I find Mandatory Events really stressful. Or maybe I’m just lazy. A Mandatory Event is – as the name implies - an event you *have* to attend; one that comes with an attached threat - ‘or else’. Or else what?
Or else:
a) You will be fired from your job
b) You will lose the love of the person who invited you
c) You won’t get that contract/promotion/business deal you want
d) No one will attend any of *your* events
e) You will never hear the end of it
I believe I can afford to pull a no-show at Category E Mandatory Events, and I often do. A lifetime of apologies and repentant text messages is a small price to pay for a relaxing weekend at home. But Categories A to D are the ones I dare not miss though to be honest I am usually very reluctant to go anywhere beyond the kitchen. Why can’t I just stay in my traffic-free home and read??
I always leave the planning til the very last minute and end up harassed and frustrated after the rush to find and wrap a present, assemble the right outfit and show up on time.
I have no idea why I do this; maybe on a subconscious level I’m hoping for a last minute miracle that will save me from attending the Mandatory Event.
***
When a friend’s child turned one, we (her group of girlfriends) agreed to meet up at her place. This was a Category B/D/E Mega Mandatory Event.
In typical Naija style the adults' party would take place in the house while outside, under canopies and balloons the kids would be fed, (jollof rice) frightened (by unfriendly clowns) and forced to play musical chairs.
On the day of ‘the event’ I lazed about in bed until it became apparent that no miracle was forthcoming. My friends kept calling, asking “what’s up?” “what time will you be there?” “you’re still in BED?” so I reluctantly put down my weekend treat - a mindless magazine and ferrero rocher chocolates - dragged myself out of bed and complained my way to GRA to find a mandatory gift.
After wandering around Mothercare for a while I realised that I was wasting my time in the socks and bib section. The child was a year old, not a month old.
I tried to think back thirty-odd years; could I remember what I wanted when I turned one? Of course not, this was just another delay tactic.
What to buy? What to buy? I need a personal shopper. I need a personal assistant. I need to make pots of money so I can afford a personal assistant to do my shopping.
I concentrated on the task at hand and came up with - clothes! You can never go wrong with clothes. Pink for a girl, blue for a boy, abi? It doesn’t really matter what type of clothes, just buy something with buttons or zips, armholes, leg holes (extra points if it has a collar) and you’re done.
I left Mothercare with some pretty pink clothes and the realisation that it’s just not the right place to meet single men.
Popped into another shop to check if they had wrapping paper and, just by the way, (only because they were so prominently displayed) picked up some more ferrero rocher.
They had a card section and a very limited selection of wrapping paper on display. One had ‘CONGRATULATIONS!’ printed boldly on it, with ‘on your wedding’ in small print under it, like an after thought.
Another had ‘Happy Anniversary!’ and a third had “Congratulations on your Silver Jubilee.’ As far as I knew, my friend’s one year old wasn’t married so I moved on.
The only other options were a hideous silver sheet that looked like foil and purple recycled paper with ‘Congratulations!’ slices of cake and dancing elephants on it.
Were the elephants being congratulated? Or were we, the buyers, being congratulated for buying wrapping paper with elephants on it? Who was congratulating who, and why?
And why was there all this congratulatory wrapping paper in one shop anyways? I thought as Nigerians we had agreed (at the National Conference) to reserve our extreme love of congratulatory messages for the pages of newspapers. Now someone had decided to extend it to wrapping paper. It was irritating.
“Don’t you have birthday wrapping paper?” I asked.
“Eh?” the sales girl replied.
“Don’t you have wrapping paper with ‘Happy Birthday’ on it?”
“Is finish”
I looked at the rubbish paper on display and muttered “Where did they get this stuff from?” to which she replied “Is from overs. Is the one my madam bought las’ time she travel. But we’re especting new stock next week.”
Ah, perhaps I could persuade my friend to reschedule her child’s birthday til the following week, while I waited for the new stock of wrapping paper?
I had an hour to go til the party started and I still had to get home, shower, choose an outfit, get dressed, change my mind about the outfit, throw a fit….I bought the damn paper; elephants, slices of cake and all, and left.
At home my mum asked why I bought congratulatory wrapping paper.
“You noticed?” I asked.
“Of course I noticed - it says ‘Congratulations!’ all over it”
“I’m congratulating her on turning one. It’s not easy now, abi?”
“You’re late for the party.”
“I’m late for the party.’ My mum knows me too well.
I felt twas necessary to point out something very important “The good thing is, the paper has cake on it. That ties in to the birthday theme.”
My mum agreed then pointed out the elephants. “Do they tie in to the theme?”
There are disadvantages to being born into a family that over-analyses things; you develop slightly neurotic tendencies.
I left my mum to wrap the present and rushed to get ready, thinking about the inappropriate wrapping paper as I showered.
* * *
Surprise, surprise, I was actually the first in our group of friends to arrive at the Mega Mandatory Event.
I sat in the living room, holding tightly onto my present - after all I’d been through to get it, the celebrant’s mum had to see it first and acknowledge that it was from me. God forbid she should think I was the one who gave her child the set of plastic spoons.
Another friend arrived with a huge box wrapped in colourful paper.
“Lemme see your wrapping paper” I said, and compared hers to mine. It had “Happy Birthday!” on it. I told her about my experience at the shop and we laughed about all the horrible wrapping paper available in Lagos and how I was stuck with the one I bought.
“At least it has cake on it” I pointed out “And I’m sort of congratulating her for turning one.”
I had no explanation for the dancing elephants.
It was ridiculous; I had developed a complex over wrapping paper.
Everytime someone walked past with a present, I stretched my neck to check if it had ‘Happy Birthday’ on it.
“No one’s going to notice.” My friend reassured me.
The celebrant toddled over, smiled and tried to grab her present from me. I smiled back and resisted. After all I’d been through to get it, her mum…etc
Our other friends arrived, we hugged each other tightly, greeted each other loudly, complimented each other on our outfits; “nice top!” “lovely shoes!” “I want your jeans!” and all the while I paid as much attention to the clowns, balloons and ‘Happy Birthday!’ inscriptions on their wrapping paper as I did to what we were saying.
I noticed that a couple of other friends also held on to their gifts; one even leaned over and, smiling at the celebrant who was trying to snatch the present out of her hand, said “no honey, not until your mummy sees it.”
Finally the celebrant’s mum emerged and we handed our presents over one by one, saying:
“I hope she likes it” (translation: I hope *you* like it)
“I hope it’s her size” (translation: Look, you know I don’t have kids yet, I did my best to figure out her size)
And when it was my turn, “Turning one is a milestone, I just had to congratulate her on it.”
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Car Crash and Whiplash
*Warning! Long post!*
Last week a big black jeep with a monster grille ploughed into us. By ‘us’ I mean me, Benjamin and my little Japanese car.
It was 8.30 pm and there we were, the three of us, minding our business, tired and hungry after a long drive in bumper-to-bumper traffic. We had successfully crossed The Bridge and were meandering through Maryland; me, Benjamin and my little Japanese car.
I was reclining in the front seat, phone in hand, drafting a text message to a friend - nothing serious or particularly important; just a chatty message about my day at work. I was about to press ‘send’ when the white Camry in front of us stopped suddenly, without warning.
Benjamin is small and quick, just like my car. They both reacted quickly and avoided hitting the Camry.
“Who is this idiot?” Benjamin asked angrily. I sat up to see who the idiot was.
At that moment the big black jeep with a monster grille ploughed into us; me, Benjamin and my little Japanese car.
I’d never been in a car accident. The amazing thing about it was the suddenness of it all. One moment I was about to send a silly text message, the very next was five seconds of synchronised chaos – the unexpected shock on impact, the sound of shattering glass and crumpling metal, the screams of bystanders, a spinning sensation, the jolt to my neck and a rush of thoughts in my head – “Are we wearing seat belts? Yes we are. Oh my God is this an accident? It can’t be! I want to sell this car! Where’s my phone? Shit I’m going to miss Dr. 90210.”
But the most vivid impression I had was of the disrespectful way my car was shoved out of the way, rammed off the road and into the Camry like the victim of a vicious bully.
Ten seconds after impact Benjamin and I got out of the car, right in the middle of a crowd of hysterical bystanders and a glare of headlights. It was like being an A-list star stepping out of a limo into a crowd of fans and the bright lights of camera flashes. Except that my limo was a limo no more and the ‘fans’ were students from a nearby college, a couple of eyewitnesses and a handful of area boys.
Attached to the crumpled back of my car was a black jeep. The driver reversed, disengaging his monster from my poor defenceless ride. Bits of twisted metal and shattered glass rained on the road.
The driver of the jeep jumped out and came over to inspect the damage. At one point he looked so nauseous, I was worried he was going to throw up all over what was left of my car.
“You’re a grown man” one guy in the crowd said to him “Why are you behaving like this? Abi you wan cry?”
I took a closer look at the guy and understood why he looked sick to the stomach - he was just another poorly paid driver in Lagos, probably with a boss who had warned him that he would pay for repairs the next time he rammed into someone’s car.
“This car is finished! Just park it! There’s no point, nothing remain!” the crowd of students yelled “Tell him to buy you a new car!”
I looked at the car closely and realised that the accident felt a lot worse than it actually was and ignored the crowd that was trying to work us up. But apparently they had succeeded with Benjamin, who was yelling at the jeep driver and looked like he was about to punch the guy.
Just then the owner of the Camry began to complain about the damage to his car but before he could complain too loudly some witnesses pointed out that he was the cause of the accident so he quickly drove off before the crowd got violent.
There was a lot of noise and confusion and I realised I needed to resolve the situation quickly and get out of there.
“Give me your oga’s phone number” I said to the jeep driver.
To my surprise he replied “He’s in the car”. I couldn’t believe it. The owner of the jeep was sitting there watching all the drama after what he’d done to my car.
“What?!?” the crowd screamed. “Why can’t he come out?” “Who does he think he is?” “Is he God?” “Drag him out!”
I don’t know much about the psychology of crowds but one thing’s for sure – a crowd quickly assumes a life and voice of its own. If there are any voices of dissent within it they are drowned out or forced to form another crowd. And that’s what happened. Crowd 1 was of the “Let’s beat somebody up now” point of view and Crowd 2 (blessed are the peacemakers) were the pacifists who kept things in order while I figured out what to do.
I walked over to the jeep and a group of people followed. I turned to them, said “Let me talk to the owner alone” and right away some of the guys in the group who were right behind me turned to the others and said “Let us talk to the owner alone.” This crowd was beginning to get on my nerves.
I tapped on the tinted window in the ‘owner’s corner.’
The guy inside sized me up before the window slid slowly down. He was middle aged and dressed in a suit and tie. I introduced myself as the owner of the crumpled heap in front of his car and asked him what the next step was towards getting my car fixed. “Sir” I concluded, “I can’t believe you didn’t even come out to see the damage you caused.”
Before the guy-in-the-tie could reply, some guys in my ‘entourage’ yelled “Come down from there! Are you God?”
The guy ignored them and said to me “Calm down, I don’t want to talk about it here, let’s get off the road first then we can discuss things.”
“He wants to run away!” For once I agreed with the crowd.
“Why can’t we discuss it here?” I asked the guy-in-the-tie.
He explained that he didn’t think we could talk properly with all the people around so we agreed to move the cars down the road to the nearest bus-stop. But the crowd wouldn’t let his jeep go.
“He wants to run away!”
So the guy-in-the-tie was forced to get out of his big black jeep and walk a few yards with me to the bus stop.
Benjamin reluctantly drove my rattling car off the middle of the road (where we’d caused about a half-mile of traffic) and parked it at the bus stop, with bits of metal and part of the bumper trailing behind like a bridal train. Benjamin was certain that the driver of the jeep and his oga had hatched a diabolical plan to escape but I was certain that that wasn’t going to happen.
We gathered at the bus stop, me, Benjamin, my little Japanese car, the guy-in-the-tie his big black jeep, trembling driver and Crowd 2. Crowd 1, a much larger group, was annoyed at the civilised turn of events. I hadn’t raised my voice or allowed Benjamin to punch the other driver so it was quite obvious that there was no action to be expected. They melted away, leaving a small group of decent individuals who had witnessed the accident and were eager to help.
We had finalised arrangements for the drivers to meet at the mechanic’s workshop, exchanged business cards and the guy-in-the-tie was about to scribble an undertaking on the back of his card that he was responsible for repairs to my car, when an elderly couple stepped forward.
“Er, what about my car?” the woman asked the guy-in-the-tie. I had noticed them earlier and thought that they were part of Crowd 2. Apparently not.
We were all confused. “My car” she repeated. “My car was affected, what are you going to do about it?”
Car? What car?
She pointed at a battered beat up Volvo parked behind the jeep and led us over to show us the damage. Crowd 2 joined in the inspection. We looked and looked but couldn’t figure out what dent was new and which one was pre-existing. Even she wasn’t sure and had to ask the elderly man (who turned out to be her driver) to point it out.
Apparently after the jeep hit us and we hit the Camry we spun a bit then hit the Volvo which was driving towards us. But come on! It was such minor damage compared to mine. It was ridiculous.
The guy-in-the-tie tried to reason with the elderly woman and Crowd 2 chipped in, telling her to go home and be thankful that she didn’t suffer the damage that I had. But she got hysterical and insisted that no one was going anywhere until her car was discussed.
At that point the guy-in-the-tie lost his temper, raised his voice and spoke a lot of Yoruba. The elderly lady replied with an equally loud voice, a lot more Yoruba and arms waving all about the place.
I tried to interrupt “Excuse me, could you just write the undertaking so I can go?” but the guy-in-the-tie said I should wait and continued arguing with the woman.
I was tired of all the crap but was too polite to loudly insist on being attended to – these people were twice my age and I was a victim of my upbringing.
I waited impatiently, making phone calls while Benjamin eyed the jeep driver and Crowd 2 supported the guy-in-the-tie as he battled the woman’s unreasonable request.
In the middle of the madness, a man in rags walked right through the crowd straight up to the guy-in-the-tie, held out his grimy hand and said loudly “gimme money, I never chop since morning”
We all paused for a moment – who the hell was this? – until the poor harassed guy-in-the-tie screamed “my friend get out of here, what’s my business whether you have eaten or not?” His driver grabbed the beggar, removed him from the scene and the lady in the Volvo resumed her complaining.
I just shook my head and thought “Loony Lagos. What the hell am I dong here??”
When they finally reached an agreement (I don’t understand Yoruba and so have no idea what the final outcome was) to my surprise the woman turned to me and asked for my phone number. Whatever for??
“Because you’re the one who hit me.”
Oh please. “Excuse me ma, I did not go out of my way to hit you. I wouldn’t have hit you if he didn’t hit me so don’t blame me” at which point she gave me the standard Naija speech about how she was old enough to be my mother blah blah blah and I should trust her blah blah and she only needed a witness blah….
I rolled my eyes as she talked. It was dark so it was safe to do so, (one of the advantages of not having functional street lights on Lagos roads) otherwise I would’ve had to stand through a long lecture about my rudeness, how disrespectful the youth of today are, and the general state of the nation.
I gave up, gave her my number, the guy-in-the-tie wrote an undertaking to fix my car, we shook hands with the members of Crowd 2 and everyone said goodnight.
Then Benjamin and I got into our little Japanese accordion and rattled our way home.
Last week a big black jeep with a monster grille ploughed into us. By ‘us’ I mean me, Benjamin and my little Japanese car.
It was 8.30 pm and there we were, the three of us, minding our business, tired and hungry after a long drive in bumper-to-bumper traffic. We had successfully crossed The Bridge and were meandering through Maryland; me, Benjamin and my little Japanese car.
I was reclining in the front seat, phone in hand, drafting a text message to a friend - nothing serious or particularly important; just a chatty message about my day at work. I was about to press ‘send’ when the white Camry in front of us stopped suddenly, without warning.
Benjamin is small and quick, just like my car. They both reacted quickly and avoided hitting the Camry.
“Who is this idiot?” Benjamin asked angrily. I sat up to see who the idiot was.
At that moment the big black jeep with a monster grille ploughed into us; me, Benjamin and my little Japanese car.
I’d never been in a car accident. The amazing thing about it was the suddenness of it all. One moment I was about to send a silly text message, the very next was five seconds of synchronised chaos – the unexpected shock on impact, the sound of shattering glass and crumpling metal, the screams of bystanders, a spinning sensation, the jolt to my neck and a rush of thoughts in my head – “Are we wearing seat belts? Yes we are. Oh my God is this an accident? It can’t be! I want to sell this car! Where’s my phone? Shit I’m going to miss Dr. 90210.”
But the most vivid impression I had was of the disrespectful way my car was shoved out of the way, rammed off the road and into the Camry like the victim of a vicious bully.
Ten seconds after impact Benjamin and I got out of the car, right in the middle of a crowd of hysterical bystanders and a glare of headlights. It was like being an A-list star stepping out of a limo into a crowd of fans and the bright lights of camera flashes. Except that my limo was a limo no more and the ‘fans’ were students from a nearby college, a couple of eyewitnesses and a handful of area boys.
Attached to the crumpled back of my car was a black jeep. The driver reversed, disengaging his monster from my poor defenceless ride. Bits of twisted metal and shattered glass rained on the road.
The driver of the jeep jumped out and came over to inspect the damage. At one point he looked so nauseous, I was worried he was going to throw up all over what was left of my car.
“You’re a grown man” one guy in the crowd said to him “Why are you behaving like this? Abi you wan cry?”
I took a closer look at the guy and understood why he looked sick to the stomach - he was just another poorly paid driver in Lagos, probably with a boss who had warned him that he would pay for repairs the next time he rammed into someone’s car.
“This car is finished! Just park it! There’s no point, nothing remain!” the crowd of students yelled “Tell him to buy you a new car!”
I looked at the car closely and realised that the accident felt a lot worse than it actually was and ignored the crowd that was trying to work us up. But apparently they had succeeded with Benjamin, who was yelling at the jeep driver and looked like he was about to punch the guy.
Just then the owner of the Camry began to complain about the damage to his car but before he could complain too loudly some witnesses pointed out that he was the cause of the accident so he quickly drove off before the crowd got violent.
There was a lot of noise and confusion and I realised I needed to resolve the situation quickly and get out of there.
“Give me your oga’s phone number” I said to the jeep driver.
To my surprise he replied “He’s in the car”. I couldn’t believe it. The owner of the jeep was sitting there watching all the drama after what he’d done to my car.
“What?!?” the crowd screamed. “Why can’t he come out?” “Who does he think he is?” “Is he God?” “Drag him out!”
I don’t know much about the psychology of crowds but one thing’s for sure – a crowd quickly assumes a life and voice of its own. If there are any voices of dissent within it they are drowned out or forced to form another crowd. And that’s what happened. Crowd 1 was of the “Let’s beat somebody up now” point of view and Crowd 2 (blessed are the peacemakers) were the pacifists who kept things in order while I figured out what to do.
I walked over to the jeep and a group of people followed. I turned to them, said “Let me talk to the owner alone” and right away some of the guys in the group who were right behind me turned to the others and said “Let us talk to the owner alone.” This crowd was beginning to get on my nerves.
I tapped on the tinted window in the ‘owner’s corner.’
The guy inside sized me up before the window slid slowly down. He was middle aged and dressed in a suit and tie. I introduced myself as the owner of the crumpled heap in front of his car and asked him what the next step was towards getting my car fixed. “Sir” I concluded, “I can’t believe you didn’t even come out to see the damage you caused.”
Before the guy-in-the-tie could reply, some guys in my ‘entourage’ yelled “Come down from there! Are you God?”
The guy ignored them and said to me “Calm down, I don’t want to talk about it here, let’s get off the road first then we can discuss things.”
“He wants to run away!” For once I agreed with the crowd.
“Why can’t we discuss it here?” I asked the guy-in-the-tie.
He explained that he didn’t think we could talk properly with all the people around so we agreed to move the cars down the road to the nearest bus-stop. But the crowd wouldn’t let his jeep go.
“He wants to run away!”
So the guy-in-the-tie was forced to get out of his big black jeep and walk a few yards with me to the bus stop.
Benjamin reluctantly drove my rattling car off the middle of the road (where we’d caused about a half-mile of traffic) and parked it at the bus stop, with bits of metal and part of the bumper trailing behind like a bridal train. Benjamin was certain that the driver of the jeep and his oga had hatched a diabolical plan to escape but I was certain that that wasn’t going to happen.
We gathered at the bus stop, me, Benjamin, my little Japanese car, the guy-in-the-tie his big black jeep, trembling driver and Crowd 2. Crowd 1, a much larger group, was annoyed at the civilised turn of events. I hadn’t raised my voice or allowed Benjamin to punch the other driver so it was quite obvious that there was no action to be expected. They melted away, leaving a small group of decent individuals who had witnessed the accident and were eager to help.
We had finalised arrangements for the drivers to meet at the mechanic’s workshop, exchanged business cards and the guy-in-the-tie was about to scribble an undertaking on the back of his card that he was responsible for repairs to my car, when an elderly couple stepped forward.
“Er, what about my car?” the woman asked the guy-in-the-tie. I had noticed them earlier and thought that they were part of Crowd 2. Apparently not.
We were all confused. “My car” she repeated. “My car was affected, what are you going to do about it?”
Car? What car?
She pointed at a battered beat up Volvo parked behind the jeep and led us over to show us the damage. Crowd 2 joined in the inspection. We looked and looked but couldn’t figure out what dent was new and which one was pre-existing. Even she wasn’t sure and had to ask the elderly man (who turned out to be her driver) to point it out.
Apparently after the jeep hit us and we hit the Camry we spun a bit then hit the Volvo which was driving towards us. But come on! It was such minor damage compared to mine. It was ridiculous.
The guy-in-the-tie tried to reason with the elderly woman and Crowd 2 chipped in, telling her to go home and be thankful that she didn’t suffer the damage that I had. But she got hysterical and insisted that no one was going anywhere until her car was discussed.
At that point the guy-in-the-tie lost his temper, raised his voice and spoke a lot of Yoruba. The elderly lady replied with an equally loud voice, a lot more Yoruba and arms waving all about the place.
I tried to interrupt “Excuse me, could you just write the undertaking so I can go?” but the guy-in-the-tie said I should wait and continued arguing with the woman.
I was tired of all the crap but was too polite to loudly insist on being attended to – these people were twice my age and I was a victim of my upbringing.
I waited impatiently, making phone calls while Benjamin eyed the jeep driver and Crowd 2 supported the guy-in-the-tie as he battled the woman’s unreasonable request.
In the middle of the madness, a man in rags walked right through the crowd straight up to the guy-in-the-tie, held out his grimy hand and said loudly “gimme money, I never chop since morning”
We all paused for a moment – who the hell was this? – until the poor harassed guy-in-the-tie screamed “my friend get out of here, what’s my business whether you have eaten or not?” His driver grabbed the beggar, removed him from the scene and the lady in the Volvo resumed her complaining.
I just shook my head and thought “Loony Lagos. What the hell am I dong here??”
When they finally reached an agreement (I don’t understand Yoruba and so have no idea what the final outcome was) to my surprise the woman turned to me and asked for my phone number. Whatever for??
“Because you’re the one who hit me.”
Oh please. “Excuse me ma, I did not go out of my way to hit you. I wouldn’t have hit you if he didn’t hit me so don’t blame me” at which point she gave me the standard Naija speech about how she was old enough to be my mother blah blah blah and I should trust her blah blah and she only needed a witness blah….
I rolled my eyes as she talked. It was dark so it was safe to do so, (one of the advantages of not having functional street lights on Lagos roads) otherwise I would’ve had to stand through a long lecture about my rudeness, how disrespectful the youth of today are, and the general state of the nation.
I gave up, gave her my number, the guy-in-the-tie wrote an undertaking to fix my car, we shook hands with the members of Crowd 2 and everyone said goodnight.
Then Benjamin and I got into our little Japanese accordion and rattled our way home.
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