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…
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Shoes, Bags & Headties (aka A Woman of a Certain Age - 3)
Back to my list of things that supposedly happen when a woman hits 30 - the fourth thing is: family members stop hinting about marriage and ask outright.
I’m lucky that no one in my family has asked me about the big M (yet) probably because I look young and they think I’m still 25!
Some (concerned/nosy,pick one) aunts ask when they should buy matching shoes and bags for your wedding. Or ask if you’ve picked a date. Or say (very loudly, at a family gathering) “Let me know on time so I’m in town for your wedding.”
All of which is meant to remind you that (a) you're no longer a spring chicken (b) her daughter got married before you (like it's a competition)and (c) the whole tribe is waiting on you to add your leaves to the family tree.
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.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Winners Never Lose (They Just Get Violent)
WARNING: THIS BLOG POST CONTAINS VIOLENCE (clobbered to death with a TV) STRONG LANGUAGE (“bit of an idiot”) AND REFERENCE TO NUDITY (“…was in the shower”)
One of my most common complaints when I was younger was “I never win anything.” Not raffle draws, not lucky dips, not even the US DV lottery. (The fact that I’d never applied for the DV lottery was irrelevant; the point was “I never win anything”)
When I was fifteen and a well-known soft drink company offered cars as Star Prizes, I went out and bought crates and crates of the drink. I drank and drank until my teeth hurt and yet I won nothing; not even a bottle-opener as a Consolation Prize.
And believe me I needed all the consolation I could get, particularly when the winners of some short story competitions I entered were announced – and I wasn’t one of them. My disappointment quickly turned into cynicism and I began to think that anyone who entered competitions was a bit of an idiot.
I’d look at my sister in amusement as she answered quiz questions and collected bottle caps and soap wrappers as entry tokens, holding back from asking why she bothered only because she always looked so happy and optimistic (oh, please.) I didn’t want to douse her raging enthusiasm.
She would excitedly watch winners claim their prizes on TV and cheerfully announce that “next time it will be us.” “Yeah right” I would mutter sourly, itching to change the channel. Such a sore loser I was, even when I hadn’t taken part in the game. But deep down I felt my sis deserved to win because she was such a good sport.
Then a few years ago something happened to break the jinx of my losing situation.
One of those ‘instant win’ coupons tucked inside a foreign magazine promised a Jackpot Prize of a million pounds. There were several other prizes but who noticed them when there was a million pounds up for grabs. When scratched the coupon proclaimed “You are an Instant Winner! Call to claim your prize before midnight on July 31st.” My mum was scheduled to be in the UK before then and we convinced her to call when she got there. “We have nothing to lose.” Suddenly it looked like a Very Big Win was imminent.
“A million pounds won’t be bad at all” my mum said after a while, looking pleased.
“It might not be the Jackpot Prize,” I pointed out in my usual cynical manner. “Let’s not get too excited, it might just be the ten thousand pound win.”
“That’s still a lot of money” mum said and my sis agreed.
There was a moment’s silence as we all sat around the living room smiling and imagining all the things we could do with the Very Big Win.
“You guys know that the coupon was in my magazine,” I said. For some reason I felt it was very important to remind everyone of that fact.
‘Yes but your brother bought the mag” my mum replied
“For me” I emphasized
“But I found the coupon” my sis reminded us
“And I scratched it” mum announced
“So who gets the money?” The question hung in the air.
“We could share it equally,” my mum suggested generously
“But it’s my mag…” I whined.
And so a family feud ensued, as usually does when large amounts of money are involved. Looking back it was ridiculous for us to argue over money we hadn’t seen yet. Reminds me of the story I used to hear back in my mum’s hometown, about getting yourself worked up over something that might never happen.
Ok maybe there’s a different version of this story in every part of Nigeria but this is the version I know: A man was stopped by neighbours as he beat his young son. “What did the poor boy do?” the neighbours asked. “He threatened to beat my dog” the man replied angrily as his son wailed in the corner. “What dog?” his puzzled neighbours asked “You don’t have a dog.”
“I will” replied the man, “When I sell the palm nuts from the tree I’m about to harvest.”
Long story short, mum travelled, called the number on the coupon and found out that the prize attached to our lucky numbers was a holiday to the Cayman Islands. So the jinx was broken; technically I had won something; since we’d agreed to share the prize I’d won one quarter of a trip to an exotic island, whatever that amounts to. Of course none of us went anywhere near the Cayman Islands and that was the end of that.
My winning spirit was lifted even further when I attended a discount fair with a friend, (Dress for Less, the Christmas fair at GRA? Anyone know it?) where I won an instant prize of eight packets of noodles in the lucky dip.
Perhaps not the most impressive win ever, but I was really happy that I had won something. That wasn’t all; my purchases at the fair also qualified me for entry in a raffle draw. I didn't give the draw a second thought and skipped merrily home with my noodles.
A few days later, on Christmas Eve I was in the shower when I got a text message on my phone with incredible news: “You Won The TV!” I blinked twice. Me? TV? Win? I called the number and a lady from the discount fair congratulated me and said, “Come and pick up your TV now!” I raced to the fair grounds in record time, was handed my tiny 14-inch TV and cheerfully congratulated. “No photos or anything?” I asked the lady, noting with disappointment that there wasn’t any TV crew or photographer on hand to record this landmark occasion. Unfortunately it was late and they were packing up to go so they barely paid me any attention.
As I carried my win off to the car I steeled myself to hear someone yell “Wait! There’s been a mistake - the TV is meant for someone else; you won a carton of noodles!” but thankfully, that didn’t happen. I would’ve killed somebody. Clobbered them on the spot with my brand new TV.
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.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Why Did the Chicken Wings Cross the Road?
Ok its not about chicken wings, we all know the classic 'why did the chicken cross the road' question. I have a question of my own: has anyone thought to ask the damn chicken? It just might tell us and put this riddle to rest forever!
I don't know where this list originated, it was forwarded to me a while ago and I saved it because...well, its funny
KINDERGARTEN TEACHER: To get to the other side.
PLATO: For the greater good of man.
ARISTOTLE: It is the nature of chickens to cross
roads.
KARL MARX: It was a historical inevitability.
TIMOTHY LEARY: Because that's the only trip the
establishment would let it take.
SADDAM HUSSEIN: This was an unprovoked act of
rebellion and we were quite justified in dropping 50
tons of nerve gas on it.
RONALD REAGAN: I forget.
CAPTAIN JAMES T. KIRK: To boldly go where no chicken
has gone before.
HIPPOCRATES: Because of an excess of phlegm in its
pancreas.
ACCENTURE: Deregulation of the chicken's
side of the road was threatening its dominant market
position. The chicken was faced with significant
challenges to create and develop the competencies
required for the newly competitive market. Andersen
Consulting, in a partnering relationship with the
client, helped the chicken by rethinking its physical
distribution strategy and implementation processes.
Using the Poultry Integration Model (PIM), Andersen
helped the chicken use its skills, methodologies,
knowledge, capital and experiences to align the
chicken's people, processes and technology in support
of its overall strategy within a Program Management
framework. Accenture convened a diverse
cross-spectrum of road analysts and best chickens
along with Anderson consultants with deep skills in
the transportation industry to engage in a two-day
itinerary of meetings in order to leverage their
personal knowledge capital, both tacit and explicit,
and to enable them to synergize with each other in
order to achieve the implicit goals of delivering and
uccessfully architecting and implementing an
enterprise-wide value framework across the continuum
of poultry cross-median processes.The meeting was held
in park-like setting, enabling and creating an
impactful environment which was strategically based,
industry focused, and built upon a consistent, clear,
and unified market message and aligned with the
chicken's mission, vision, and core values. This was
conducive towards the creation of a total business.
LOUIS FARRAKHAN: The road, you see, represents the
black man. The chicken 'crossed' the black man in
order to trample him and keep him down.
MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR.: I envision a world where all
chickens will be free to cross roads without having
their motives called into question.
MOSES: And God came down from the Heavens, and He said
unto the chicken, "Thou shalt cross the road." And the
chicken crossed the road, and there was much
rejoicing.
FOX MULDER: You saw it cross the road with your own
eyes. How many more chickens have to cross the road
before you believe it?
RICHARD M. NIXON: The chicken did not cross the road.
I repeat, the chicken did NOT cross the road.
MACHIAVELLI: The point is that the chicken crossed the
road. Who cares why? The end of crossing the road
justifies whatever motive there was.
JERRY SEINFELD: Why does anyone cross a road? I mean,
why doesn't anyone ever think to ask, What the heck
was this chicken doing walking around all over the
place, anyway?"
FREUD: The fact that you are at all concerned that the
chicken crossed the road reveals your underlying
sexual insecurity.
BILL GATES: I have just released the new Chicken
Office 2000, which will not only cross roads, but will
lay eggs, file your important documents, and balance
your checkbook.
OLIVER STONE: The question is not, "Why did the
chicken cross the road?" Rather, it is, "Who was
crossing the road at the same time, whom we overlooked
in our haste to observe the chicken crossing?"
CHARLES DARWIN: Chickens, over great periods of time,
have been naturally selected in such a way that they
are now genetically disposed to cross roads.
ALBERT EINSTEIN: Whether the chicken crossed the road
or the road moved beneath the chicken depends upon
your frame of reference.
BUDDHA: Asking this question denies your own chicken
nature.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON: The chicken did not cross the
road .. it transcended it.
ERNEST HEMINGWAY: To die. In the rain.
COLONEL SANDERS: I missed one?
BILL CLINTON : I did not, and I repeat, did not have
sexual relations with that chicken.
PAT BUCHANAN: To steal a job from a decent, hard
working American.
L.A. POLICE DEPARTMENT: Give us five minutes with the
chicken and we'll find out.
DR. SEUSS: Did the chicken cross the road? Did he
cross it with a toad? Yes! The chicken crossed the
road, but why it crossed, I've not been told!
GRANDPA: In my day, we didn't ask why the chicken
crossed the road. Someone told us that the chicken
crossed the road, and that was good enough for us.
BILL CLINTON: I did not cross the road with THAT
chicken. However, I did ask Vernon Jordan to find the
chicken a job in New York
I don't know where this list originated, it was forwarded to me a while ago and I saved it because...well, its funny
KINDERGARTEN TEACHER: To get to the other side.
PLATO: For the greater good of man.
ARISTOTLE: It is the nature of chickens to cross
roads.
KARL MARX: It was a historical inevitability.
TIMOTHY LEARY: Because that's the only trip the
establishment would let it take.
SADDAM HUSSEIN: This was an unprovoked act of
rebellion and we were quite justified in dropping 50
tons of nerve gas on it.
RONALD REAGAN: I forget.
CAPTAIN JAMES T. KIRK: To boldly go where no chicken
has gone before.
HIPPOCRATES: Because of an excess of phlegm in its
pancreas.
ACCENTURE: Deregulation of the chicken's
side of the road was threatening its dominant market
position. The chicken was faced with significant
challenges to create and develop the competencies
required for the newly competitive market. Andersen
Consulting, in a partnering relationship with the
client, helped the chicken by rethinking its physical
distribution strategy and implementation processes.
Using the Poultry Integration Model (PIM), Andersen
helped the chicken use its skills, methodologies,
knowledge, capital and experiences to align the
chicken's people, processes and technology in support
of its overall strategy within a Program Management
framework. Accenture convened a diverse
cross-spectrum of road analysts and best chickens
along with Anderson consultants with deep skills in
the transportation industry to engage in a two-day
itinerary of meetings in order to leverage their
personal knowledge capital, both tacit and explicit,
and to enable them to synergize with each other in
order to achieve the implicit goals of delivering and
uccessfully architecting and implementing an
enterprise-wide value framework across the continuum
of poultry cross-median processes.The meeting was held
in park-like setting, enabling and creating an
impactful environment which was strategically based,
industry focused, and built upon a consistent, clear,
and unified market message and aligned with the
chicken's mission, vision, and core values. This was
conducive towards the creation of a total business.
LOUIS FARRAKHAN: The road, you see, represents the
black man. The chicken 'crossed' the black man in
order to trample him and keep him down.
MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR.: I envision a world where all
chickens will be free to cross roads without having
their motives called into question.
MOSES: And God came down from the Heavens, and He said
unto the chicken, "Thou shalt cross the road." And the
chicken crossed the road, and there was much
rejoicing.
FOX MULDER: You saw it cross the road with your own
eyes. How many more chickens have to cross the road
before you believe it?
RICHARD M. NIXON: The chicken did not cross the road.
I repeat, the chicken did NOT cross the road.
MACHIAVELLI: The point is that the chicken crossed the
road. Who cares why? The end of crossing the road
justifies whatever motive there was.
JERRY SEINFELD: Why does anyone cross a road? I mean,
why doesn't anyone ever think to ask, What the heck
was this chicken doing walking around all over the
place, anyway?"
FREUD: The fact that you are at all concerned that the
chicken crossed the road reveals your underlying
sexual insecurity.
BILL GATES: I have just released the new Chicken
Office 2000, which will not only cross roads, but will
lay eggs, file your important documents, and balance
your checkbook.
OLIVER STONE: The question is not, "Why did the
chicken cross the road?" Rather, it is, "Who was
crossing the road at the same time, whom we overlooked
in our haste to observe the chicken crossing?"
CHARLES DARWIN: Chickens, over great periods of time,
have been naturally selected in such a way that they
are now genetically disposed to cross roads.
ALBERT EINSTEIN: Whether the chicken crossed the road
or the road moved beneath the chicken depends upon
your frame of reference.
BUDDHA: Asking this question denies your own chicken
nature.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON: The chicken did not cross the
road .. it transcended it.
ERNEST HEMINGWAY: To die. In the rain.
COLONEL SANDERS: I missed one?
BILL CLINTON : I did not, and I repeat, did not have
sexual relations with that chicken.
PAT BUCHANAN: To steal a job from a decent, hard
working American.
L.A. POLICE DEPARTMENT: Give us five minutes with the
chicken and we'll find out.
DR. SEUSS: Did the chicken cross the road? Did he
cross it with a toad? Yes! The chicken crossed the
road, but why it crossed, I've not been told!
GRANDPA: In my day, we didn't ask why the chicken
crossed the road. Someone told us that the chicken
crossed the road, and that was good enough for us.
BILL CLINTON: I did not cross the road with THAT
chicken. However, I did ask Vernon Jordan to find the
chicken a job in New York
Oh, the Torment of Traffic
I haven’t posted anything new in the past few days because I’m so worn out when I get home - the 'go slow' these days is unimaginable. Got home at 11pm on Tuesday and it's been that bad for the past couple of months.
Those of us with good memories will remember the Mother-of-all-Traffic a couple of years ago when 3rd Mainland Bridge was being repaired. A well-known construction company hauled their bright blue machinery onto the bridge, taking over an entire lane and causing horrendous traffic at night, over a two-week period. Back then I sometimes got home at midnight, but at least there was an apparent reason for it. Now? You just keep inching along until you find yourself at your front door.
A few years ago a friend of mine told me how her family hosted a guest from New York. “I wanna see the Lagos traffic” the lady announced as soon as she arrived, “I’ve heard so much about it”. So my friend’s family drove the lady around town, looking for traffic during rush hour, but for some really strange reason there was no real traffic to be found. Unfortunately for the lady, it showed up the one time she definitely did not want to see it - as they sped towards the airport on the night of her departure what did they see inching its way ahead, but our infamous Lagos traffic.
For all of my fellow commuters stuck in the recurring nightmare of the Lagos commute, here are three more ways to keep busy during the bumper to bumper crawl:
1. Spice up your social life
If you’re one of those single people who moan about not meeting anyone new, take a good look around you next time you’re in standstill traffic and you’ll see that you are surrounded by hundreds of potential dates. How do you communicate your interest and availability? Slap on a bumper sticker that says something witty about you (Single, Slim, Sexy, Solvent and Searching) or be direct (Here’s My Number - 080…) But beware, people who smile at you in traffic aren’t necessarily interested, they might just want to cut into your lane.
2. Bond with your beloved
If you’re stuck on 3rd Mainland at night with your Significant Other, enjoy the romantic setting. Take a look around you - you’ll see the lagoon shimmering in the moonlight and stars twinkling overhead. (Assuming PHCN hasn’t disconnected the stars and moonlight) With street traders who sell just about everything, you have a chance to spontaneously buy a romantic gift. (Just ignore the screams from the car being robbed in front of you and no, a toilet seat does not count as a romantic gift)
3. Check out the goods
Speaking of toilet seats, if you’re really bored, check out all the shopping you can do from the (dis)comfort of your car. The last time I counted all the items I saw on sale in Lagos traffic in one day, I listed over seventy different things, including: irons, phones, meat, pots & pans, toilet seats, knives, garden shears, mags & newspapers, carrots, peas & potatoes, fruit, sausage rolls, (Gala Gala Gala) cold drinks, masks, flashlights, toys, crockery, slippers, kaftans, boxer shorts, radios, watches, jewellery, sunglasses and of course recharge cards. Oh yeah also: tissue, books, lightbulbs and towels. Not forgetting the aloe vera plants.
Is anyone from the Lagos State Government reading this?? (Probably not. They’re probably all busy mapping out new BRT routes. Which I suspect is the cause of all this madness.)
Help us! Come to our aid! As Nigerians on national TV like to say in polls about the State of the Nation - “We are suffering; the Government should please come to our aid.”
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.”
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Back When A Woman of A Certain Age Was 22
I’m going to take a break from this ‘Woman of a Certain Age’ business to post something else. Why? Because while flipping through the old diary I found during the strike, I saw an entry I made on Sunday July 6th 1997 about an encounter with my grandmother, the same one with the unstable nanny (see June 16th’s blog.)
My maternal grandmother and I are alike in very many ways, and yet we do not get along. “Difficult” describes her nicely.
Anyways, to provide some background to this diary entry: we were at her house for a while in 1997, lured there by the promise of an inheritance. ‘We’ being her only child (my mother) and my siblings (including the sister who doesn’t understand the meaning of the word ‘spinster.’) My Grandma lived in one wing of the large family house and we stayed in another.
She is very organized so it didn’t seem odd that she would want to sort her affairs out while alive; give whoever whatever. Well she’s still around, ten years later and I ain’t got a dime from her yet. While at my Grandma’s house I noted a lot of things in my diary because I wanted to write a book about my experience there, unfortunately I never got round to piecing all the entries together and the diary is a jumble of frustrated scribblings.
Sunday July 6th 1997
Me: “Good morning Grandma” (places tray laden with breakfast favourites on the bedside table and helps her to a sitting position)
Her: Mmhmm. (scans plate, prods food, tastes tea) “It’s too hot”
Tea is taken away and a cooler brew brought.
Her: “It’s too cold.”
Tea making paraphernalia brought to her room, including kettle, and tea made under her critical supervision.
Her: No church today? (Asked just as I attempt to escape)
Me: I was making your breakfast so I missed the first service
Her: What about the second service?
Me: It’s too crowded.
She seems to frown and I hurriedly decide that a crowded church hall isn’t going to stand between me and a generous inheritance.
Me: “I’ll have a bath now and go”
She smiles. I leave her room, my smile disappearing as soon as I step into the corridor.
Relations between my grandma and her only child are breaking down; my mother is fed up of her insensitive attitude. “I can’t believe she’s enjoying having us run around her like this” my mum complained.
I could believe it because I wouldn’t have minded having a few people run around me.
My mother, siblings and I, once secure in the knowledge that we are my grandmother’s only descendants, got slightly worried one day when she announced that she could leave all her money to whomever she chose.
That night we held a meeting on Our Side of the house. My grandma by her recent words and actions….
(Present day thought: the following page was torn so that’s it for that entry…)
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…)
Friday, June 29, 2007
A Woman Of A Certain Age (2)
Considering Cradle Snatching
Ok so we’ve talked Biological Clocks and flab around the mid-section. Now it’s on to point 3 on the list of Things That Happen To A Woman Of A Certain Age: appreciating the younger men who find one attractive.
First let me define ‘younger men’: ‘younger’ means anyone up to an hour younger than you. (Yes, the rules are stringent but one needs order in this chaotic world.) ‘Men’ means anyone who’s not a woman. Put that together and ‘younger men’ means someone you never took seriously because you assumed they would be juvenile.
So, you’re thirty. And single. And searching, though you act like you’re not. And after attending the wedding of the last guy you know who is older than you, you realize that what was a shallow pool of eligible men slowly dried up into a puddle and then – right before your eyes – into a mud hole.
You’re just leaving the abovementioned wedding reception when your phone rings. *Aargh!* It’s him again. ‘Him’ being the persistent, much-younger suitor who refuses to accept that you’re Just Not Interested. Oh what the heck, I’ll take his call one last time. You answer. And talk. And laugh. And laugh again. (Hmm he’s funny) And smile at something he says (Aww, he’s sweet.)
You hang up and realize - in absolute horror - that you forgot to take some wedding cake home! Ok that’s not what you realize. Just kidding. What you really realize is that the only reason you blew your baby suitor off all this time was that you were being narrow minded; assuming that a younger man could not be your match mentally, emotionally or intellectually. You locked out a whole ocean of potential partners and allowed your ageist mentality to keep you splashing lamely in the shallow pool of older men; a pool that’s now dried up.
It’s definitely a *Eureka!* moment and you go home in high spirits, grateful that your eyes were opened to possibilities, before it was too late.
You get home in a state of excitement and tell your twenty-something year old sister everything you’ve realized.
“Hmm” she says, looking unconvinced. “Younger men. So you’re now officially a spinster?”
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?”
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