Nigerian, Heal Thyself

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

“Found it!”

***

So, what - in Nigeria - is serious malaria?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Nigerian, for goodness’ sake heal thyself!

hat Happens hen Your ‘ ’ Doesn’t ork?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hola!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Re: I'd Rather Walk...

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

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

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

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

I'd Rather Walk...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The turbulence was terrible. I was so afraid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Re: Contacts Crisis

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

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

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