the car yelling Bread! Plantain! Bread! I guess to help you identify the objects they were stuffing in through your window. But they only did it for a couple of minutes, and only at the roundabout. They’re nothing like the new breed of hawkers who are prepared to dog you down the length of Kingsway Road.

Day 1 (Strike 1)

It’s just past 10 am on the first day of the strike. The NLC strike, that is. The petrol workers’ strike has been called off, remember? (Try to keep up, guys)

I got calls from a couple of colleagues earlier this morning asking if I was at work? “No.” If I’m going to go to work? “No.”

Turns out that some people who were attempting to go to the Island today got turned back, probably by representatives of the Labour Congress. They had to go back home and here we all sit, watching the news to keep up.

The President of the Trade Union Congress was on Sunrise Daily this morning, to explain the Union’s position.
It’s a great show on Channels TV for getting topical issues clarified and I’m glad I watched it because after what the TUC Prez explained, I now understand that the Labour Congress isn’t being pedantic: yesterday the FG reduced the pump price from the N75/litre the Obasanjo administration announced before leaving, to N70/litre. However the Congress insisted on full reversion to the previous price of N65 and went on with the strike because of that.

While it may appear that the strike is on over N5/litre, the guy explained that the manner in which VAT and petrol prices were raised is also being protested. It is statutory for a stakeholder’s meeting to be held before such price increases are made and he alleged that no such meeting held. Stakeholders include the various Unions: NLC, TUC, PENGASSAN etc

I agree wholeheartedly that if this is allowed to slide by, precedence would’ve been set and we will wake up one day to the announcement that petrol is N150/litre, too bad if we don’t like it.
The question came up: “why didn’t the Unions react earlier?” afterall it was the previous administration that implemented these price increases. From what the TUC guy said, they chose to be silent to allow for a peaceful handover process.

Perhaps it’s a good thing they were quiet about it…who knows, perhaps if there were strikes and all sorts of crises at the point of Obasanjo’s departure he might have declared a state of emergency and presented that as a reason to prolong his stay in the leadership?

Now, being a crusty old cynic, I don’t know how much of what I heard this morning is really the true picture of things. As the saying goes, there is no one truth, only different versions of it and so far I’ve only heard the Union’s side.

3rd Mainland in 8

It took us 8 minutes to cross 3rd Mainland Bridge this morning.

It usually takes an hour.

I guess everyone else was queuing at a petrol station or was at home conserving what little they had, so there was just a handful of cars on the bridge at the time Benjamin and I zipped across on our last few drops of precious petrol.

At the traffic lights I saw a newspaper headline: “Federal Government reduces fuel price, reduces VAT”
Sh*t that meant the strike wouldn’t start tomorrow as planned. So much for my wish for a couple of days off work and escape from the manic Lagos traffic. I called a friend and told her the news.

“Sh*t” she said. (We think alike, that’s why we’re friends.)

The guys in my team were subdued when I got in. “Hi guys looks like there won’t be a strike!” I greeted. They grunted and barely looked up. I guess they were looking forward to a strike-induced holiday as well.

E refused to order chicken wings today because he’s waiting for the price to come down. He even harassed the chick who works at the joint across the street when she delivered someone else’s order, telling her “go back and tell your Manager that the Government has brought VAT back to 5% so chicken wings can’t remain at N630”

Everyone geared up to report to work tomorrow (Wednesday.) We weren’t looking forward to it because we were sure that by Thursday the traffic would be back - *groan* - since the petrol workers had called off their strike. (Note to confused readers: 2 strikes were in the pipeline: one called by the Labour Congress and the other by the petrol workers.)

I was worried about not having any petrol; all I’d have left after we got home would be about a teaspoon if any. Got home in a record 30 minutes or so, resigned to paying three times more for 'black market' from the guys who line up jerry cans of the stuff along the road.

I was really concerned about paying so much and ending up with petrol that had been mixed with kerosene or something but Benjamin claims he has a foolproof method of testing before buying. Something about a skin test. (Hey, as long as it’s not my skin being tested.)
He’s worked as a mechanic so I tend to go with what he says unless it sounds really silly. You could say I got two for the price of one - a driver and mechanic of some sort.

Showed me the certificate he got when he graduated from the mechanic workshop he trained at. According to the certificate, he is (and I quote) “a trained engineer” and “his absence from the workshop has left a vacuum no man can fill”. Whoever filled in the details of Benjamin’s certificate obviously lifted that line from somewhere, and I believe the ‘somewhere’ is an obituary.

On the way home we found some ‘black market’ to buy but it turned out I had left my wallet at home so the plan was for Benjamin to buy about 15 litres tomorrow.

Then on the 9 o’clock news it was announced that the Labour Congress decided the strike would go on. On, off, on off...the strike business is just like the power supply.

Apparently, the Government reverted to the old VAT of 5% in response to all the pressure but only went as far as reducing the pump price to N70/litre instead of the previous price of N65/litre.

The strike is going to cause even more hardship for the millions of people who live on daily earnings so on that note I really cannot support a strike that lasts longer than a couple of days.

However, truth is the selfish insensitive side of me cannot help but be pleased to have a day or two away from a crazy commute, demanding deadlines and overpriced chicken wings.

Petrol & Gold Plated Chicken Wings

On strikes
Since last week there’s been talk that there will be a strike this week; something to do with protesting the 100% increase in VAT that was implemented without warning, and the sale of refineries, and the hike in petrol prices and who knows what else is being protested.

My friends at work welcome the thought of a few days off work that’s not taken out of our annual leave (ha ha.) A strike would also mean escape from the punishing traffic. So you could say the strikers have our full support, whoever they are.

I didn’t have a clear picture of what was going on because keeping up with current affairs in this country could be a full time job. I’d have to resign from my current job and stay glued to the TV and papers so I could draw up an accurate schedule of who’s striking where/when/why; who’s disgruntled or being ‘marginalized’ etc etc. All that and my job?? No way. I’ve dumbed down. No more Miss Intelligent-Conversation-About-The-State-of-The-Nation. Its far too tiring. Plus there’s too much going on here. As Mike Chinoi used to say on CNN: “there’s a Chinese curse…(I hope I’m getting my facts right here)…may you live in interesting times”. These are interesting times…just in an alarmingly negative way.

Like I said, last week I didn’t have a clue what the issues were - I was too busy trying to meet my various deadlines - all I knew was that the chicken wings & pepper sauce my team orders nearly every day from the joint across the street went up from N500 to N630! Overnight. There was commotion. Everyone made a lot of noise and demanded to know why. Y said he didn’t even think they were *real* chicken wings; they’re so tiny that they look more like pigeon wings. I couldn’t debate that with him because I have no idea what fried pigeon wings & pepper sauce looks like, and Y probably has more experience with that sort of thing.

“ N630 for chicken wings?? Are they gold plated?” I needed to know, so I asked the lady at the other end when I called to place our order but she didn’t get it. She actually said no, they weren’t gold plated.

I’m always the one calling to place the orders so they know my name at the joint across the street. I do the calling because I’m in possession of the only copy of the menu & pricelist in the office, which I keep locked up in my drawer because you really cant trust anyone these days. People always ask “Where’s the menu?” Give it to them, they run off with it, (never to be seen again) and what’s a girl to do without her daily dose of chicken wings??

Its not like we can no longer afford the wings, it just didn’t seem like we were getting any value from the deal at the new price. “It’s because of VAT” the lady said.

I’m ashamed to say that that’s how I found out there was an increase in VAT, even though my mum had mentioned it at home a couple of times… I’M STRESSED! I CANT RETAIN ALL THIS INFORMATION!

Then on Saturday morning when Benjamin came to work he said he saw long queues at the petrol station, so I asked him to go and join the closest one and fill up the tank. He came back 3 hours later and said that he didn't buy any petrol because just as he got to the front of the line “those people come close de station”.

“What people?” I asked.

“The people wey dey strike because dey wan sell de refinery.” (You see how many issues I have to keep up with? You see?)

That’s when I found out that there are two groups planning strikes this week. The first is the Labour Congress, over the increase in VAT and the prices of petroleum products. The second group is…er…the group that “close de station”.

Friendly Neighbourhood Neighbours

On the neighbourhood
I’ve lived here for… (Pause while I count) eight long years. Or ‘eight rains’ as my ancestors would’ve put it. Hardly know any of the neighbours, probably because I hardly *speak* to any of the neighbours.
As a matter of fact, in my book only the people who live in the same building or on either side are considered neighbours. The rest just ‘live around’.

So, who are my neighbours? Let’s start with the people I actually recognize:
Mr. Singh
Mr. Singh’s house help
Mr. Singh’s house help’s sister
Mrs. Singh
Mr. Singh’s brother
Mr Singh’s niece
Mr. Singh’s other relation
My neighbour who’s also my landlord, and his family. (actually they’re categorized as family friends, not mere neighbours so I’ll leave them off this list)
My other neighbour
My other neighbour’s wife
My other neighbour’s house help with the bad temper (always yelling at the kids)
My other neighbour’s brother (1)
My other neighbour’s brother (2)
My other neighbour’s brother (3 – moved out)
My other neighbour’s female-relation-who-parks-her-car-next-door-cos-there-isn’t-enough-parking-space-here. (MONFReWhoParks for short)

On friends
I lost all my friends from school, except for my friend T who lives in the States. That is a friendship extraordinaire. Been running for twenty five years! Sometimes I wonder why my friend is still my friend. We live miles & miles apart and aren’t in touch every week or even every month, yet with every phone call we just pick up from where we left off the last time. She’s married with 2 kids, I’m single with 3 kids…(okay they aren’t my kids but they are at my mum’s daycare Monday to Friday so technically I could lay claim to them too)

Now all my friendships are new, developed within the last five or six years, and all from work. At one point I was determined to develop new friends outside work and enrolled in a French class. That didn’t work. And I still don’t parle Francais at all.

Granny's Nanny Must Go

Today we caught my granny’s nanny marching in the kitchen.

It’s not that big a deal, considering we’ve previously caught her talking to the wall and laughing at the kitchen cabinets. What made today’s discovery noteworthy is the fact that she saluted the fridge.

Madam Rose has serious mental issues that I am uncomfortable with and I find myself nervously eyeing the knives when I’m alone in the kitchen with her.
I call Madam Rose ‘Madam Rose’ because she’s fifty years old and I can’t bring myself to call her Rose. Anyway, she has to go.

I am 31 years old (32 in 5 months, *aargh!*) and I live an exciting life as a young professional in a vibrant city.
Actually I’m an overstretched junior manager in a company that’s miles from my home, I endure a punishing 4 hour commute to and from work in the infamous Lagos traffic and I live with my mum, grandmother and the very unstable Madam Rose.
As far as excitement goes, most of it is provided by my family, friends, colleagues and neighbours.

On living at home
I suppose at this age I really shouldn’t be crammed into a 3 bedroom flat with my family but with the high rent in Lagos I don’t have much of a choice. Plus I love my mum’s cooking ha ha.

On traffic
I have a driver so my friends think I shouldn’t complain about the traffic since I don’t actually drive in it. Yes but I still have to sit in it and listen to the *tap tap* of the beggars knocking on my window. Particularly on Falomo Bridge. Who is in charge of this bridge?? It should be renamed Beggar’s Bridge; there are so many of them on it that the level of harassment is incredible. There’s even an organized group of beggars that has uniforms and loudspeakers and rotate their appearances; sometimes they are on the island and sometimes I see them on the mainland. Do they have a schedule or something?

I have a driver because I can’t drive. Or maybe I should change that to I don’t drive. I can drive (technically) on Sunday mornings between 4 am and 6 am when there’s no one else on the road.

Have you been on Lagos roads lately? It’s a jungle out there! The other car drivers are crazy, the bus drivers are demented, the guys on motorbikes are psycho and the pedestrians are mad. Sometimes I feel I’m the only one who’s sane out there; even Benjamin (my driver) goes a little loco sometimes and I have to keep him in check. This is why I sit in front, instead of in ‘the owner’s corner.’ So I can keep an eye on things and make sure he doesn’t get tempted to race a guy in a brand new BMW.

“Benjamin! For God’s sake, Benjamin!”

Some people try to make me feel bad because I refuse to put myself through the added stress of driving in Lagos; why should I when I can pay someone else to suffer through it? It’s my contribution to reducing the level of unemployment in the country ha ha.

On work.
Oh. Lord. What can I say?

I mean that literally: what can I say about my job without getting myself fired? (Have to check with the Legal department and get back to this section later)

On baking
My mum and sis love to bake. I’m really not into that sort of thing though I offer my occasional support by going into the kitchen to mediate in their arguments. Sometimes they argue so much that I wonder why they bake together. “It’s four ounces!” “It’s six!” “You don’t even know what an ounce is!”

But when I ask: “why don’t you guys bake your own stuff separately, since you’re always arguing?” they look shocked.