Nigeria Dreamin' Part III

I have to admit, I’ve been a pretty bad blogger this year, in fact I don’t think I deserve to be a called a blogger after this dismal performance in 2011. My last post was in January, and for that I can only apologize, I guess my reason is that 2011 has been quite disappointing for a variety of reasons, and reasons I felt I didn’t need (and didn’t want) to go into detail (I can’t put everything out there, right?)

So, if the present isn’t all that rosy, what better place to go than to the past, as some of you probably know (from my last two Nigerian Dreamin’ posts) I have very fond memories of growing up in Nigeria in the 1990s. They were indeed fun and mostly happy times, and these posts are a way of reminiscing about those good old days, the celebrations, the recreation, the food, and of course, being kids; the punishment.

Moi, yes, this is how I dressed (sometimes)

Charity begins at home

I think the biggest difference between living in Nigeria and living in the Netherlands can be found in the etiquette of guests. In Nigeria it’s not unusual for a friend to show up unannounced on a Saturday morning just to have a chat about relatives or politics. Nobody called in advance, or arranged a convenient date, you just showed up and hoped the person you were visiting was at home. If they weren’t, you either go back home, go visit another friend who lived nearby or come in and wait till your friend arrived. Even if my dad was sleeping, it was our duty as kids, not to politely turn the guest away, but to go up and wake daddy up, shaking him saying “Daddy, Daddy Mister So-so-and-so has come”. Daddy would rise up, wipe the sleep from his face and come down, and before long he and his guests would be laughing heartily.
There was the customary greeting of guests which was a bit of a ritual, it involved us kids coming, either en masse or one by one to greet the guest. We usually stood close to an exit so as not to prolong what was to be a quick affair. The guest would usually ask about what class you were in, and then make a flat comment like “You’re now a big boy eh” which sounded like a question, but was probably a remark, and so I’ll look at dad, as if to telepathically ask “Should I reply in the affirmative that I am indeed growing or is he mainly stating the obvious”
Once the guest had exhausted all the compliments he/she could give that was your cue to make a quick exit, this was important because some guests were quite...touchy, and would insist you come and sit next to them or on them and endure a three our conversation about fuel prices or Abacha, and you couldn’t really refuse, so you sat there, legs dangling, respectfully bored to death.
Sometimes, if we didn’t have any soft drinks, or beer at home we were sent to go get some cold ones from next door. If you were lucky, dad could give you some coke if you seemed to be quite helpful around, otherwise you waited till the guests left and then raided the living room for any remnants. I still don’t like Guinness till this day, but there was something quite satisfying as an eight year old, finishing the last bit of Guinness in the bottle, you felt adult, somewhat wiser, for this was what ‘real men’ drank afterall.

All play and no work makes Jack a dull boy

My grandma was always rather suspicious of our friends. I think she felt they were either too rude, too rough, or too “un-trained” or plainly didn’t know when they had overstayed their welcome (in Grandma’s eyes if you were still hanging around at dinnertime then you were way past your welcome). So on the occasions friends came over I made sure we went up to my Grandma’s room where I’ll introduce my friend, and they would greet her as politely as possible- this should ideally involve bowing, not looking agitated, and most importantly, remaining standing until dismissed by her, walking off before being formally dismissed was the height of disrespect. After Grandma’s approval, play could then commence.

Me and my super-awesome Grandmother

I think we got a PC in 1998, remember how computers looked back then? CPUs the size of suitcases, and monitors what were half your body weight. Oh and dial-up internet, which was used only sparingly, and took 5 minutes to load up a simple page. Ah, good days.
When we got the computer, dad gave us a lengthy lecture about its purpose- STRICTLY FOR EDUCATIONAL USES. He demonstrated this by buying us a load of CDs, with titles like ‘Human Body in 3D’ ‘GCSE Geography’ ‘Encyclopaedia Encarta’ etc. Of course as young kids our idea of a computers purpose was diametrically opposed to our father’s, and this was demonstrated by the programs we (covertly) installed on the computer, with titles like ‘Need for Speed’ ‘Mortal Kombat’ ‘Duke Nukem’ ‘Street Fighter’ etc

Part IV coming up soon, where I talk about celebrations and punishment.

Dreaming of a White Christmas: The Awkwardness of European notions of Christmas in a Nigerian Setting

I remember when I was about 14, sitting around with some American friends (in school in the Netherlands) discussing Christmas, one of them asked another at what age they stopped believing in Santa Claus. I was taken aback, was this some kind of joke, did people actually believe in Santa Claus. Did kids grow up thinking that a fat guy actually could fit into their chimney unnoticed and leave gifts? I found it unbelievable that at any age, someone would believe such a fantastical story, but I guess I had no idea about the cult of Santa Claus in the west, particularly in America.

See, I grew up in Nigeria, and Santa Claus, or Father Christmas as we call him is well known there, he adorns Christmas cards and Christmas decorations and can be seen all over TV adverts during Christmas time. But as a child I knew of no one like me who actually believed Father Christmas was real, real in the sense that it was he not your parents who delivered your gifts on Christmas day.

Although during Christmas time we were saturated with images of this foreign benevolent gift distributor we just could not identify with him on many levels. Not only is the idea of a white man dressed in winter clothes in the sweltering heat of Nigeria quite strange, but all the iconic apparatus that supported the myth of Santa Claus were very unfamiliar to us, we had no concept of what a chimney was, or mistletoe, or snow, sleighs or even reindeers. All these things were apparently common in Europe and America but they were and are alien to us, and it happened that during Christmas we threw out our cultures and traditions and adopted this strange fitting idea of a ‘White Christmas’ with mistletoe, pine trees, snow and eggnog, for a brief period in the year we were European, we were like those people on the TV with their knitted cardigans around the fireplace. The feeling I have is that we as a culture felt it was impossible to have an authentic Nigerian Christmas.

And this feeling of ‘White is Right’ was subconsciously ingrained into my little-head when I was young. My dad worked at an international agricultural agency, and so he had many colleagues from Europe and North America. At the annual Christmas party, one of his white colleagues was the Santa Claus for the day, and it felt right as a kid, for this white costumed man corresponded with the white Santa Claus from the Coca-Cola adverts and Christmas cards. I remember quite clearly as a kid feeling some sort of superiority over my friends who did not enjoy this ‘white privilege’ and thus had to endure a counterfeit ‘Black Santa Claus’, through a complex media and commercial machinery I had been indoctrinated that Santa Claus could only be white, and any other depiction was vulgar and illegitimate.

And I think to a large extent, these things are still true in Nigeria and other parts of the non-white Christian world today. It’s beautiful to see how other cultures have adapted and adjusted Christian practices to fit their respective cultures. There was once a point when exuberant singing and dancing was frowned upon in Anglican churches in West Africa, now you’d be hard pressed to walk into any Anglican church where dancing and jubilant singing is not part of the service.

This ownership of the Christian religion should also apply to Christian festivals that now have a larger secular meaning; we can create a genuinely Nigerian Christmas without having to borrow strange customs from the west. It’s about time we put our own unique stamp on Christmas.

Must watch, very funny video on Nigeria from Onion News

In The Know: Situation In Nigeria Seems Pretty Complex

Mandingo

My newest poem, on the colonization of Africa and the subjugation of the black man.

Listen
Hear the Drums of the Mandinka
Hear the clapping hands
the naked feet on the dry soil
See the women in frenzied joy
Unbridled emotion
Hail Mandingo

Hail Mandingo
The African warrior
The Slayer of the Lion
with his bare hands
Hail Mandingo
King of the bush

Listen
Hear the Canons of the British
Hear their cocking guns
thier booted feet on the decks
See the soldiers in frenzied joy
Unbridled emotion
Hail Smith

Hail Smith
The British Warrior
The Slayer of the Lion
with his shotgun
Hail Smith
King of Africa

Blast from the Past

Me at about 7/8 months I guess. Just chillin' on the sofa, smiling at the contraption that was capturing my image.

Nigeria Dreamin Part II

"When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I felt as a child, I thought as a child. Now that I have become a man, I have put away childish things."

1 Corinthians 13:11

Sex, that three letter word, perhaps the most baffling concept ever known to a child. So many euphemisms concealed the deed that was Sex. The euphemism that confused me most was : Sleep. My Grandma in one of her many stories would say: "She slept with him, and became pregnant" This led me to believe, quite strongly that a woman became pregnant when she slept in the same bed with a man. It was rather simple, but also rather strange, however my young innocent mind did not question it. Somehow, merely sharing the same bed with an adult man caused a human being to start growing inside the 'belly' of the woman. It was quite logical!
On Sex and the church, I'm sure I was not the only one in Sunday school, sitting there wondering what on earth a 'Virgin' was. Mary was always refered to as the 'Virgin' Mary, initially I thought it was her first name, but I noticed that we sometimes said "Born of a Virgin", this meant that a 'Virgin' was something special, something rare, to me a Virgin was a woman who gives birth to special babies like Jesus. Therefore, the whole concept of the 'Annunciation' was lost to us kids, as a key term: "Virgin" was not explained.
Pregnancy was pretty straightfoward as a youngster, the process was simple, a woman had slept on the same bed as a man, and had 'taken in' as my Grandma would say, therefore, a little baby was growing inside of her for some time till it was strong enough to come out...when that time came, she went to hospital and miraculously appeared one or two days later, with a flatter belly and a little baby. What took place at the hospital remained a mystery. My belief was that every women underwent a cesarean to remove the baby, that was the only logical explanation, surely there wasn't any orifice in the body that a human being could naturally come out of. This was my strong belief, but it was always tested when I would hear of women giving birth to babies at home, in the market, in a car...where was the knife? where was the doctor? How was this possible!?
It was when I was rumaging through my Dad's medical books that I saw the process of childbirth illustrated, still it looked very strange and unnatural, the books were telling me that the baby came out of the woman's "underparts"!! (as a child the woman's reproductuve organs were nameless, boy's had penises and what women had was of no concern) I still mantained my belief in cesarean till I saw a video of childbirth, an image that will stay in my head forever, a human being coming out of what till then was a very small hole...the child emerged slimy and looking alien, with a cord attached to it's belly. I had thought children were born clean, with no attachments, and only needed to be clothed.
Finally on the issue of sexuality, the big puzzle as a child: What the hell was a condom? The adverts were so obscure and ambiguous, they kept refering to the condom as a 'raincoat'...a raincoat in a small packet? I was confused. What was this condom thing? Was it edible? Was it some kind of toy? In supermarkets I saw the condoms stacked on the shelves, no one ever seemed to buy them, I knew how the packets looked, but the real issue was what was inside! Why did the adverts not explicitly tell us what was inside the packet? The condom was perhaps the greatest childhood mystery.
But now, old me, the innocence of childhood washed away by the harsh tides of reality. I look back at childhood, at how simple things were, diminished responsibilities, no stress, your life was in your parents hands, and sometimes I wish I had that guiding hand constantly steering me in the right direction, but, such is life. At last the time comes when the parent exits the cockpit, and the son becomes a man and has to fly that plane to its final destination.

What do you wanna be when you grow up?

I remember this, in primary school, we were usually asked what we would like to be when we were older. As an eight-year old kid living in Nigeria there seemed to be two main professions, a doctor or an engineer. As a kid, I knew what a doctor did, but an engineer's job was a bit ambiguous, because all the engineers I knew were clean-cut old men, and what I knew as an engine was obviously a car engine, and the guys that worked on them were mechanincs, young muscular men, smelling of petrol and soiled with engine oil, that to me was an engineer, and that was hardly a job to aspire to have.
I think I was part of the 'doctor bandwagon' until I learnt of my dad's profession..."Agriculturist" (it will later become Agricultural Economist when we were old enough to have a vague idea of what economics was) Now that I had a father with an 'exotic' profession, I obviously assumed the title, and while my peers were busy shouting doctor, engineer, and the occasional teacher, I stood up calmly and said "When I grow up, I want to be an Agriculturist", the idea was simple, the more outlandish your desired profession was, the more respect you got from your peers. Doctors and teachers were mundane, but Agriculturists and Astronauts..now that was something.
Some other students had followed suit and asked their parents what they did, hoping to emulate them, this caused a bit of confusion as you had kids wanting to be 'Managers' 'Directors' and simply 'Officers' You also had the occasional child who had early illusions of grandeur, wishing to become a 'President'...or my favourite was "When I grow up, I want to be a King" The smarter students were quick to tell him that a King wasn't really a job, but he refused to budge, as far as he was concerned, why become a doctor, or a lawyer, when you could become the ruler of all: a King!
As I grew older, I went from doctor to agriculturist to marine biologist to lawyer to journalist to..well to this, studying Public Relations, and when I graduate in 2009, I hope, I hope...I hope to become a King!

Clear and Present Danger

There is something about us humans, although we all fear danger (most of us at least) we are filled with a sense of pride and accomplishment when we go through a dangerous sitaution and come out unscathed.
There is nothing better than recalling various life and death situations at social gatherings, and the person with the bigger crash, or the biggest scar gets the the most attention.
This was the reason why I was slightly ticked off when I realised that the earthquake that hit the UK last Wednesday did not shake my building one bit. The next day at university I heard all these amazing stories about people waking up while their beds were moving, wardrobes flying open, clocks falling off walls...while me, I had nothing to tell, my night was totally uninterrupted, I was recieving texts messages and phone calls, and my reply was..I didn't feel anything. I was not the least bit pleased.
That aside, I have had my share of scary situations, I have said my last prayers on two occasions. Two frightening occassions. One of them occured last August while onboard a small propeller jet during a visit to Nigeria, the weather is notoriously bad during August, and propeller jets are notoriously fragile. We were about half-way into the flight, and light refreshments were served, I had a window seat, and my dad was seated to my right. I was admiring the Sun when the plane began to shake, I was slightly unnerved, but tried to keep my composure as I noticed no one seemed to take notice of this, it bothered me, and for the sake of masculinity I kept quiet, my dad who takes on average four flights a month kept smiling and saying that this type of turbulence was 'nothing', he told me stories of worse flights he had been on, with screaming people and the oxygen masks coming out of the ceiling compartments (things you only see in disaster movies and Discovery Channel) The stories of terrible turbulence seemed to calm my nerves a bit, and I continued eating my doughnut, while praying that we would land soon.
I think the Storm gods became aware of me calming down, and so increased the turbulence, the plane was now jerking, and people rushed to drink up their juices and wines. I could hear the whisper of prayers, this was bad, but it was to get a whole lot 'badder' My dad still had a smile on his face, I had a smile on my face as well, but "GOD PLEASE HELP ME!" was going through my mind, the smile on my dad's face was different, it was a smile of wierd excitement, like one would have on a roller-coaster ride. My dad was still joking, I was laughing, but I was not listening, my heart was racing, this was not the way I wanted to leave....SUDDENLY...the plane took a steep dive, I was convinced this was it, it had to be, red wine went off in the air and splashed on the overhead compartment. I began saying my last prayers, the emotions I could feel were more of anger than fear, yes I was afraid that we might crash and death might be slow, but I was angry at the tragic circumstances, my body may not be found, I will be reduced to a name on a list posted on an airport noticeboard.
The passengers had become vocal, prayers were uttered, Hail Marys were vehemntly recited, death was nigh.
After the plane steadied, I looked over to my dad, he still had a smile on his face, and was more concerned about the loss of his white wine than about the ordeal we just went through. I guess this was his unconventional way of calming everyone down, but what I wanted was assurance that I would not die. Nigeria's avaition record is not particularly clean, and I did not want to be a statistic.
My dad told me to take deep breaths, my upper body was still, but my legs were shaking like a fish out of water, I could actually hear my heart beating. The red wine began dripping on a gentleman seated in front, it was as if he was bleeding.
The whole plane was overcome with a kind of surreal calm, there was solidarity amongst all passengers as we prayed and hoped that we landed soon.
At last we were descending, a prayer was still on my lips....the runway came into view, a few hundred metres below, I was still praying, the pilot gave the announcement that we were about to land, I still wasn't content...not yet...until the plane came to a complete halt on the GROUND...intact.
We finally touched down and the passengers erupted in a cheer, there were handshakes and hugs, beaming smiles, and a few people still with a look of disbelief. I must have had a hybrid of joy and horror on my face, I was glad we had landed, but it was only when my feet felt the tarmac that my mind was completely at rest.
I had survived..and managed to keep my dignity by not reverting to frenzied supplications. A mild example of turbulence for some but bad enough for me.

Nigeria Dreamin' Part I

Evi Edna Ogholi- Look Before You Cross

I haven't heard this song in over 10 years, oh it brings back fond childhood memories. It reminds me of waking up on Saturdays, smelling omelettes frying in the kitchen, Bournvita or Milo, Belle Hollandaise condensed milk, which used to consumed in unhealthy volumes, much to the discouragement of my dad.
Being a child was fun, things were easy, and simple. No responsibilites, you were supposed to be courteous to your elders, finish up your food, sleep on time, and that was about it. It is when you reach the ages of 10, 11, 12 that responsibility comes in, you become more accountable for the tidyness of your room, you are chastised for not waking up on time, if you have younger ones, their wellbeing is your responsibilty, to the extent that sometimes you are more conscious of the sibling than they are of themselves.
Tidyness was always a major issue in our house, me and my older brother shared a room, and we subscribed to the maxim: "Tidy-up only when absolutely necessary"...My dad, being a Virgo, is obsessively tidy, and his phrase was "Tidyness is next to Godliness", so it was his job to make his little imps spotless, a task he found to be very...tasking. Of course, there were countless times when my brother and I decided, independently, to clean up our room when we woke up in the morning, however, my dad would constantly beat us to the alarm, we would then be shouted out of bed, and spend the morning sweeping and picking up litter, with tears streaming down our cheeks!
Dinner time, or food for that matter, another big deal in our household. You see, I had, and still have an enormous apetite, to the delight of both parents, and the annoyance of my siblings, as I would usually get a bigger share of the food.
Upon seeing the pile of rice in my plate, they would sometimes lodge complaints, knowing full well that they couldn't dispatch that plate if it was given to them.
My dad used to come back from work after we had eaten dinner, so if anyone was still hungry, the best thing to do was hang around him as he ate, and give out signals that you could do with some more food. These signals usually were subtle: long stares at his plate, while making sure he observed you observing his plate. If that didn't work, there was the more desperate method, this was done by rubbing your belly coupled with a misrable look on the face, this would lead to my Dad asking the question: Are you alright?...leading you to reply: No! the key was not to sound too forceful, make sure all the questions were asked by him. After you reply No, he would then ask: "what's wrong?"...then you reply slowly, but firmly: "I'm hungry"...this method won you sympathy points, and some rice and meat.
However, if that method did not work, desperate measures were called for, this would usually involve standing very close to him as he ate, forcing him to ask: "What do you want?"...without hesitation, you replied: "Food!"..or if you wanted to be polite, you could answer: "Are you going to finish that?"...this method was crude, and did not get you sympathy points, and it only got you rice, but no meat.
Speaking of meat, I remember as a child acknowledging the paradox: My dad used to tell us to eat our food, because we needed to grow, have muscles, become tall etc. However, when it came to quantities of meat, he always got more. This was odd, as surely he had peaked in development, and the folks who by his own admission, needed the food, were getting far less that he did. I guess I accepted it as one of the complexities of society.
Sundays, oh yes. Sunny days. Everyone woke up early for church. I remember running to my parents room to get my shoes tied, or my buttons buttoned (it's amazing how helpless a five year old still is) the room smelled of after shave and talcum powder. We were always in a rush on Sundays, no one wanted to get to church late.
Honestly, as child, church could be very very boring, sitting there as a robed man spoke for what seemed like an eternity, as you looked around, your parents and others nodded in agreement, while you had a puzzled look on your face, wondering what was so good about this 'church thing' that people got dressed and came out in droves.
One way of not going to church was to feign illness, an illness that suddenly hit you in the morning! Another way we as kids thought would get us off church was to pretend to have lost our Bibles, we figured that by misplacing the key ingredient of churchgoing we would be exempt from participation...how wrong were we? As my dad kept a stash of extra bibles for such occasions! We were tossed a bible and bundled to church.

Super Sunday or The Benefit of Proximity

Tomorrow is D-Day, well for two reasons. It's the end of our season (we play Durham University) and it is the African Nations Cup Final. Unfortunately a lot has happened between my last post on The Nations Cup and Now...my fall-back nation: Ghana was beaten by our Francophone friends: Cameroon, and our other French Speaking pals: Cote d'Ivoire were humiliated by Egyptians...humiliated!! The Elephants were hunted and dismembered by the ruthless Pharoahs.
My Dad has commented on my seemingly ever changing alliance, something I was proud of, till Ghana went and fumbled against Cameroon.
My allegiance works in steps:
1-Blood
2-Cultural proximity to Nigeria
3-Geographical proximity to Nigeria
4-Colour and style of Jersey

So, me being Nigerian, I started off with the first step: Blood. I have Nigerian blood, so I supported them..Nigeria then faced Ghana, the latter has also supplied me with red blood cells...so I was open to all results. Ghana happened to win, I was still on Step 1.
Ghana then faced Cameroon (I had said that if Cameroon won, I will support Ivory Coast, this seems like a violation of the steps, as Cameroon is both culturally and geographically closer to Nigeria, however the rivalry between the two nations is intense, so I have to go with the next best: Ivory Coast)
In a twist of fate, my Co-Homeland Ghana lost, and my back-up homeland Ivory Coast were as earlier indicated: kicked out in an embarrasing fashion.
The final is now between Cameroon and Egypt. Now you might say I should support Eygpt, being that Nigeria and Cameroon are great rivals, so I should wish harm on the enemy, however, the strength of Steps 2 & 3 are enough to erode the rivalry, also taking into account how bad Egypt fares in terms of Cultural and Geographical proximity.
So there you have it, I will be supporting the Indomitable Lions come Sunday, I hope they bring pain to the Pharoahs, the same way Moses did a couple thousand years back.


P.S. If I was from Bakassi, all this would be much easier

Super Sunday or The Benefit of Duality

We had a game on Sunday, against the University of Hull. Nigeria had a game on Sunday, against Ghana, finally, the Superbowl (akin to FA finals) was taking place that evening. 3 big events in one day.
My alliances were as follows:
As for our game against Hull, we had to win, it's my team, I play on it, and winning makes me feel better.

As for the Nigeria vs Ghana game, WE had to win, and when I say WE, I use it liberally, I have been blessed with having Nigerian and Ghanaian blood flowing through mmy arteries. So my allegiance was with both teams, I will cheer when Ghana scores, and I will also cheer when Nigeria scores, I like to call it 'National Selection'...I actually missed the game, because I was on a three hour trip from Hull to Sunderland, so William (Obubo) had to keep me updated.
I returned to hear that Ghana had been victorious, The Super Eagles had been blinded and felled by the Shining Black Star. I was pleased, I went over to a Nigerian friends house to gloat at the 'Mediocre Eagles' the supposed Number 1 team in Africa. She was horrified to find out I had Ghanaian blood! I couldn't have been much prouder.
Now all Ghana has to do is win the cup....or else, I'll have to start investigating any possible links to Ivory Coast.

The Superbowl was amazing...The New England Patriots vs The New York Giants...I supported the Giants..and occasionally the Patriots, but mostly the Giants, and the Giants won, so I had a good night sleep!

This week would be spent laughing at my Nigerian brethren, and getting in touch with my Ghanaian roots. Akwaaba!!!!