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Sighted: UFOs (Head For The Hills!)

2008-01-01T23:48:00.000+01:00

Most people spend the first day of the new year suffering a hangover, catching up with their sleep after spending all night in church or hosting / attending a new year’s day party.

I spent mine defrosting the freezer.

Before the image of a domestic goddess springs to mind, I have to confess that it was the search for The Last Sausage that led me in there.

It was 10 am, I was famished (sending ‘Happy New Year!’ text messages around the world is hungry work) and decided to rustle up some breakfast…‘rustle up’ being defined as chucking stuff into the microwave and sending text messages while waiting for breakfast to be served.

The fastest thing to cook (translation: microwave) would be sausages. I remembered seeing a lone sausage in the freezer and headed in that direction.

When I opened the freezer I was confronted by the sight of several UFOs i.e. unidentified frozen objects i.e. bags of this and more bags of that.

I tried to rummage around. No luck, the UFOs were so embedded in ice and in the way of things that I couldn’t see anything. I had a mental image of the poor sausage trapped at the back, crushed against the side of the freezer by a monstrous frozen UFO and resolved to rescue it.

I switched the freezer off and sent more text messages while waiting for it to defrost, then hacked away at the ice with a plastic spatula. At one point during my frenzied rescue mission I thought I heard a faint cry for help from the back of the freezer – could that be the sausage?

Nah twas probably my sanity crying out for help; I was so consumed with finding The Last Sausage that I was starting to act a bit, well, maniacal.

You know how it is when you really really want to eat something, and that something is buried in your freezer behind tonnes of God knows what - you know how that feels, right?

No?

Alright, how about when that ‘something’ that’s trapped in your freezer is the only option to cooking? If like me you’d rather not slice, dice or stir, you’d be as eager to get The Last Sausage out as I was.

Contrary to popular belief, I *can* cook; it’s just not an activity I like to indulge in.

I coped quite well when I found myself home alone a couple of months ago; after I got home from work it was straight to the shower then on to bed. I only ever went into the kitchen to get water to drink and to me it seemed cold and bare without my mum’s cheerful presence and pots bubbling on the cooker.

By the third day I didn’t have lunch at work and - since I hadn’t had breakfast that morning either - was starving by the time I got home.

I opened the fridge and looked around. Six eggs, mayonnaise, three bottles of Benylin (with codeine), water, fresh vegetables and lots and lots of plastic bowls with orange covers.

Peeped in the freezer - more plastic bowls but this time with blue covers.

Inside the plastic bowls were various soups and stews which required a boiled or fried accompaniment…and I was in no mood to boil or fry anything.

I phoned my mum. “There’s no food in this house!” I complained.

“Of course there is” she said, and listed the contents of the various bowls.

“Yes I know, I saw them.” I replied “What I meant is, there’s nothing that’s ready to eat.”

“You mean there’s nothing that someone else has prepared for you.”

“Exactly.”

The next day I came home fully prepared, with a beef sharwarma to fling in the microwave. I even put it on a plate and on a tray, in order to upgrade it from a heavy snack (eaten while still in its paper wrapping) to ‘a light meal’.

And so it was until my mum - who loves to cook and says so everyday - came home.

Back to how I spent January 1st 2008; after I got the UFOs out of the way and found what I was looking for, I cleaned the freezer, re-packaged, re-labelled and re-arranged the stuff in the bags, only to find that it was nearly 1 o’clock in the afternoon.

My search for breakfast had ended as a find for lunch and I was too tired to even enjoy the damn sausage.

I may not cook but hey, at least I clean.

Important Facts Toe Know

2007-12-23T03:09:00.001+01:00

Did you know that our big toes carry about half of our body weight when we walk and run? Did you know that standing is difficult with an injured big toe?

I didn’t know either. In fact I never gave big toes any thought; barely noticed them in fact, until The Night of the Toe two weeks ago.

It was at the office Christmas party; I was walking away from the bar with a drink in my hand when I bumped into someone who was on his way there. By the way, that ‘someone’ plays rugby i.e. is built like an ox and is trained to tackle similarly built men to the ground.

“Oops” he said, when his large booted foot made contact with my exposed right foot in its red high-heeled slipper. “Sorry”

“No probs” I smiled and continued on my way, realizing a few seconds later that my right slipper felt a bit wet - did I spill a bit of my drink on my foot? - I wondered.….then my right foot felt warm. I suddenly found I couldn’t stand on it so I limped over to a seat in the corner with this awful pain shooting up my leg, wondering what the hell was going on.

When I checked in the dim light I found out that the guy in boots had accidentally ripped my toenail off. The toenail was clean off the nail bed and hung to one side like it was undecided (should I stay or should I go?) It was bright red with blood and nail polish and hurt like hell. I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry, I wanted to laugh. Has that happened to you before, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time?? Weird.

I asked for a brandy which I drained. It numbed the pain but I ended up plastered and had a couple of ‘unrestrained’ conversations with some higher ups including the guy who’d shattered my poor toe nail and just happened to be my boss’s boss’s boss (i.e. my great-grand boss)

I hunted him down on the dance floor and slurred “you fucking stepped on my fucking toe you fucking kiwi” but he was a good sport, probably because he was in a party mood and had had a couple of drinks himself. He apologized again. I smiled and we posed for photos.

I danced a bit (the DJ was fantastic!) then found another big cahuna to insult.

“I think people who read Kafka are fucking pretentious” I yelled above the loud music to someone I really shouldn’t have been talking to in that state, “who the hell is Kafka anyways? Big deal”

This person is my great-great-grand boss and apparently likes to read Kafka. Ooh boy.

Did you know that when you’re drunk at the office party you’re more likely to insult a superior than a subordinate? I didn’t know either until The Night of the Toe.

The night went by quickly; I danced til 3am after a colleague dressed my toe with stuff from the first aid box in his car. I was deliciously drunk, felt no pain and like I said the music was great.

At about 5am the pain returned. *aargh!*

I called my doctor, grunted out my story then counted the minutes until the 10 am appointment he gave me.

The toenail was hanging by a string of skin and I wanted it taken out completely but the doctor said no, let it fall off itself.

I disagreed because I felt that with the nail off I could enjoy a fresh start, a new nail and a new life, a clean slate, a shot at a new beginning…none of this poetic justification worked with the doctor and all I got were tetanus shots, a new dressing and a pile of antibiotics.

That weekend I slept with my right foot hanging over the side of the bed.

The following week I limped and shuffled around home and work in flat slippers - no heels! I went from being 5ft 7 to 5ft 4.5 overnight.

My ever helpful sis even offered me coloured plasters to match my outfits, but I turned them down in favour of the traditional neutral colour. I may have been injured but there was no need to be garish about it.

After seven days my toe was healing nicely, after an initial stage that was extremely disgusting and required frequent bandage changes. The nail reunited with the nail bed (they worked things out in private) it looked like all was well and I started walking around at home without a dressing on the toe.

Then I stubbed my toe against my bedroom door *aargh!*

And twice on the UPS under my desk at work *aargh!* who put that effing thing under my desk?

Then against the kitchen cabinet *aargh!* and in the car *oh my God!*

Did you know that when you have an injured toe, hard objects will deliberately place themselves in your way? Did you know that if that doesn’t work these hard objects (e.g. doors) will go as far as to ‘bump’ into your poor bandaged toe then sit there looking innocent? I didn’t know either, until…

All these minor accidents happened so many times that they interrupted the healing process and my toe looked damaged. I sighed and went back to bandaging it up.

Then…unbelievably, at another party three nights ago I stubbed my toe AGAIN, this time against a slab of concrete and almost passed out from shock:

'zahrahowcarelesscanyoubeyouaresoclumsyyou’regoingtoendupwithoutafootatthisrate'I thought in a rush.

Now two weeks later the poor toe looks mangled and far worse than on the night of the accident. I give up and now realise that as I am no longer perfect (heh heh) I cannot in all fairness demand perfection from a potential partner, therefore I am revising my personal ad to read:

Single young female, fun, flirty, playful, seeks man with similar qualities, big toes optional…

PS: I am not placing a personal ad, so any interested nine-toed men out there please note that it was a joke!

The Resistance

2007-12-16T11:59:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I fought a good fight.

I was outnumbered, overpowered and underdressed but still I fought determinedly.

It was 10am on Saturday, at a clinic where I was booked for a gastroscopy a.k.a endoscopy a.k.a examination of the stomach via a tube with a camera at the end.

The procedure seemed like a good idea at the time my doctor proposed it; I’d been having tummy trouble for a while and - worried that everyone at home and work was beginning to think I was a hypochondriac - felt it was important to investigate the matter once and for all. Plus I’ve become seriously paranoid about my health after the Pancreas Episode.

However, when it was time for the doctor to stick the tube down my throat I found myself wrestling with him and the nurse. I twisted the nurse’s hand away with one hand, shoved the tube away with the other and struggled into an upright position, gasping, coughing, choking, crying, angry.

I hopped off the operating table and tried to escape in my green backless surgical gown but they grabbed me before I could make it out of the room and down the street (with the green gown flapping in the harmattan wind.)

I didn’t like the way I was so aware of what was going on and asked for more sedative.

“I want you to be conscious enough to see the inside of your stomach on the screen” the doctor said excitedly. “The colours are so vivid; the yellows and reds and…”

Er, that’s enough doc, I really don’t want to see or feel anything.

I refused to lie down until they gave me more sedative. They refused to give me more sedative until I lay down. Negotiations were deadlocked and no one wanted to back down.

“What is all this?” the doctor asked in exasperation, “You’ve done this procedure several times before”

“Yes, but back then I was seriously ill and desperate for a solution. Now I’m relatively healthy and I object to having tubes down my throat”

“But you have to do it. We’re all here now, we can’t go home”

I offered to pay for the procedure and the inconvenience if we could agree not to go ahead with it but the doc refused. “We need to know what’s wrong.”

“Fine, but I don’t want to be aware of what you’re doing while you’re finding out what’s wrong.”

“But I’m not going to put you under general anaesthesia for a minor procedure like this.”

“Fine, then give me more sedative.”

“Fine, then lie down.”

I lay down cautiously but refused to put the plastic mouth guard back in until they injected more sedative.

“Don’t you trust me?” my doctor asked. I raised an eyebrow, or at least tried to. It was difficult to project witty cynicism in a half-drugged, half-naked state.

“Why don’t you trust me?” he persisted. I couldn’t believe we were having an Oprah-like conversation at a time like that and tried to roll my eyes but for some reason my eyeballs weren’t fully functional.

The doctor eventually kept his word, increased the dose of sedative and my last thought before I drifted into a floaty, dreamy state was:

“Aahh, this is far better than Benylin (with Codeine) ha ha zzzz”

Friendly Friday Flops….

2007-11-10T00:45:00.000+01:00

Exactly a week ago we test ran our ‘Friendly Friday.’

‘We’ refers to a group of colleagues/friends who sit around me at work - E, D, Big E and Y (of chicken wings fame, June 18th & 19th posts)

We’re all quite close and yet - despite our bond - recently noticed that over the past few months we’ve become increasingly rude, sarcastic and antagonistic towards each other.

Not in a malicious way, just in playful Naija fashion. For instance:

“Come and look at this report”
“Why?”
“Because it’s important”
“So?”
“Come on come here”
“Gerrout”

The person would eventually wander over to look at the report, but not before being impossibly impolite.

Or:

“Pass me that folder”
“Do I look like your houseboy?”
“Gimme the folder my friend.”
“You’re mad”
“You dey craze”

The guys were more badly behaved than us chicks. D and I weren’t as rude but we realised that we had become more aggressive and insensitive just from hanging around them.

“Where’s my Maroon 5 CD?”
“You mean your pirated Maroon 5 CD? Please be specific.”

It was getting too much so E & Y decided that last week Friday (November 2nd) would be Friendly Friday, and announced to the rest of us that insults and rude behaviour were banned for the day.

This wasn’t the first time we’d tried this sort of thing; we’d tried Pidgin English Friday a month before but by noon those of us who aren’t fluent in it were forced to sit mutely at our desks.

After further discussion of the Rules and Regulations of Friendly Friday we agreed to include sarcasm, rude facial expressions and negative remarks to the list of unacceptable behaviour. Whoever ended the day with the highest number of transgressions was to pay for breakfast for everyone on Monday.

“No sarcasm?” I asked “Then I have nothing to say.”

I decided I would spend the rest of the day with my earphones plugged into my ears; better to spend the afternoon with Kanye West and Junior Gong than risk being booked and forced to feed some hungry buggers on Monday.

Later that morning I went upstairs briefly and by the time I returned to my desk, the rest of the team had ordered sandwiches for themselves, and none for me.

“Hey! Hey! What’s the meaning of this?” I barked.

They all looked up at me with raised eyebrows.

“I mean, guys, I’m hurt and offended that you left me out”

“That wasn’t hard, was it? Don’t you feel better?” E asked

“That’s sarcastic” I said. “Book him.”

Y eagerly wrote E’s name down - “You’re the first person on the list!” - while E protested vigorously.

About an hour later, at some point in conversation Big E made a comment that cast some doubt on his sexual orientation and we all laughed as he tried to wriggle his way out of it.

“Well that explains the shirt” I joked about his baby pink T shirt.

“That’s a negative statement” Big E said, “She’s implying that I’m something I’m not. It’s slanderous. Book her.”

“It’s a statement of fact my friend. Aren’t you wearing a pink shirt?”

“And what’s wrong with wearing a pink shirt?”

“Did I say there was anything wrong with wearing a pink shirt?”

“It’s not what you said; it’s how you said it”

“You’ve twisted this whole thing, gerrout”

“I’ve booked you twice!” Y cheerfully informed me.

I didn’t go up to the cafeteria for lunch with the others but later heard that E had gone ballistic, complaining about some presentation he had to prepare - a complaint that was heavily sprinkled with swear words. When he was reminded that he would end up having to pay for our breakfast he spat “I’ll buy the f*cking breakfast” and continued swearing. Everyone was aghast.

By late afternoon E was clearly in the lead. Big E had been booked for making rude faces, something he is very skilled at doing. I was booked for several sarcastic remarks and even Y who was busy booking everyone was forced to book himself when he said something about lawyers being useless. (Negative comment, book him)

D did not appear on the list at all - she was quietly doing her thang, laughing at the rest of us.

Around 4 o’clock I got an email from a colleague that really ticked me off. The Excel sheet wasn’t properly formatted and it meant a lot of extra work for me.

“This is bullshit” I said to myself

“Book her!” Y yelled from his corner of the room.

I turned to face him. “What’s wrong with you, I was talking to myself, and I was talking about the template.”

“Book her again; did you see the expression on her face?”

“Ah ah!” I protested

“You said bullshit. That’s a swear word, it’s rude, so book her” Big E handed Y a pen in case he couldn’t find one to write my name with.

“It’s a bullshitemplate, that’s what it’s called; a Business Utility Long Life Sales Hourly Input Template…” We all laughed as I struggled to come up with an excuse.

“You’ve been booked the highest number of times” Y informed me as he scribbled away. “So you’re buying breakfast for everyone next week.”

I had no idea that Y was lying - E was actually the greatest offender.

At that point I thought what the heck…

“In that case, since it’s decided that I’m buying breakfast I can tell all of you what I think of you” I pointed at them one by one. “Big E you’re stupid, E you’re an idiot, you over there, booking everybody, you’re mad.”

They decided to book me for aggression, rudeness, insulting behaviour, negative remarks and a hostile tone. (One point each.) Y eventually ran out of space to write my name.

Big E suggested I attend counselling for my anger issues, which raised some more bookable offences; anger management issues, one point. Lack of self restraint, another point. It was hilarious!

At the end of the day, E’s lunchtime outburst was judged to be worse than mine so on Monday he paid for sandwiches for everyone.

On Wednesday we decided to give it another try. This time Y was power drunk; booking everything that breathed, yet his own name did not appear on the list at all even when he clearly offended.

Big E complained about the unfairness of it all and asked Y to step down as scribe, but Y held on to the list and announced that he would have to be impeached to be removed. When we moved for impeachment he declared that, like Etteh, he could not be removed. The guys argued and argued and eventually E grabbed the list and tore it to shreds.

And that, I think, is the end of Friendly Friday.

Congratulations! You Made It Through The Day

2007-10-30T23:56:00.000+01:00

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.”

Car Crash and Whiplash

2007-10-27T00:42:00.000+01:00

*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.

Proudly Pedantic

2007-09-03T23:23:00.000+01:00

No one has mastered the fine art of being pedantic quite like me.

I remember a conversation I had with an old friend, D, when I was seventeen. (D ‘Past’, not D ‘Present’) We were lazing about at her house talking about (what else?) guys - who was fine, who was funky, who liked who first and all those very important things.

Then she mentioned that a guy who lived down the road had confided in her that he was helplessly in love with me and that he had never felt that way about any girl before; I was interesting and fun and he was hopelessly in love.

“He’s what?” I asked.

“He’s in love with you!”

“Yes I heard that part” I said, “What I’m asking is – is he helplessly in love, or hopelessly in love?”

“What?” D looked blank.

“First you said he’s helplessly in love, then at the end you said hopelessly. So which one is it? Helpless or hopeless? Be specific.”

First she laughed and said I was crazy or something like that, then when she realised I was serious she looked very irritated. “Does it matter? Whatever it is, he’s in love.”

“It matters…” I explained carefully “…because I’m going to record it in my diary and I need to be accurate. I need to capture his feelings as he declared them.”

She looked at me like I was mad.

The thing is I didn’t believe her to start with. Not the bit about the guy being in love - that might have been true. But D was such a huge fan of frothy romantic novels that she probably made up the bit about helplessness and hopelessness.

So I’m the family pedant who likes to be very clear in conversation. “Say what you mean and mean what you say” and all that.

Anyways, the year I was seventeen was a glorious year. We were young, we had fun, we had crushes on each other and we played loud music. ‘We’ being a group of guys and girls who hung out at my friend D’s place nearly everyday.

(I must digress at this point - what happened to all the guys from my teenage years?? Where the heck did they all go?)

One day one of the guys in the group noticed that my voice sounded a little hoarse.

“You’ve caught a cold?” he asked.

“I don’t know if I have.” I replied.

“But you have a sore throat?”

“Yes I do.”

“Then you’ve caught a cold” he pronounced.

“It’s not a cold yet so I can’t agree.”

“So…the answer is no, you haven’t caught a cold then.”

“Well I don’t know, I may have, it could be that it just hasn’t manifested yet. Can I answer this question tomorrow? Because by then I’ll know whether or not I’ve caught a cold.”

Looking back, I’m really surprised that he stuck around that long to have that sort of silly conversation with me.

Or maybe... he was the guy who was hopelessly, helplessly in love.

Don't Worry, Be Happy

2007-08-14T14:00:00.000+01:00

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls…I’ve been on a blogging hiatus because I have a recurring cold and am presently hooked on cough medicine which keeps me almost permanently drowsy.

I love Benylin with Codeine. It gives one such a pleasant, happy feeling. All is right with the world. I love Lagos.

Last year when I had to fly several times for work, it was a pleasant coincidence that I had a cough at the time and so had a bottle of Benylin with me. It suppressed those endless racking coughs, soothed my throat and, just by the way, (only as a fringe benefit) knocked me out so I wouldn’t have to experience the flight.

This year when the ‘rains’ began and my cough resurfaced, I decided to try another brand of cough mixture, worried about my increasing attachment to Benylin.

I took a bottle of Day Nurse to work to prevent me from coughing all over everyone in Marketing (and some in HR.)

“Non Drowsy!” the bottle proclaimed. Oh yeah? Then why did I fall asleep halfway up the stairs to the Finance dept?

I took Night Nurse in the evening and could barely get up the next morning. My sore throat was gone but so also was my energy. I felt heavy and drugged.

So I went back to Benylin. It tastes great, works instanta, promotes world peace (don’t worry, be happy, I am!) and is an essential item in my Fear of Flying toolkit.

I’ll return to complete the Brazil posts as soon as this pleasant haze lifts.

Snakes on a Plane, Frog in the Bathroom (1)

2007-08-05T15:29:00.000+01:00

Back to Brazil and the second event in the series:

2) Flew a total of about 25 hours to get to a ranch in Campo Grande

I lurve Samuel L Jackson and all his movies, except for that ridiculous Snakes on a Plane. Why don’t I like it? First I’d rather walk than fly. I established that fact in my post on July 17.

Secondly, I don’t understand the function of snakes in society. I don’t understand the function of cockroaches either, but this is not about them. I’d really appreciate it if a herpetologist out there would explain to me (slowly, slowly) exactly where snakes fit into the circle of life. They are just so scary. I guess what you don’t understand, you fear.

Put my two main fears together and you have Snakes on a Plane.

Luckily I didn’t experience anything close to the nightmare of seeing a snake slithering about on the flights I was on, but I did have a brush with one at the hacienda.

The flight to Sao Paulo felt like it took forever. If I remember correctly, it lasted over ten hours from London. Ten hours suspended in the air, surrounded by strangers, strapped to an uncomfortable seat with no leg room.

I had a window seat next to a young Brit, a friendly chatty guy who had backpacked across Asia and was now ready for South America. The lady on his other side, sitting by the aisle was ready for him. She looked much older, was obviously very attracted to him and flirted openly for hours.
Sometimes he would turn to me to ask questions about my trip and my country but she would always interrupt to get his attention back. By the time I got tired of talking to him and was ready to sleep she had her left hand resting on his knee while he studied a map.

Every time I looked out of the window it was dark. There was absolutely nothing to look at, just endless blackness. It was like the sun had overslept or something.

At the airport in Sao Paulo I was worried about missing my connecting flight to Campo Grande. No one seemed to speak any English so I waved my hands about and chanted “Campo Grande, Campo Grande.”

At first the people weren’t very friendly. In fact they were borderline rude; ignoring me, looking right through me, walking off as I approached, until they discovered I was a foreigner and the dazzling smiles came out.

I’m not one to ascribe racism to every negative encounter with non-black people but there were definitely negative vibes going on. I guess technically it wasn't racism, because they were really nice and helpful when they found out I’m not Brazilian. Maybe it’s an internal problem, the sort of problem usually faced by countries with colour-coded populations.

I finally got directions to the domestic wing (still frantic about missing my flight) and when I got to the VARIG/TAM office upstairs a lady behind the counter smiled and said “Jay Jay!” when she saw my Nigerian passport. She was really friendly and though her spoken English wasn’t that good I figured out she liked football (what Brazilian doesn’t?) and probably admired Jay Jay Okocha. So Jay Jay’s dribbling skills helped make life a little easier for a fellow Nigerian, miles away in South America. She gave me my boarding pass and directed me to the right terminal.

Remember I said her English wasn’t fantastic? Her directions were confusing so I ended up at the wrong place.

“Campo Grande, Campo Grande” I said to some guards.

One of them escorted me to the right terminal where I settled in to wait for my flight.

I felt lost and alone. Just as I was kicking myself for not buying a Portuguese phrase book, I heard someone speaking English. This sounds ridiculous but the sound of words I understood was really comforting.

I moved closer to the English couple who were talking about their trip. They were also going to Campo Grande so I sat near them and read a book while enjoying the sound of a familiar language.

Pick Up the Phone, Girl

2007-08-04T22:38:00.000+01:00

My friend T lives in Minneapolis and so I was really worried when I heard about the bridge that collapsed there on Wednesday. We’ve been friends since we were six and she’s one of the ‘experts’ I called during my contacts crisis (July 12 post.) Her mum was our music teacher in Primary school and we sat next to each other all through Secondary school.

We’ve been the same height for years. She constantly disputes that fact, imagining herself to be the taller one (ha!) but the truth is we’ve been the same height for years, experiencing vertical growth at pretty much the same rate.

Together we suffered the torture of wearing thick glasses while growing up, consoling ourselves with the ‘fact’ that ‘short-sighted people have been found to possess above-average intelligence.’ I don’t know how true that is, nor can I remember where we read that research finding, but consoled we were.

She got contacts first and I envied her liberation from glasses. Then she got LASIK surgery to correct her sight but I will stick to my contacts thank you very much. (It appears my contacts are also determined to stick to me, as evidenced by their clingy behaviour on July 12.)

Back to the main gist, these past couple of days I’ve called T’s cellphone nearly thirty times but it kept going straight to voicemail and her phone at home rang endlessly.

I left her a message, no response. Sent her an email, no reply. I became frantic and tried calling her parents here to find out how she was. Couldn’t get through.

So I decided to go to her parents’ house during my lunch break on Friday, since they live near my office. But I couldn’t: it rained on the island and traffic is bad when it rains and all that. Actually that’s not why. It did rain but I think I was sort of afraid of what I would hear and preferred to hear it over the phone than face to face.

So this morning I tried calling her parents again. No show so I tried T. Cellphone went to voicemail and her landline at home rang and rang - until her father picked up. I was a bit confused because I wasn’t expecting anyone to answer, least of all her father who, as far as I knew, was right here in Lagos with me.

Anyways, to cut a long story short, turns out T and her hubby are chillin’ in Cancun Mexico, celebrating their fifth wedding anniversary while I’m here developing an ulcer over her whereabouts.

Fill the Form, Dammit!

2007-08-04T12:24:00.000+01:00

In my July 27 post I wrote about the series of smaller events which made up my Dramatic Experience in Brazil. This is the first:

(1) I wrote an essay and got picked to attend an Earthwatch expedition

My essay was about environmental aesthetics; about trees and fields and greenery in an urban landscape. I wrote about water and waste and the hazardous mix of the two in some parts of the country. I don’t recall writing anything about birds or animals.

So I was really surprised when I read the Earthwatch invitation letter and found that we were going to spend two weeks researching wildlife in the Pantanal. I enjoy watching animal documentaries from the safety of my bed but have never been keen on getting too close. But after some thought I figured why not? Something new.

The lady at the Earthwatch office in London nagged me endlessly about filling out the health insurance form. There were loads of forms to fill and I was sure I had filled them all. No, she insisted, you haven’t sent me the health insurance form. Please fill it, sign it, and fax it. I agreed to but forgot to.

She called me again. “I won’t let you get on the plane without that form being faxed to me first.”

How was I supposed to figure out which one was the health insurance form? I grumbled to myself. (Grumble a lot, especially on Wednesdays.)
All the forms looked alike; lots of questions and small print and boxes for comments, how was I supposed to dig through it all, it was such a waste of time, what the hell did she need the form for, aargh I hate this, which one is the health insur - actually it was quite easy to figure out which form it was because it had ‘HEALTH INSURANCE FORM’ printed clearly at the top. But I grumbled anyway. It’s very therapeutic. So is cursing and swearing, though I understand that ladies aren’t meant to swear. Why not? Who created that rule? I’ll effing swear if I want.

Where was I? Aha, the form. I filled it, signed it and faxed it the day before I left. A week later as I was being wheeled into emergency surgery I thanked God - and the lady at the Earthwatch office in London - that I finally filled out the form.

Revenge of the Pig

2007-07-27T22:25:00.000+01:00

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

2007-07-25T00:13:00.000+01:00

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!

2007-07-22T18:32:00.001+01:00

hat Happens hen Your ‘ ’ Doesn’t ork?

2007-07-22T18:14:00.001+01:00

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!!

2007-07-22T17:36:00.000+01:00

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...

2007-07-19T23:03:00.000+01:00

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...

2007-07-17T23:59:00.000+01:00

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

2007-07-15T23:40:00.001+01:00

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

2007-07-15T23:38:00.000+01:00

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

2007-07-12T20:08:00.000+01:00

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

2007-07-10T21:54:00.000+01:00

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

2007-07-08T16:16:00.000+01:00

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)

2007-07-08T00:51:00.000+01:00

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)

2007-07-06T22:29:00.000+01:00

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?

2007-07-05T22:50:00.000+01:00

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

2007-07-05T22:28:00.000+01:00

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

2007-07-01T21:01:00.000+01:00

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…)

A Woman Of A Certain Age (2)

2007-06-29T23:21:00.000+01:00

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?”

2007-06-28T23:56:00.001+01:00

A Woman of a Certain Age

2007-06-28T22:53:00.000+01:00

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

2007-06-27T00:21:00.000+01:00

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

2007-06-26T23:25:00.000+01:00

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

2007-06-24T21:10:00.000+01:00

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…

2007-06-23T19:18:00.000+01:00

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?

2007-06-21T23:13:00.000+01:00

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)

2007-06-21T14:49:00.000+01:00

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

2007-06-20T11:59:00.000+01:00

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)

2007-06-20T10:53:00.000+01:00

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

2007-06-19T23:38:00.000+01:00

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

2007-06-18T21:53:00.000+01:00

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

2007-06-17T16:36:00.000+01:00

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

2007-06-16T12:36:00.000+01:00

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.