Revenge of the Pig

Prior to my Dramatic Experience in Brazil (three years ago), I lived life unaware that I had a pancreas.

Honestly. I didn’t know what it was, and therefore had no idea I had one. The word ‘pancreas’ sounded vaguely familiar - isn’t that the name of a station on the London underground? St. Pancreas? No? Oh well.

I realise I sound horribly ignorant but people, the internal bits that are top of mind are the heart, lungs, kidneys, liver and the spleen. How many medical series on TV feature episodes starring a pancreas, eh?

My Dramatic Experience wasn’t one big incident; it was actually a series of eleven smaller events:
(1) I wrote an essay and got picked to attend an Earthwatch expedition

(2) Flew a total of about 25 hours to get to a ranch in Campo Grande (remember, I'd rather walk...)

(3) Met some truly wonderful people at the ranch

(4) Castrated a wild pig

(5) Developed severe abdominal pain and had to be airlifted to the nearest hospital

(6) Was informed that I had a pancreas that required immediate surgical attention

(7) Remembered the castrated pig - was this karma?

(8) Seven hours in surgery, a week in Intensive Care

(9) Met more wonderful people at the hospital and discovered they spoke no English

(10) Learnt pidgin Portuguese

(11) Developed a new outlook on life…

Unfortunately I can't write about this right now; it’s Friday night and I’m tired so tomorrow I’ll start chronicling the series of events.

Nigerian, Heal Thyself

Nigerians consider themselves to be physicians of some sort, whether or not they went to medical school; we learn to diagnose ailments and self-medicate at an early age.

Blood tests to determine the cause of your illness? Only when you’re at death’s door…or death is at yours.
Why waste time siphoning blood and waiting for lab test results when you could take a day off work to lie shivering in bed, popping pills and having everyone at home say “sorry o sorry o.”

Malaria is the default illness, followed by typhoid. i.e. if you don’t feel well you automatically assume it’s malaria and reach for the nearest anti-malarial. If that doesn’t work and you’re still alive you try treating typhoid.
The third probable cause of illness is ‘those wicked people in your village’ but that’s gist for another day.

The problem with having malaria in this country is that, being such a common illness, it’s not recognised as serious unless it’s cerebral malaria or you slip into a coma.

***

Two colleagues at work, one is shivering uncontrollably in the warm room

“What’s wrong with you? Where’s the green file?”
“I don’t feel well, I think I have malaria”
“Alright then where’s the blue file?”
“I don’t know, I don’t feel too good, I -”
“But it was here last week”

Sick colleague collapses, landing on the floor in the filing room. Other colleague steps over him and reaches for the blue file on the lower shelf

“Found it!”

***

So, what - in Nigeria - is serious malaria?

If you’re weak and nauseous with the odd headache, don’t be such a baby, you can still show up at work.

If you’re running a slight temperature and your nausea and aching joints keep you up all night, where’s the yellow file?

If you’re throwing up, running a slight temperature, are tired, nauseous and achy with a pounding headache; my friend it’s your turn to present last month’s update at the weekly meeting, don’t think you can escape it just because you have malaria.

Please respect yourself and make sure you have lost weight and your lips have gone grey before you dare to announce the state of your health or present yourself at a hospital.

You are not the first person in this country to have malaria; OUR FOREFATHERS JOURNEYED ACROSS SEVEN HILLS AND SEVEN STREAMS TO GET TO THEIR FARMS AT 4AM, ACHING JOINTS OR NO ACHING JOINTS…they fought and won mighty battles whilst shivering so please….

You are expected to treat yourself. Is there no pharmacy on your street? With brightly packaged malaria medicines on the shelves? And paracetamol for your temperature and headaches?

Then Nigerian, for goodness’ sake heal thyself!

hat Happens hen Your ‘ ’ Doesn’t ork?

Yesterday the ‘w’ key on my keyboard started acting up. I have to press it really really hard for it to work. I didn’t notice the problem at first, until I read what I’d typed and realised it looked eird. I mean weird.

hat the hell is this? I can’t ork ithout a ‘’ I thought.

This is the second keyboard to have a problem; the spacebar on the original keyboard that came with my PC stopped working a few months after I got the system.
When it first happened I carefully cleaned the keyboard. Then cleaned it again. Then gave up and hit it against the desk. Harder. Stillthespacebarwouldn’twork. It was very frustrating and I resorted to using fullstops.between.words.to.make.it.easier.to.read.what.I'd.written.

Then I got a new keyboard and here I am with a hole ne problem. A malfunctioning ‘w.’

Yesterday a friend suggested I get a new keyboard but to me that’s like buying a new pair of shoes just because you’ve lost a shoelace. I’d rather replace only the malfunctioning key. Is there a shop where I can get just a ‘w’? Where individual letters are sold in a pouch like scrabble tiles? Because my ‘f’ is misbehaving as well and if I don’t do something now, I can see that at some point in the uture, my blog entries are going to be totally ucked up!!

(Imagine life without ‘w’. It’s not regarded as an important letter until you start to imagine life without it. You can’t express amazement: “wow!” becomes “o!” I would be described as a oman. Or an oman. omen around the orld ould be ithout a proper name to call themselves. e ould be nameless.)

Speaking of typing, a friend of mine (S, you know yourself) used to use exclamation marks a lot. I would get emails and text messages saying “Hey! Whats up! Been trying to call you! Network is down! Will pick you up at 4!” or “Have you finished editing the copy yet?!”

It used to amuse me on most days but really irritate me on other days like when I was stuck in long meetings at work. (The thought that I was in a small room looking at presentations while someone outside my office was chirpy, happy and free got on my nerves.)

“Why d’you use so many exclamation marks?” I texted back once.

“I don’t know!” he replied “It’s just a habit! Call you later!”

Then one day I emailed him. “Hi! What’s! Up! Almost! Finished! The! Edit! Will! Mail! It! To! You! Soon! Going! Into! A! Meeting! Call! You! Later!!!

It didn’t make any difference; his next text came in peppered with exclamation marks.

But…slowly slowly the exclamation marks disappeared from his messages. Now I get curt messages: “Photo shoot at 4pm. Done with article? Talk later”

What have I done?? Have I stifled his chirpiness? Suffocated his personality? Come back, exclamation marks! I sent him a text saying “want 2 knw wot made u stop usng exclamation marks like b4” No reply yet.

The interesting thing is, now *I've* started using exclamation marks a lot. I can't help it! They just spill out!!

In case you haven’t noticed, this story about exclamation marks has absolutely nothing to do with the problem with my keyboard. It’s just one of those stories you feel you must tell. The moral of the story is: love your friends as they come (exclamation marks and all) and don’t orry hen your ‘w’ doesn’t ork. Life goes on.

Hola!!

I’m now officially in my Spanish phase. For the past five years I’ve been in my French phase, broken only by a brief interest in Portuguese in 2004.

I’m talking about the *languages* not the men, please note.

In 2002 I registered for French classes at Alliance Francais to (a) meet new people (b) get out of the house on Saturday mornings (c) get into the arty scene at Maison de France and….there was a fourth reason, can I remember it…oh yeah: (d) learn French.

After taking French classes on and off for forever, I can still only say “je voudrais une omelette avec champignons.” …the important thing is that if stranded in France, I won’t starve.

So did I (a) meet new people? Definitely. Did I make friends? Er, no.
Why not? Because that wasn’t on the list. The list said ‘meet new people’. There was nothing there about making friends. Stick to the list…focus, FOCUS!

A lot of the people I met at Alliance were very nice people. (A lot of the people I met there might read this blog.) I repeat, very nice people. Did I mention they were nice? Actually I don’t know if they are very nice people because I didn’t talk to them much, I usually sat at the back of the class drawing little Eiffel towers and giant croissants in my notebook.

I got as far as A4, dropped out for a while then started over. Got as far as A3 and dropped out again. Went back and continued from A4, dropped out. When I returned yet again my favourite teacher said to me “You are not serious. Why?” I blamed it on work, the universal reason why people the world over can’t be serious about weekend language classes.

“You’re just so *tired* after a week spent in Lagos traffic and at meetings that dragging yourself out of a comfy bed and into the harsh hostile world of an unknown language on a SATURDAY morning is sometimes impossible.”

The *real* reason was simple. When I joined a class and got bored with the people in it, I would drop out so that when I returned I’d be in a new class with new people. It was like watching a reality TV series, not liking the line-up of housemates and skipping it til the new season – and hopefully more interesting characters.

Going for the classes meant I definitely got to (b) get out of the house on Saturday mornings instead of lazing about doing nothing in particular. The (c) arty scene? Hmm I didn’t get ‘into it’ as much as peep in from the doorway. Why? Er…because of work. Yeah that’s it, because of work, traffic, meetings, comfy bed etc see detailed reason in paragraph eight.

There were great dance recitals and exhibitions and readings and screenings, with all sorts of people from all sorts of places…I went to a few and they were fantastic but before I knew it I was back to drawing in my notebook at the back of the room.

Slowly, slowly my interest in French waned. Now Espanol is all the rage. Since my interest in Spanish began it’s been nothing but hola! que pasa? and gracias! all over the place. Now I’m looking for where to take classes…if anyone knows any Spanish class with interesting people, please let me know and let’s see how long this phase lasts… adios amigos.

Re: I'd Rather Walk...

I was really upset yesterday, because of the awful plane crash in Brazil.

I was freaked out because (a) I posted my blog about my fear of flying at about midnight on Tuesday and a few hours later, on Wednesday morning, I heard about the crash at a meeting…people like me who don’t like flying become even more paranoid after crashes.

(b) While I was typing my blog entry I thought about including details of my flying experience in Brazil - my scary first time in a 6-seater plane - but eventually decided to leave that out and write about it in a blog post dedicated to the eventful 2 weeks I spent in Brazil three years ago.

It would’ve been an uncomfortable coincidence for me if I’d written about flying in Brazil only to hear of the crash there.

I'd Rather Walk...

I hate flying. No I detest it. Which is stronger - hate or detest? I’ll use both for emphasis – I hatefully detest flying.

It’s so bad that I’ve subscribed to Virgin Atlantic’s Fear of Flying programme whereby I get periodic newsletters which address the top ten reasons why people like me would rather walk than fly.

On a flight back home from Johannesburg a couple of years ago the turbulence was so bad that for the first time in my life I got sweaty palms. I’d always heard about that happening to people but never ever thought I could get that anxious.

To top it off, the runway at MMIA was being repaired which meant that international flights were diverted to a shorter runway and for some technical reason, it was best to land with a lighter load. That meant we had to go to Abidjan to drop off passengers and their shopping-filled luggage before landing in Lagos. Which meant my sis and I had to endure three take-offs and landings in one day; from Cape Town to Jo’burg to Abidjan to Lagos. Our nerves were fraught.

As the passengers disembarked in Abidjan my sister looked longingly out of the window and said “they’re so lucky…can’t we get off here?” I reminded her that she’d still have to fly home at some point.

As we waited for the Abidjan passengers’ luggage to be hauled out of the plane we talked about cabin crew and how we could *never* do that job. I said “not for any amount of money.” My sis said “how about for a million dollars a month?” I said I wouldn’t do it because it meant a whole month of flying. She thought about it and said she would. I said “then you don’t really hate flying.”

I felt she should be stripped of her membership of the Rather Walk Club for making that statement. Fly three or four times a week for a whole month for a million dollars? What a sell-out.

Then it was time to take off again. I don’t know which I hate most - taking off, landing or the food.

The turbulence was terrible. I was so afraid.

But not too afraid to notice a very good looking ‘older gentleman’ in the opposite aisle. I pointed him out to my sister. He was definitely my type - tall, slim, mature and there was no ring in sight! He’d spent most of the flight from Jo'burg reading and I thought he was very attractive.

My sis and I tried to figure him out. She said he looked American. And well to do. I pointed out that if he was, at that age he wouldn’t be flying Economy. She pointed out his expensive clothes and watch and said maybe he’s frugal. I pointed out his long legs and said if he could afford it I was sure he’d rather stretch out in Business Class. I said he looked like an intellectual. She said “just because he’s reading?” I said he’s not exactly reading a comic. Then we spent nearly thirty minutes trying to see what he was reading - the Financial Times and a hardback by a Spanish author.

I joked about writing him a note asking him to come over and talk to me, and next thing I knew my sis held a gun to my head and forced me to.
So I scribbled a note on the back of my boarding pass saying “You look like someone who knows a lot about turbulence…could you come over and explain it to me?”

My sister handed him the note and pointed at me. I smiled and tried to look like I really needed someone to explain why the plane was jiggling about.

Mr Mature read my note, smiled and came over. He was American, on his way to Lagos for a conference, and it turned out he was more than just ‘mature’ - he was closer to my mum’s age than I expected. That was very disappointing.

My friend in Glasgow never forgave me for not swapping numbers with him, even when I told her that he was very fatherly about the whole thing. I mean he actually explained what turbulence was all about.

It’s all my sisters fault. If she had gotten off at Abidjan and not stuck around like a sixth toe I might have had better luck.

Re: Contacts Crisis

Quick update on the contact lens crisis of last week Thursday: at 11.30 pm that night I tried to get my contacts out again and - finally - the right lens slid out.

However, the left one stubbornly refused to come out. I was stuck in such an uncomfortable position; I could see out of only one eye so I squinted around the house for nearly thirty minutes, trying to cry it out.

At precisely eight minutes to midnight, the left lens surrendered.

Meeting Someone New

This is the last point on the list of things that happen to ‘A Woman of A Certain Age’ (definition: a single woman who has turned 30.)

This last point was the most important part of the whole experience; it was the part when I met ‘someone new’.

No, not Mr Right (if at all he exists)…the ‘someone new’ was…ME!

Yep, moi. I’d changed in so many ways since my last significant birthday (25) that it was like meeting a stranger.

I had slowly become less and less concerned about what others thought of me. I accepted it was OK to be who I am because I realized I’m not good at being anybody else.
I had every right to be as silly, playful, introverted or moody as I pleased and it took turning thirty to believe that. Wow. It was a significant discovery after a significant birthday.

There are several significant birthdays in one’s life. Your first birthday is naturally the most important, though if you’re Nigerian it’s actually not your Big Day. It’s your parents’, and there’s nothing you can do about it cos you’re only three hundred and sixty five days old, remember?

Nigerian parents hijack your first birthday party by: (1) inviting all their friends (2) including their friends’ children that are much older than you on the guest list (3) hiring ugly clowns to entertain the abovementioned friends’ children; clowns who end up frightening the piss out of you, the birthday kid (4) ordering spicy food you can’t eat because you’re still being weaned and (5) changing your clothes every thirty minutes so you can pose for pictures.

Aunts and uncles also ruin the day for you by passing you from hand to hand while referring to you as ‘the celebrant’ when in fact you’re in no mood to celebrate anything. “It’s my turn to carry the celebrant!” “Where’s the celebrant?” “Bring the celebrant!”
Naturally, you spend the whole day weeping and wailing because you’re hungry (your mum is busy running around so she doesn’t remember to feed you) scared (those clowns! aargh!) and confused (the noisy music & bright lights from the cameras.)

If you’re Nigerian, photo after photo from your first birthday will show you beautifully dressed, carried by your beaming mother with your mouth wide open (mid-wail) your eyes tightly shut (the bright lights) and a concave stomach (hungry in the midst of so much food.)

The next significant birthday is your fifth. By this time you are old enough to eat all the spicy food available, refuse to change your clothes for photos and throw cake at those ugly clowns.

At ten your birthday photos show you with long spindly legs, glasses and braces. At thirteen you’re finally a teenager! And still your birthday photos show you with long spindly legs, glasses and braces. At fifteen no one remembered to have a party for you but if they had, your photos would’ve shown you with yep, the same legs and glasses though the braces were finally gone.

At eighteen…still no party, probably because your parents are in denial about your obvious maturity. So your friends throw a party for you and your photos show all the girls with too much make up and all the guys staring at the swelling bosoms of the girls with too much make up. Twenty one flies by, you’re lucky if, as a Nigerian, you get more than a “happy birthday” and a card. (Parents seem to lose the zeal to throw parties after you turn thirteen)

When twenty five rolls around you’re old enough and solvent enough to throw yourself a party just the way you want it – no family members, just friends, drinks, cake and slow dancing. Then. You. Hit. Thirty.

If you’re married, hubby throws a party and invites all his friends.

If you’re not, you meet ‘someone new’...

A Spectacle in Spectacles

I’m writing this in a state of panic.

My contacts are stuck! I’ve been trying to get them out for ages but the @#!!$^^ things just won’t come out of my eyes!

I’ve called my contact lens experts for advice, the experts being my friends in Glasgow and Minnesota, because when I called my optician he did nothing to make me feel better about the situation; he always acts like it’s no big deal and its very annoying. He doesn’t wear contacts so what does he know about the panic of having foreign objects glued to your pupils?

It’s ridiculous that I have to call halfway around the world for reassurance.

This contacts-stuck-in-my-eye incident has only happened once before and when it did I went from being irritated that the lenses wouldn’t slide out, to being anxious that they clung to my eyes like leeches to finally ending up very afraid. I remembered all the small print about ‘infections’ and ‘eye ulcers’ and really worked myself up.
I called my optician and yelled down the phone about the strange lens solution he had recommended to me in lieu of my regular brand. “It’s that funny Russian lens solution!” I screamed. “I want my money back!” He assured me they would come out “at some point” and calmly hung up.

I swore NEVER to wear contacts again when they finally slid out after several gallons of tears. I wore glasses to work the next day and several colleagues stopped and stared in surprise because I’d never worn them to the office in my five years there.
Predictably, some crowded around me and I got all the ‘spectacle in spectacles’ comments: “You look like a secretary/librarian/teacher” “You look so serious” and “You look more intelligent.”
In other words, without my glasses I look less intelligent? More or less intelligent than what, anyway? What is the benchmark for measuring bespectacled intelligence? Why am I asking all these questions??

Then there was the very rude debate about whether I looked better with or without my glasses. It was rude not only because it was being discussed in my presence, but because a couple of times I was asked to “turn this way” and “let’s see the other side” so they could see my profile and reach a decision.

The very next day I went back to wearing my contacts because I didn’t want to look like a secretary/librarian/teacher, didn’t want to look so serious and wanted to hide my intelligence. Actually that’s not it, I’m just vain.

When my friend T got LASIK surgery done a few years ago, I remember thinking she was brave. And crazy. Now with my contacts rebelling I just searched online for details; maybe LASIK isn’t such a bad idea afterall. My friend in Glasgow told me that her contacts got stuck in her eyes just last night, told me what to do and generally calmed me down. So I’m here counting the minutes til I try to pluck them out again.

So it’s glasses tomorrow then.

PS: there's a saying that 'guys don't make passes at girls who wear glasses'. Let's see how true that is, tomorrow

The Family Meeting

In my previous blog I wrote about one of the great African institutions - The Extended Family, and how having relatives stay in your home could sometimes cause conflicts which would have to be resolved at the other great institution - The Family Meeting.

I've attended a couple of such Meetings and believe me I was grateful not to be the person in the middle of the circle, answering all the questions!

So, let’s assume that your cousin’s son who was staying with you had some very annoying habits, including rummaging through the fridge and tampering with the stew in the middle of the night.
You (boldly) expressed your displeasure and, teenagers being what they are, he scurried off home to report to his parents.

Now the youngster’s parents will not approach you to discuss the Stew Matter; don’t ask me why, but in African culture the thinking tends to be “why resolve the matter quietly and peacefully between the parties concerned, when you could involve the whole village and make it a jamboree?”
In line with this, your cousin will contact prominent family members to sit in on a Family Meeting and all arrangements would have been concluded before you are invited.

You might think that the aim of the Family Meeting is to resolve the matter between you and your cousin, but its true purpose is to remind you of the power and importance of the African family structure as demonstrated by the haughty manner in which you are informed of the Meeting and your role as defendant. It is made *very* clear to you that the ‘invitation’ to attend is more of a summons than a polite request for your presence.

The day of a Family Meeting is also the day family members unearth buried grudges and resentments under the guise of mediating in a dispute.

This brings me to the make-up of the mediators, aka the Council - the panel of family members who issue the summons, preside over the meetings and dispense judgement at the end of it. Council members are usually older aunts, uncles or grandparents whose grey hairs and many years of wisdom are enough of a reason for them to ask for your head on a platter.

There might be some differences in the way Family Meetings are conducted around Nigeria, but as the differences can’t be that many I have compiled a general list of what to expect at a typical Nigerian Family Meeting. It just might come in handy the next time you receive a summons…

1. Clear your schedule and dedicate a full day to the Meeting. Remember that for some family members this is an eagerly anticipated social event, so don’t expect to be done in two hours. No one particularly cares about your four o’clock appointment.

2. It is advisable to be conservatively dressed. Now is not the time to drift into the meeting venue draped in rich fabrics, dripping flashy jewellery and reeking of expensive perfume as this might trigger unwanted discussions about your finances. (Unless of course this is a deliberate diversionary tactic)

3. If you arrive late, you will be accused of being disrespectful. If you are richly dressed and float in on a cloud of perfume, you will be accused of being disrespectful. If you protest any false accusations you will be accused of being disrespectful. In fact on that day if you cough, sneeze or even breathe, you will be accused of being disrespectful.

4. Don’t be too surprised if the Meeting turns out to be about a totally unrelated matter (For instance, instead of meeting to discuss The Incident With Your Cousin’s Son, it turns out to be about You Not Greeting Aunty O Properly Last Year). You can take solace in the fact that your cousin - who initiated the meeting – will be just as shocked as you are at the turn of events (particularly as she’s paying for the drinks)

5. Expect to be reminded of every sin, crime and wrongdoing you have committed since the age of ten. Do not look shocked at the fact that someone has apparently been keeping a careful catalogue of all your misdeeds. At this point you are expected to hang your head and look ashamed.

6. When in the course of the meeting, a relative digresses and/or gets into a long-winded argument with another, please refrain from calling them to order and reminding them that this meeting is about you. Don’t roll your eyes in exasperation or look at your watch, no matter how strong the urge.

7. Remember that anything you say or do will be used against you for the rest of your life.

8. However much you dislike Uncle A, remember that he is, on this particular day, a member of a Supreme Council and rudeness to him will be interpreted as rudeness to the entire Council. See point 7.

9. Focus! Focus! Focus! Now is not the time to let your thoughts drift away. Look alert and be prepared to answer any questions that may be thrown your way. Do not whip out your organiser to rearrange your schedule. You may think no-one’s watching but…see point 7.

10. When the time comes for you to recount your version of the story, brace yourself for a full dose of theatrics and high drama. Someone will let out a high-pitched wail, calculated to distract you from the point you are about to make. There will also be quite a bit of arm-waving, raised voices and crying. Ignore it all and forge ahead. Just remember Point 3 – protesting a false accusation could earn you an accusation of disrespect. If you do decide to protest vigorously, once again see point 7.

11. There will be several attempts to foist a guilt complex on you. (E.g. “the youngster could be your son! How could you be angry with him for something as minor as dipping a dirty hand into your pot of stew at 2 a.m.?”) Refuse to accept this emotional blackmail. If your cousin’s son broke one of your House Rules, stand firm and refuse to bow down. (In other words, ignore point 7)

12. Remember that at the end of it all, you will be expected to apologise and thank the Council for their wise judgement.
If the judgement is not in your favour – you apologise.
If it is – you apologise.
Even if there’s no judgement – you apologise.

13. Before the Meeting finally ends there will be the Grand Reconciliation, whereby you and your cousin are reminded that you are ‘one’, you are enjoined to accept your cousin’s son back in your home and everyone is ordered to live in peace.

At this point the Meeting is officially over and everyone breaks up into cliques and clusters to discuss the outcome and in some cases, plan another Meeting to address rude behaviour observed at this one.

And you? You drift out on a cloud of perfume.

Memories of Childhood

Here's an article I wrote for Island News a couple of years ago...and it's all true; I remember that Priscilla's brother was thrown into jail for stealing paint..

My growing years were spent amidst a crowd of relatives. At every point in my young life there seemed to be an uncle, aunt or cousin in residence. Some I remember with fondness, others with intense dislike. Others I don’t remember at all.
Those were the glorious days of constant electricity, running water and that typical African institution – the Extended Family.

There was always a cousin who was looking for a job and needed a place to stay or a nephew taking GCE for the umpteenth time. An aunt who came to attend a wedding in Lagos and decided to extend her holiday, as well as the other relative who was not quite related (but had been in the house for so long that everyone had forgotten how he came to be there in the first place.)

Though in Naija people still maintain ties with extended family, these days with the economic situation there’s an obvious attempt to maintain some distance. Gone are the days when relatives journeyed from their homes and landed on our doorsteps unannounced.
When I was young, for some reason extended family members always arrived around 7pm. I remember that I would be in the process of being dragged off to have a bath when I would hear a loud cry of welcome in the living room. And when I emerged bathed, powdered and pyjamaed, there would be another unknown family member sitting in the living room surrounded by yams, plantains, fruit and jute bags filled with gari.

"Come and meet your uncle/aunt/cousin" my mum would say to me, and if she knew exactly how we were related she would trace the family tree, touching every root, branch and leaf. If she wasn't too sure what the connection was she would laugh, say “you know the family is very large!” and ask the relative to explain the connection himself.

Some of these relatives pampered me and my siblings, others bullied us terribly. Some left with us begging them to stay and others had us celebrating their departure for weeks!

There was tall, slim Aunty B who thought she'd make a good model - and she might have, except that she had a bit of a potbelly.

There was Uncle U who loved to play soccer with the other young restless males in the neighbourhood. I remember the day he asked me to cut an old pair of jeans into shorts he could wear to play soccer.
I set to work with all the zeal of a young Donna Karan, rummaging in my school needlework kit for scissors, tailor's chalk and a measuring tape. Its no wonder I failed needlework at school - the project didn't turn out right and Uncle U ended up with an uneven pair of shorts; part Bermudas, part hot pants. But he seemed quite pleased with the results and happily jogged off that evening in a magnificent show of thigh and leg.

There was another Uncle U (same name) who fancied himself as the next Bob Marley. He would force us to listen to him perform his revolutionary reggae songs with titles such as 'My People' 'Oh Africa' and 'Onward March'. My brother and I provided backup vocals as he drummed on the bedside cabinet, whilst our little sister declared her dislike of the songs and Priscilla the househelp looked out of the window and worried aloud about her brother in prison.

Aunty A was a caterer but we hated her food and were quite glad when she left. Then came Aunty F - actually a cousin old enough to earn the title of 'aunt' – who sulked a lot but made wonderful okro soup.

Whatever their idiosyncrasies, my life was definitely enriched by the stream of family members that flowed through my life and our home. Many of my fondest memories are of encounters - good and bad - with uncles, aunts and cousins.

Traditionally, a guest in your home can do no wrong. In those days one dared not complain about a relative staying at your house, no matter how annoying their personal habits were.
Did they drink water straight from the bottle? Was the pot of stew tampered with at midnight? No matter what, you would bury your annoyance deep in your chest and cheerfully answer their greeting the next morning. Why?

Because of the fear of that other great African institution - the Family Meeting!

But that’s a story for another day…

Shoes, Bags & Headties (aka A Woman of a Certain Age - 3)

Back to my list of things that supposedly happen when a woman hits 30 - the fourth thing is: family members stop hinting about marriage and ask outright.

I’m lucky that no one in my family has asked me about the big M (yet) probably because I look young and they think I’m still 25!

Some (concerned/nosy,pick one) aunts ask when they should buy matching shoes and bags for your wedding. Or ask if you’ve picked a date. Or say (very loudly, at a family gathering) “Let me know on time so I’m in town for your wedding.”

All of which is meant to remind you that (a) you're no longer a spring chicken (b) her daughter got married before you (like it's a competition)and (c) the whole tribe is waiting on you to add your leaves to the family tree.

Winners Never Lose (They Just Get Violent)

WARNING: THIS BLOG POST CONTAINS VIOLENCE (clobbered to death with a TV) STRONG LANGUAGE (“bit of an idiot”) AND REFERENCE TO NUDITY (“…was in the shower”)

One of my most common complaints when I was younger was “I never win anything.” Not raffle draws, not lucky dips, not even the US DV lottery. (The fact that I’d never applied for the DV lottery was irrelevant; the point was “I never win anything”)

When I was fifteen and a well-known soft drink company offered cars as Star Prizes, I went out and bought crates and crates of the drink. I drank and drank until my teeth hurt and yet I won nothing; not even a bottle-opener as a Consolation Prize.
And believe me I needed all the consolation I could get, particularly when the winners of some short story competitions I entered were announced – and I wasn’t one of them. My disappointment quickly turned into cynicism and I began to think that anyone who entered competitions was a bit of an idiot.

I’d look at my sister in amusement as she answered quiz questions and collected bottle caps and soap wrappers as entry tokens, holding back from asking why she bothered only because she always looked so happy and optimistic (oh, please.) I didn’t want to douse her raging enthusiasm.
She would excitedly watch winners claim their prizes on TV and cheerfully announce that “next time it will be us.” “Yeah right” I would mutter sourly, itching to change the channel. Such a sore loser I was, even when I hadn’t taken part in the game. But deep down I felt my sis deserved to win because she was such a good sport.

Then a few years ago something happened to break the jinx of my losing situation.
One of those ‘instant win’ coupons tucked inside a foreign magazine promised a Jackpot Prize of a million pounds. There were several other prizes but who noticed them when there was a million pounds up for grabs. When scratched the coupon proclaimed “You are an Instant Winner! Call to claim your prize before midnight on July 31st.” My mum was scheduled to be in the UK before then and we convinced her to call when she got there. “We have nothing to lose.” Suddenly it looked like a Very Big Win was imminent.

“A million pounds won’t be bad at all” my mum said after a while, looking pleased.
“It might not be the Jackpot Prize,” I pointed out in my usual cynical manner. “Let’s not get too excited, it might just be the ten thousand pound win.”
“That’s still a lot of money” mum said and my sis agreed.

There was a moment’s silence as we all sat around the living room smiling and imagining all the things we could do with the Very Big Win.

“You guys know that the coupon was in my magazine,” I said. For some reason I felt it was very important to remind everyone of that fact.
‘Yes but your brother bought the mag” my mum replied
“For me” I emphasized
“But I found the coupon” my sis reminded us
“And I scratched it” mum announced
“So who gets the money?” The question hung in the air.

“We could share it equally,” my mum suggested generously
“But it’s my mag…” I whined.

And so a family feud ensued, as usually does when large amounts of money are involved. Looking back it was ridiculous for us to argue over money we hadn’t seen yet. Reminds me of the story I used to hear back in my mum’s hometown, about getting yourself worked up over something that might never happen.
Ok maybe there’s a different version of this story in every part of Nigeria but this is the version I know: A man was stopped by neighbours as he beat his young son. “What did the poor boy do?” the neighbours asked. “He threatened to beat my dog” the man replied angrily as his son wailed in the corner. “What dog?” his puzzled neighbours asked “You don’t have a dog.”
“I will” replied the man, “When I sell the palm nuts from the tree I’m about to harvest.”

Long story short, mum travelled, called the number on the coupon and found out that the prize attached to our lucky numbers was a holiday to the Cayman Islands. So the jinx was broken; technically I had won something; since we’d agreed to share the prize I’d won one quarter of a trip to an exotic island, whatever that amounts to. Of course none of us went anywhere near the Cayman Islands and that was the end of that.

My winning spirit was lifted even further when I attended a discount fair with a friend, (Dress for Less, the Christmas fair at GRA? Anyone know it?) where I won an instant prize of eight packets of noodles in the lucky dip.

Perhaps not the most impressive win ever, but I was really happy that I had won something. That wasn’t all; my purchases at the fair also qualified me for entry in a raffle draw. I didn't give the draw a second thought and skipped merrily home with my noodles.

A few days later, on Christmas Eve I was in the shower when I got a text message on my phone with incredible news: “You Won The TV!” I blinked twice. Me? TV? Win? I called the number and a lady from the discount fair congratulated me and said, “Come and pick up your TV now!” I raced to the fair grounds in record time, was handed my tiny 14-inch TV and cheerfully congratulated. “No photos or anything?” I asked the lady, noting with disappointment that there wasn’t any TV crew or photographer on hand to record this landmark occasion. Unfortunately it was late and they were packing up to go so they barely paid me any attention.

As I carried my win off to the car I steeled myself to hear someone yell “Wait! There’s been a mistake - the TV is meant for someone else; you won a carton of noodles!” but thankfully, that didn’t happen. I would’ve killed somebody. Clobbered them on the spot with my brand new TV.

Why Did the Chicken Wings Cross the Road?

Ok its not about chicken wings, we all know the classic 'why did the chicken cross the road' question. I have a question of my own: has anyone thought to ask the damn chicken? It just might tell us and put this riddle to rest forever!

I don't know where this list originated, it was forwarded to me a while ago and I saved it because...well, its funny

KINDERGARTEN TEACHER: To get to the other side.

PLATO: For the greater good of man.

ARISTOTLE: It is the nature of chickens to cross
roads.

KARL MARX: It was a historical inevitability.

TIMOTHY LEARY: Because that's the only trip the
establishment would let it take.


SADDAM HUSSEIN: This was an unprovoked act of

rebellion and we were quite justified in dropping 50

tons of nerve gas on it.


RONALD REAGAN: I forget.


CAPTAIN JAMES T. KIRK: To boldly go where no chicken

has gone before.


HIPPOCRATES: Because of an excess of phlegm in its
pancreas.


ACCENTURE: Deregulation of the chicken's

side of the road was threatening its dominant market

position. The chicken was faced with significant

challenges to create and develop the competencies

required for the newly competitive market. Andersen

Consulting, in a partnering relationship with the

client, helped the chicken by rethinking its physical

distribution strategy and implementation processes.

Using the Poultry Integration Model (PIM), Andersen

helped the chicken use its skills, methodologies,

knowledge, capital and experiences to align the

chicken's people, processes and technology in support

of its overall strategy within a Program Management

framework. Accenture convened a diverse

cross-spectrum of road analysts and best chickens

along with Anderson consultants with deep skills in

the transportation industry to engage in a two-day

itinerary of meetings in order to leverage their

personal knowledge capital, both tacit and explicit,

and to enable them to synergize with each other in

order to achieve the implicit goals of delivering and

uccessfully architecting and implementing an

enterprise-wide value framework across the continuum

of poultry cross-median processes.The meeting was held

in park-like setting, enabling and creating an

impactful environment which was strategically based,

industry focused, and built upon a consistent, clear,

and unified market message and aligned with the

chicken's mission, vision, and core values. This was

conducive towards the creation of a total business.


LOUIS FARRAKHAN: The road, you see, represents the

black man. The chicken 'crossed' the black man in

order to trample him and keep him down.


MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR.: I envision a world where all

chickens will be free to cross roads without having

their motives called into question.



MOSES: And God came down from the Heavens, and He said

unto the chicken, "Thou shalt cross the road." And the

chicken crossed the road, and there was much

rejoicing.


FOX MULDER: You saw it cross the road with your own

eyes. How many more chickens have to cross the road

before you believe it?


RICHARD M. NIXON: The chicken did not cross the road.

I repeat, the chicken did NOT cross the road.


MACHIAVELLI: The point is that the chicken crossed the

road. Who cares why? The end of crossing the road

justifies whatever motive there was.


JERRY SEINFELD: Why does anyone cross a road? I mean,

why doesn't anyone ever think to ask, What the heck

was this chicken doing walking around all over the

place, anyway?"


FREUD: The fact that you are at all concerned that the

chicken crossed the road reveals your underlying

sexual insecurity.


BILL GATES: I have just released the new Chicken

Office 2000, which will not only cross roads, but will

lay eggs, file your important documents, and balance

your checkbook.


OLIVER STONE: The question is not, "Why did the

chicken cross the road?" Rather, it is, "Who was

crossing the road at the same time, whom we overlooked

in our haste to observe the chicken crossing?"


CHARLES DARWIN: Chickens, over great periods of time,

have been naturally selected in such a way that they

are now genetically disposed to cross roads.


ALBERT EINSTEIN: Whether the chicken crossed the road

or the road moved beneath the chicken depends upon

your frame of reference.


BUDDHA: Asking this question denies your own chicken

nature.


RALPH WALDO EMERSON: The chicken did not cross the

road .. it transcended it.


ERNEST HEMINGWAY: To die. In the rain.


COLONEL SANDERS: I missed one?


BILL CLINTON : I did not, and I repeat, did not have

sexual relations with that chicken.


PAT BUCHANAN: To steal a job from a decent, hard

working American.


L.A. POLICE DEPARTMENT: Give us five minutes with the

chicken and we'll find out.


DR. SEUSS: Did the chicken cross the road? Did he

cross it with a toad? Yes! The chicken crossed the

road, but why it crossed, I've not been told!


GRANDPA: In my day, we didn't ask why the chicken

crossed the road. Someone told us that the chicken

crossed the road, and that was good enough for us.


BILL CLINTON: I did not cross the road with THAT

chicken. However, I did ask Vernon Jordan to find the

chicken a job in New York

Oh, the Torment of Traffic

I haven’t posted anything new in the past few days because I’m so worn out when I get home - the 'go slow' these days is unimaginable. Got home at 11pm on Tuesday and it's been that bad for the past couple of months.

Those of us with good memories will remember the Mother-of-all-Traffic a couple of years ago when 3rd Mainland Bridge was being repaired. A well-known construction company hauled their bright blue machinery onto the bridge, taking over an entire lane and causing horrendous traffic at night, over a two-week period. Back then I sometimes got home at midnight, but at least there was an apparent reason for it. Now? You just keep inching along until you find yourself at your front door.

A few years ago a friend of mine told me how her family hosted a guest from New York. “I wanna see the Lagos traffic” the lady announced as soon as she arrived, “I’ve heard so much about it”. So my friend’s family drove the lady around town, looking for traffic during rush hour, but for some really strange reason there was no real traffic to be found. Unfortunately for the lady, it showed up the one time she definitely did not want to see it - as they sped towards the airport on the night of her departure what did they see inching its way ahead, but our infamous Lagos traffic.

For all of my fellow commuters stuck in the recurring nightmare of the Lagos commute, here are three more ways to keep busy during the bumper to bumper crawl:

1. Spice up your social life
If you’re one of those single people who moan about not meeting anyone new, take a good look around you next time you’re in standstill traffic and you’ll see that you are surrounded by hundreds of potential dates. How do you communicate your interest and availability? Slap on a bumper sticker that says something witty about you (Single, Slim, Sexy, Solvent and Searching) or be direct (Here’s My Number - 080…) But beware, people who smile at you in traffic aren’t necessarily interested, they might just want to cut into your lane.

2. Bond with your beloved
If you’re stuck on 3rd Mainland at night with your Significant Other, enjoy the romantic setting. Take a look around you - you’ll see the lagoon shimmering in the moonlight and stars twinkling overhead. (Assuming PHCN hasn’t disconnected the stars and moonlight) With street traders who sell just about everything, you have a chance to spontaneously buy a romantic gift. (Just ignore the screams from the car being robbed in front of you and no, a toilet seat does not count as a romantic gift)

3. Check out the goods
Speaking of toilet seats, if you’re really bored, check out all the shopping you can do from the (dis)comfort of your car. The last time I counted all the items I saw on sale in Lagos traffic in one day, I listed over seventy different things, including: irons, phones, meat, pots & pans, toilet seats, knives, garden shears, mags & newspapers, carrots, peas & potatoes, fruit, sausage rolls, (Gala Gala Gala) cold drinks, masks, flashlights, toys, crockery, slippers, kaftans, boxer shorts, radios, watches, jewellery, sunglasses and of course recharge cards. Oh yeah also: tissue, books, lightbulbs and towels. Not forgetting the aloe vera plants.

Is anyone from the Lagos State Government reading this?? (Probably not. They’re probably all busy mapping out new BRT routes. Which I suspect is the cause of all this madness.)
Help us! Come to our aid! As Nigerians on national TV like to say in polls about the State of the Nation - “We are suffering; the Government should please come to our aid.”

Back When A Woman of A Certain Age Was 22

I’m going to take a break from this ‘Woman of a Certain Age’ business to post something else. Why? Because while flipping through the old diary I found during the strike, I saw an entry I made on Sunday July 6th 1997 about an encounter with my grandmother, the same one with the unstable nanny (see June 16th’s blog.)

My maternal grandmother and I are alike in very many ways, and yet we do not get along. “Difficult” describes her nicely.
Anyways, to provide some background to this diary entry: we were at her house for a while in 1997, lured there by the promise of an inheritance. ‘We’ being her only child (my mother) and my siblings (including the sister who doesn’t understand the meaning of the word ‘spinster.’) My Grandma lived in one wing of the large family house and we stayed in another.
She is very organized so it didn’t seem odd that she would want to sort her affairs out while alive; give whoever whatever. Well she’s still around, ten years later and I ain’t got a dime from her yet. While at my Grandma’s house I noted a lot of things in my diary because I wanted to write a book about my experience there, unfortunately I never got round to piecing all the entries together and the diary is a jumble of frustrated scribblings.

Sunday July 6th 1997
Me: “Good morning Grandma” (places tray laden with breakfast favourites on the bedside table and helps her to a sitting position)
Her: Mmhmm. (scans plate, prods food, tastes tea) “It’s too hot”
Tea is taken away and a cooler brew brought.
Her: “It’s too cold.”
Tea making paraphernalia brought to her room, including kettle, and tea made under her critical supervision.
Her: No church today? (Asked just as I attempt to escape)
Me: I was making your breakfast so I missed the first service
Her: What about the second service?
Me: It’s too crowded.

She seems to frown and I hurriedly decide that a crowded church hall isn’t going to stand between me and a generous inheritance.

Me: “I’ll have a bath now and go”

She smiles. I leave her room, my smile disappearing as soon as I step into the corridor.

Relations between my grandma and her only child are breaking down; my mother is fed up of her insensitive attitude. “I can’t believe she’s enjoying having us run around her like this” my mum complained.
I could believe it because I wouldn’t have minded having a few people run around me.

My mother, siblings and I, once secure in the knowledge that we are my grandmother’s only descendants, got slightly worried one day when she announced that she could leave all her money to whomever she chose.
That night we held a meeting on Our Side of the house. My grandma by her recent words and actions….

(Present day thought: the following page was torn so that’s it for that entry…)