Meet My Busy Mind.: Travel Stories

Naija Girl Abroad (Part 4): The things we take for granted

Wednesday, August 29, 2018

(This is the fourth part in the 'Naija Girl' series. The preceding part is here)

I am not sure exactly who began this Ghana-Nigerian Jollof war. But there is absolutely no basis for comparison.

I mean… I have eaten the Ghana ombre-coloured rice, which (by the way) should not have jollof in the same sentence. (No shade).

Nigerian jollof is a banger on so many levels and should have its own Nobel Prize, or something, without any room for competition of any kind.

My oyinbo housemate confirmed this, the day she walked in on me cooking jollof and screamed in nosegasms.

“What is that? I must have some!”

So she had a plateful… with a bowl of water by her side, and pepper-induced tears flowing her eyes with every spoon of rice.

(Jollof without pepper is like coffee without coffee)

That was her initiation rite into Nigerian food.

But when I made goat-meat stew, it was a different level of excitement for her. She asked me immediately for the recipe, how many cups and spoons of ingredients used and the precise measurements of the condiments in pounds and ounces.

Lol.

I casually explained that in Africa, we do not measure condiments. We just keep pouring, until the spirits of our dead ancestors hug our shoulders, and whisper “that’s enough, my child”.

Apparently, that Twitter joke was lost along the way, as I saw the look of horror on her face.

(She seemed horrified that I was actually practicing the voodoo she had heard was rampant in Africa, and had watched in some of the Nigerian movies she was always so intrigued about).

I quickly backtracked and explained that we just ‘know’ how much is enough, and taste the food from time to time. She nodded in understanding, and consequently, always excitedly hung around in the kitchen anytime I made a new dish.

In my mind, she was still oohing and ahhing over my food, because it was the lite stuff. I thought to myself: “Wait, until I bring out my frozen ogiri okpei and okporoko to put in my soup”.

But the day I made my ogbono, she also fell in love with the smell and asked me again for recipe. There was no shaking off her love for my food.

I doubt anything warmed her heart, like watching me eat my eba and soup with my bare hands. She beamed with glee, and explained that her closest semblance to eating this way was with gloves, at an oriental restaurant.

I explained that this was how we ate ‘swallow’ in Nigeria. I taught her, that you took a fistful of the swallow, threw the swallow in the air, caught it mid-air, pressed your finger in the middle to create an impression, dipped it in the bowl of soup and filled it with soup; then swallowed it without blinking.

And she was happy to be tutored.

But her fondness for all things Nigerian was not solely regarding the food. She joined in the global frenzy over the Nigerian 2018 World-Cup jersey, and screamed the most when Ahmed Musa scored both goals.

By the end of Nigeria's outing, she was asking if I had Leon Balogun's phone number. (I'm not sure what exactly she intended to do with it)

There was that day I packed my hair into a bun on the top of my head, with the aid of a hairpiece. I had learnt this hair-style for free at a local salon around the corner, somewhere in Amuwo-Odofin.

With nappy hair like a cute tooth brush, rubber bands and pins were often used to arrange the hair and set the bun in place.

My housemate was impressed with my hairdo, and wanted same. That was the day I realised that Rapunzel-like hair is not always a blessing.

It was a “miss”; her hair could not hold as firm as mine did, and when I did braids for her, it loosened within hours.

For the first time since I can remember, I genuinely thanked God for the tautness of my Nigerian hair.

And when the shaku-shaku crase spread globally, she would often catch me dancing it everywhere. Particularly in the kitchen while I cooked.

I tried to teach her the moves, along with alanta, shoki and even galala. And I failed woefully.

Sigh.

(Let’s just say that some things are best left in Wakanda).

What seemed to amaze her most was just before Easter, when my sister-in-law (quite frankly, she’s my sister) called, asking when I was coming home for the holidays, even as we made plans over the phone for our Easter cooking.

I saw the question in her eyes as I finished my phone call, and explained that by our culture, we are built to have a strong sense of community. I had no business being alone by myself during the holidays, when I had family a mere two-hour drive away.

Thus, I seized every opportunity I had to travel ‘home’ for us all to be together, home in this case, being my brother’s house (which was a meeting point for a lot of us relatives in the region)

She smiled warmly, and commended this part of our culture as very unique. “It must be fun to be Nigerian”, she said, rhetorically.

In that moment, it hit me that there were a lot of really heartwarming things about my Nigerian heritage.

I mean, I know that over time, the mention of ‘Nigeria’ prejudicially connotes the fraudulent African Prince of the internet kingdom.

In the country, there is F-SARS, and Boko-Haram, and the HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE craters for roads, and epileptic power-supply to deal with. And decades of poor governance by selfish leaders have depleted the country’s resources, making a significant number of its nationals seek the hope of a better life outside its shores, while nearly eroding the beauty of that land.

But the most of the people in themselves are industrious, highly intelligent, resilient and amazing. And there are really cool parts of our Nigerian heritage which we often take for granted.

Our food. Our culture. Our communal living. Our dances.

Our sheer swag.

It is my hope that we will consciously treasure these parts of our heritage for the beauty they are, and continue to pass these on, to our descendants all over the world.

Paz,

Meg.

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21 Comments

Amebo

Naija Girl Abroad (Part 3): Who Phoneh epp??

Wednesday, April 04, 2018

(This is the third part in the 'Naija Girl' series. The preceding part is here)

The way my day went that day, I never imagined it could take a more dramatic turn that it had already taken.

For starters, there was the man with the smelly, smelly cat.

Then the co-passenger, who kept me inundated with (unsolicited) tales of how the Queen had sent her an instagram request, and she was not sure whether to accept or not.

As in... the Queen of England.

Mama Charlie.

*rolls eyes*

As I lowered myself into my work chair, I heard my trousers split at the very centre. Sure, slow... but very steady.

(Zeus... how did I offend you?)

That day was a blur. I spilled coffee on my computer, missed my lunch-break and pulled out the heel of my shoe. By the close of work, I was so hurried and harried, that I risked missing the 17.20 home.

So I broke my regular routine of walking to the train station, and took the subway instead, for the first time. I barely made it to the station in time, to hop on the train.

Halfway through the ride home, the transit officers (a.k.a conductors) embarked on one of their random checks, to be sure that people had paid their fares.

One of them approached me, and asked for my ticket.

I casually gave him my transit card, even as I continued pressing my phone buttons. I had to finish that post before I got home.

“Bleep!"

What???

(Let me back up...)

***

Growing up, Daddy did not let us speak phoneh. His only pre-occupation was that our words be voiced audibly, and loud enough for “those at the back” to hear.

For the benefit of you wondering what 'Phoneh' means, it is a Nigerian urban slang drawn from the word “Phonetics”, but in this case, reference is made to adopted ‘foreign’ accents used by the speaker (usually in Nigeria) to indicate that they have been abroad.

Sometimes, it is genuine.

Most times however... it could have been picked anywhere; from Tejuosho market to Onitsha Bridge.

(Google is your friend)

But there is something that moving abroad subtly does to one.

One would often find one’s self under some (unacknowledged) pressure to blend in as much as possible, and avoid sticking out like a sore thumb; to reduce the (unwanted?) attraction of being easily recognisable as an immigrant.

For starters, you do not want recruiters over phone interviews to hear your deep African accent and easily conclude that you are the heir apparent to that fetish native doctor in “Bleck Pentha”.

(The sheer horror of having to deal with witnessing you holding a lifeless chicken, and spraying incantations all over the office, everyday)

You also get tired of that same dreary question: “Where are you originally from?”

(Surely, even the adventurous Mr. Columbus came from somewhere... did he not??)

So to make life easier, you ‘lose’ the accent. Or at the very least, you ‘soften’ it. Your 'Sugar' becomes "Shewgrrrrrrrrrr".

The end result overtime is what becomes ‘phoneh’, albeit genuine(ish) in this case.

In the split second however between that “Bleep!” of (death by) shame, and the realisation of what (might) have happened, the foregoing analysis became the least of my issues.

What really happened?

You see, I never took the subway from the station to or from work. I enjoyed the twenty-minute walk each way, to count as my cardio for the day.

But my day that day had been the craziest. And while I had used my transit card to pay at the machine before getting on the subway, I had not bothered to clarify if I was still required to use the card again for the transfer to the train.

It was an honest case of I did not know. (And I did not find out)

But how was I to convince this fierce-looking, scowling conductor that this was the truth?

Surely, this fierce-looking man would not believe that with all my Peruvian hair and spider-fashion glasses, I was a ‘JJC', who did not know her left from her right, and was barely two weeks in the province.

With that “Bleep!”, my life flashed right before my eyes.

My busy mind fleetingly imagined Daddy collapsing from seeing the apple of his eye on CNN, being led away in handcuffs by the train conductors.

Barely two weeks into the start of my abroad journey. Because of a $7 train ticket.

(Chukwu aju!)

My only recourse to proving my truth to this man who was prosecutor, judge and jailer all at once, was by throwing off every shred of ‘Phoneh’ that had gummed to my tongue in the short time since I landed, and adopt my true vocal heritage.

Uncle Conductor (with the scariest scowl ever in the history of scary scowls): “Ma’am, it appears you did not pay for this train ride. Why is that?”

Yours truly: “Chineke’m lee!

Uncle Conductor: “Said What?”

Yours truly (With the thickest Igbo accent the ancestors bequeathed to me): But I flashed the machine with the card that time I enter the subway”.

Uncle conductor: “But you should also use the card when you cross from the subway to the train”

Yours Truly: “Aaaaaaah! Eziokwu’m, I did not know. Diz my first time using subway and train together”.

Uncle conductor (Scowl softens slightly): “Are you new here?”

(Finally! He sees the honesty in my eyes)

Yours truly: “Yes. Iz last week I came. The transport system here is really different from my own, and vely confusing”

Uncle Conductor (Still holding on to my card, and the “Bleep!” machine. But in gentler tone): “So what do y’all use over there??”

Yours truly: “Emmm... we have bus. But we really use keke and okada. But they make plenty noise, and you will fall down if you climb small stone, or heavy breeze blow you”.

Uncle conductor: “Ok, so I don’t know what those are Ma’m. But I am going to let you off with a warning this one time. So note for the future that...”

He proceeded on a well needed lecture on how the transport system works, which I listened to intently, while internally holding my ears wide open the whole time.

As I thanked him for the kind gesture, and he continued on his municipal way to inflict nemesis on another defaulter, I remembered the wise words of the Holy Book; that there is a time for everything.

How would I have explained this to my countless relatives, who have been using “my sister is a big woman in the Abroad!” to receive all sorts of favours (that they have no business receiving)??

Thank heavens for the ability to know the right time for the right thing.

Especially when to throw away that thing called ‘Phoneh’, and embrace my true vocal heritage.

In all of its glory.

Paz,

Meg.

Post-Script: Do NOT try this at home. It will not work for you.

*Have you followed our blog today? Simply click on the Follow button to the right-side of the post, for your computer screen, or keeeep scrolling down on your hand-held device. And keeeeeeeep scrolling further down, to add us to your circles.

23 Comments

Amebo

Naija Girl Abroad (Part 2): The Struggles of Foreign Living

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

(This is the second part in the 'Naija Girl' series. The preceding part is here)

I was going to make purely light-hearted posts on my adventures in foreign lands, different from where I was raised.

With the heart-wrenching stories that came out of Libya late last year, it hit me that perhaps, ‘abrodians’ have over time, done a huge disservice to the rest of the brethren at home; making life overseas sound like a life of beans and bread, with coconut toppings for breakfast every day.

I know, bad governance occupies the largest seat in the blame trajectory. What with government after government failing to fulfill their respective social contracts with the people and not providing basic living amenities for the citizens, thereby sowing seeds for the need for ‘escape’.

But the rest of us also play our part in this tragedy. We paint this false picture of life in “the Abroad”, making it out to be the perfection that it is not, thereby subconsciously urging others to (literally) do anything to have their slice of perfection; at whatever cost it may entail.

Someone needs to start telling the truth. So I have self-appointed myself the Minister of Truth

(A.k.a party-pooper) 👿

***

Living outside the land of one’s birth – in this case, Nigeria - is not as easy or pretty as Hollywood makes us think.

(Please I am not talking about Togo or Ghana. Those places are as ‘home’ as my Abagana).

It is a mirage that is often perpetuated, moreso in these days of Instagram and Snapchat.

We are all inundated with pictures of the faux fur coats and beautifully decorated houses, with captions of “sitting-at-home-chilling-in-the-pool-with-my-woke-bugatti”.

(*shakes head furiously… wig almost falling off*)

The most of it is false. The parts that are true come at the huge price of hardwork, with tons of personal sacrifices, and absolutely no shortcuts:

Life Abroad as an alien or immigrant is no bed of roses, ‘Abroad’ in this case being ‘obodo-oyinbo’.

Upon relocation, the first thing that hits you is… well, Reality.

For starters, no one is waiting with a red carpet to welcome you to “the land of your dreams”. In fact, no one realises “you have arrived”.

The same way you packed your entire load from Nigeria is the way you will carry it on your head and on your back.

Alone.

You’re like a drop of water in a mighty ocean.

You realise how (super)ordinary everywhere and everyone is. Contrary to the Broadway-esque shows we grew up with on television, Abroad people are not always dancing and singing on the streets, with fountains of free ice-cream flowing at every intersection.

Folks hustle and go about their daily business as much as they can, in other to avoid being broke and hungry.

And just in case you did not know, there are also broke and hungry people abroad.

The next thing that hits you: Culture Shock.

(Prepare for this one)

Things you had taken for granted as a normal part of your daily living is no longer exists.

You know how little kids line up at your door every morning with plates of akara to chant “Uncle Ekaaro… have a nice day”!

Nobody has your time. “Good-morning” is not ‘a thing’ Abroad (making you wonder if it is an Igbo word)

And even when you go out of your way to greet “Goodmorning”, at the most, you could get a ‘short smile’, which really translates to: “I really really want you to think I am nice, but I really do not have the time to wish you a Goodmorning, or ‘Good anything’… and I really do not want you to also think of me as a witch, so collect this facial expression of mine, and let us all go about our day in peace”.

Humans abroad are rather different.

(Sigh.)

No one is available to Help you, or dash you money, or squat you.

You know how you took advantage of Syracuse your gateman, to wash and iron your clothes, clean your car, go to the market for you, mop your floors, and bathe your dog, in return for two meals of Eba and soup (without meat) per day?

Your day of reckoning came the moment you stepped foot into the Abroad; there is no free labour Abroad. If care is not taken… you could even end up becoming Syracuse.

And unless you have blood siblings or awesome cousins who really love you, you are on your own. Which explains why that your Aunty who swore she loved you the last time she visited home, never picked your call again after the first day you called.

There are the eye-opening Personal Experiences to help you understand that no matter how you prepared for life abroad, you are every bit of a JJC as they come.

After you find yourself running helter-skelter like a misplaced rabbit in trying to cross the roads randomly, it is then it will dawn upon you the huge unkindness your government at home did to you all your life growing up in Nigeria, without functional pedestrian lights at the traffic-stops.

Also, that ‘phoneh’ you picked under Tejuosho bridge will not disguise your thick accent, and you will learn to slowly draw the sound “WuhDerrrrrrrrrrrrrrr”, in order to purchase a bottle of Water.

You will also learn to stop getting excited at the mention of oyinbo ‘parties’; common sense will teach you to quietly fill your stomach with a bowl of “ola-ola” pounded yam and Egusi soup – or Nigerian Jollof Rice - , before you go to meet the bowls of grass and jars of coffee waiting for you at the “Party”

There is also Local Experience, waiting to deal with you.

For example, as a medical doctor, nobody is giving you their patient (to kill), if you have not passed the requisite qualifying exams as a doctor.

Irrespective of how many years you had worked at home, or the amount of foreign qualifications you possess, you will be required to obtain a license in your chosen area of expertise… even if your area of expertise is in flashing a smile.

And even if you were well certified in a field as mundane as Looking-in-the-Mirror, recruiters would still want to see your “five years of local experience”.

(*insert ‘Laugh-Out-Loud’ in capital first letters*)

As if you practice witchcraft, and “local experience” is something you can conveniently pluck from your coven, without the need to actually be employed to gain the requisite local experience

Then, there is the biting Cold to deal with.

I am not sure exactly who wrote that song, but when the cold hits you, all you can think of is how to kidnap the person who came up with the idea:

White Christmas.

There is nothing cute about the cold. The cold freezes your brain - like ice-fish in the deep-freezer - and starts to work in reverse motion. Like the sloths of Zootopia.

As you head out in the biting cold to find your daily bread, you find yourself constantly muttering curses on the government of the day in your home country for subjecting you to a life without year-round summer, in the quest for better living.

Above all, you know how your ‘melanin-poppin’ skin colour makes you special, and protects you from skin cancer?

But it also singles you out, and despite the expectedly high-level of development of the new society you find yourself, you are bound to experience first-hand the travails of Racism.

Sometimes it may be overt. Like that co-passenger on the train who simply refuses to budge for you to sit beside them.

Other times, it is more covert. Espoused in subtle racial profiling, blanket prejudice and sheer ignorance.

Have I scared you enough?

If so, that is not the intention.

To scare you, that is.

The idea is not to paint an all out gloomy picture of life abroad…

(Ok, maybe it is. A little bit)

Rather, the essence is to point out the reality that life in the Abroad is not as perfect as it is often potrayed, so that when Baba Qudus comes to meet you to pay two million naira, for a job and a mansion waiting for you abroad, you can tell him you know it is not true.

Even the best of immigrants have had to work their way through; the long hard way, and with a lot of sacrifices. Yes, there is water, electricity, with no fuel queues, and responsible leaders who actually understand they serve the citizens who elected them.

But it is certain that you will pay your dues to have the ‘good life’... as is pretty much the same anywhere.

There is no shortcut to happiness.

In summary, while foreign living may be desirable, it is absolutely not worth the potentially fatal sacrifice of mortgaging your existence for the promise of a “better life”, via shady migration promises.

Nothing is worth your life. Especially not the Abroad.

Paz,

Meg.

*Have you followed our blog today? Simply click on the Follow button to the right-side of the post, for your computer screen, or keeeeeep scrolling down on your hand-held device. And keeeeep scrolling further down to add us to your circles. 😊

19 Comments

Naija Girl Abroad (Part 4): The things we take for granted

Naija Girl Abroad (Part 3): Who Phoneh epp??

Naija Girl Abroad (Part 2): The Struggles of Foreign Living

MEG CHINELO EGBUNONU

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