Wednesday 28 September 2011

So how quickly does one learn arrogance?

I've been settling into my life here, very nicely actually.

I've been quiet for the past week because things have really been hectic. My parents run an NGO and this was the 10th year aniversary, so lots of pomp and lots of circumstance. Being around my parents is a non-stop carnival. There's always something going on, always a campaign, a meeting, an event, or as in last week's case, a charity ball.

It's an exciting kind of life and they enjoy it. I sort of go along for the ride, enjoying where I can, helping out in other places. My mom doesn't understand the concept of boredom. Some people say only boring people are bored. My mom says only lazy people are bored. So this past week, I have definitely NOT been bored.

But, my little sis and my cousin left over the weekend and for the first time I stayed behind. I'm so not used to that. And now I'm rambling over the house alone and it's hitting me for the first time: I've actually moved back.

It's been great so far but now the real life starts.

I won't start work at the construction company until my NYSC service actually starts, but that's a whole month away. I cannot continue to be aimless for another month. As much as I put a spin on things and say I 'took some time out' to 'think' and 'relax', we should call a spade a spade (really what else would you call it?) and admit that I was a jobless NFA. I didn't come all this way to sit around my house eating moi-moi and egg all day (it's been done).

So I've started work at the NGO, building a database for them. Really, would it kill someone to set up a laptop to take registration information? I spend my days deciphering illegible handwriting and trying not to laugh at the pretentious titles (Hon. Barr. Engr. Chief. Dr. Mrs. Janet Amadi. Really?), then put them all into an excel spreadsheet. Not exactly brain surgery, but it keeps me busy and it gives me pocket money.

What is slightly troubling is how quickly I seem to be, let's say, adapting to the Nigerian lifestyle. It's only natural, I suppose. When grown men call me Madam (on account of my parents) and open doors and fetch me tea at work, it's understandable to get a bit inflated, right?

Still I distinctly remember an incident of ridiculous arrogance. I was on a local flight that got delayed because one chief or another was insisting that his armed bodyguards be allowed on the plane. Like, really? Of course that wasn't happening, but trust him. This guy called every name from here to Bethlehem and eventually even got the guy running the airport to come down. Finally it was agreed that the guns would be stowed but the guards would come off first and be allowed to arm themselves before Oga descended. All of this took almost 45 minutes and we mere mortals had to suffer because we committed the crime of being so normal that no one wanted to kill us. I was so offended!

Fast forward to yesterday.

I was on my lunch break and needed to drop something off for my mom. After stating that I would be right back I ran in the house, ran my errand, then hopped back out. But wait, where was my Mopol (Mobile Policeman, a bodyguard really)? He'd gone to his room to drop something.

Imagine my anger. A whole me, waiting for this man to do what? Does he know my time is precious. We couldn't have waited for all of 10 minutes but by the time he came back, I was fuming. How dare he? Keep me waiting? Doesn't he know people are fighting for his job? What a nonsense idiot. And on and on.

And here it comes, the $6319.19 question (better know as the N1million question): Does he know who I am?

And just like that: Arrogant

Wow. And here I thought myself so different from everyone else. I don't sip that kool-aid. I'm modest and humble and apparently D'Nile is just a river in Egypt. In my defence, it was my lunch hour and I was starved. Still, though.

So I didn't say anything. Not because I was wrong. He would never have pulled that if it was someone more senior than me. But because I didn't want to open my mouth and start insulting like only a Nigerian can. If you've never witnessed this, I truly recommend it. No one can finish someone like a pissed of Nigerian.

Sigh. I wanted to settle in but I've really got to keep an eye on myself. Focus on the positive parts of being Naija, and see if I can leave that other ish behind.

We'll see...

Friday 16 September 2011

So this is what I have to look forward to...

NYSC Camp


Everyone I've talked to about it gets a look on their face: equal parts terror, nostalgia, and gratefulness that they'll never have to go through that again. Kind of like the chicken pox.


I asked what at the time seemed a fairly innocent question: Tell me about your time at NYSC Camp.


What came out were enough horror stories to make me really reconsider the whole thing. So far I knew the basics of Camp:


1. You were locked away for three weeks in a poor excuse for a school with military men in charge of 'making something out of you'


2. You had to bathe outdoors because there were no bathrooms and you wouldn't use them if there were


3. You had rollcall at 5am daily and had to do numerous aerobic excercises including running a mile before the sun comes up


4. Disobedience was punished by simplistic but very demeaning physical feats including, but not limited to, frog-jump, pick-pin, kneeling, and more.


5. There was no electricity, no running water, no one to fetch water from the well for you, etc.


Of course there were more, but I thought I could handle this. But the worst was hearing the personalized experiences


"...we had to wake up at 2am and shower because the boys would come and shine their torches at us..."


"...they put us in one room with 50 bunk beds and no windows..."


"...I had to poo into a plastic bag because I didn't want to go outside at 3 in the morning..."


"...the mosquitoes were so large and vicious you could actually feel them land on you but you were too tired to care..."


"...there was only one gate out and in, and it was patrolled by the army men. If they caught you sneaking, they made you remove your clothes and march back to the dorm..."


"...the only way to get out was to paaaaaay, and I'm still paying..."


Umm...what???


All of a sudden I'm really really thinking about this. Me that hasn't even paid my own phone bill, or cooked my own dinner, or done my own laundry in over six months...I have to do what?


Of course there are things I can do. I can ask to be posted to Lagos or Abuja which reputedly have much more camper friendly camps. But then I'll have to serve in Lagos or Abuja and that's not the point is it?


I want to serve in Port Harcourt. I've got a good training agreement with a great company here and if I'm looking for home this is the closest I'm going to get.


And also, there's a dare-devil side to me that, though usually dormant, still exists. It's the same side that pushed me to go free jumping some years back (though they had to threaten me with calling the fire department to get me to pull the cord). It's what pushes me to ride the biggest and baddest roller coasters once, even though I detest those metal monsters, just to say I've done it. It's the part that had me applying to Stanford,CA even though I knew no one there and I was terrified of being so far away from family. 


In this case, it's the part of me saying, Lolo, you have your whole life to be a spoiled aje-butter who gets whatever she wants from mummy and daddy. For three weeks, just suck it up.


And I will.


That said, my other tabs in Firefox read: battery powered water heater, tablets to make you constipated, portable mini airconditioner, mosquito net...

So this is me...

There are a few Big Questions usually posed to someone in my position...

Why? How do you feel? Are you ready? Why???

"My position" is simply that I've decided to move back to Nigeria and do my NYSC.


NYSC for those less knowledged is the Nigerian Youth Service Corp, or basically three weeks of boot camp followed by one year of indentured servitude.


So, WHY?


The simplest answer is that I was bored. After looking for jobs (we all know the story) and finding none, I thought to myself, better NYSC than another year of this.


The not so simple answer has to do with the title of the blog: Dropping Anchor


All my life I've moved around from home to home, city to city, country to country, even family to family. I've always loved that aspect of get-up-and-go in my life and I find it a talent that at any given time I can pack my life into three suitcases and leave with little more than a kiss on the cheek and a promise to 'keep in touch'.


But lately, the question where are you from always draws me up short. How to answer? Born in America, origins from Nigeria, childhood in Maryland, became an adult in London, close ties to NorCal, and now residing in the hicks of Weybridge (I do tend to exaggerate). So where exactly am I from???

By moving around so much, having very tenuous ties to places and people, I've sort of grown into this rootless, wandering thing. I notice that people get over me as quickly as I get over them. And suddenly, staring at my life in three suitcases doesn't seem anything other than pathetic. My biggest fear, if I don't find something to hold me down, I might just float away.


So, this year, Nigeria, is meant to be me dropping anchor, establishing roots, so I can finally have a place to call home. 


Not to sound all mushy and woe-is-me but it is about time I figure out once and for all if I can actually survive here.


I have a feeling there are others like me: I only visit, I don't speak the language, I can cook the food but only for others (I could live on frozen yogurt and bread if I had to), I barely recognize relatives (your face looks familiar but I forgot your name...), and I feel silly calling myself Nigerian when I'm nothing like others around me.


So this is my litmus test. Either I surface at the other end speaking rapid pigin and bargaining for tomatoes at Diobe Market, or...I skulk back to London (or DC, or SF) and live the way I actually know how.


And lucky you, you get to follow me as I find out.


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