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.

Nostalgia

There is a scene in season finale of season 1 of Mad Men where our protagonist Don Draper described Kodak's photograph slide projector "The Carousel" He talks about it being able to take us to a place we 'ache to go to again' and that is what inspired this poem. Nostalgia, Don says, in Greek means 'the pain of an old wound'

That sentence struck me, it's a pain that we still yearn to have, a sadness that somehow produces contentment, a metaphoric death that reminds us of life. I was in bed when this poem came to me, trying, but unable to sleep, and the words just seemed to come one by one leading me to rush out of bed, grab a notepad and write them down. Nostalgia for me is a bottled memory, a perfect instance in time, a moment of happiness and peace that I can always return to but never reproduce, and this inability to replicate that happiness is the sad part, Nostalgia is bitter, yet sweet, mournful, yet euphoric. These feelings are what informs this poem. I hope you like it

"Nostalgia"

Now memories are my comfort

Now sleep is my succour

for dreams have become my reality

Fantasy has become my truth

Pain has become my pleasure

Loss has become my gain

The past is now my future

Our yesterdays are my tomorrows

Nostalgia, my sustenance

The tragic romantic

Cursed to forever reach, but never grasp

Forever love, but never loved

Julian E. Obubo

August 2010

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.

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.