Friend, dear friend! Don't turn up your nose at me. I realise I am not much to look at, what with being torn, tattered and so dirty. I repulse even my own self. But what can I do...What could I have done? Sit back, look at me and listen to my story. Look, listen and learn while I tell of my journey from pride to fall. I hope you will then understand.
I was born on the 4th August 2005 at the Minting Maternity of fairly well-to-do middle-aged machinery. I was the pick of my batch; batch 0036890NF. My sheen was unsurpassed, my imprints pronounced and even Murtala Mohammed's moustache seemed just a tad more distinguished on me. I was crisp and ready to take on the world.
It was astonishing the rate at which my confidence deflated once I got out to the real world. Hardest to take was the realisation that the peptalk we were given before being sent out was totally inconsistent with what obtains outside. Contrary to what we were told, we couldn't even walk head up high, side by side other world currencies. Most disappointing was the fact that even you, our fellow compatriots, preferred other currencies to us. That, dear friend, was the unkindest cut of all. But forgive me, I digress.
I began my journey (...to obscurity?) from the Minting vault to the bullion van, to the IntraBank vault, to the cashier's cage to Alhaji Maigoro's briefcase. It was Friday and he was going to do his weekly almsgiving ritual at the mosque. I remember snuggling against Rebecca, a pretty fellow 0036890NFian. We said our hurried goodbyes as I was thrust from Alhaji Maigoro's clean, perfumed hands to those of Maimuna, the leper. She hurriedly stuffed me inside a dirty calf-skin bag hanging at her waist, unceremoniously squeezing me. DARKNESS!! I was there for quite some time, wondering if this was to be my humble abode and praying it wasn't. A few hours later, my 'landlady' took me out, flattened me (...thank God) and passed me, together with three other notes to Ibrahim, the butcher, who promptly re-squeezed me and dumped me in a tin on top of other notes. By this time I had creases, my sheen was losing its shine, Murtala Mohammed's moustache did not look so good any longer and his face had acquired a frown (...I exaggerate of course). I was stuffed with several other notes and I thought to myself, 'hmm, strangers, not quality stock, probably counterfeit'. You see, I was still looking new when compared to the other notes and I was still a snob. Reality soon shook the scales from my eyes. I was in that tin until the end of the day. Then I thought that having survived that airless, smelly deathtrap, I could survive anything. I did not reckon with Iya Ramota.
That night Ibrahim took me and some others to Iya Ramota in exchange for some moulded black stuff. I do have my pride and it hurt that Ibrahim considered that mould a fair exchange rate. Iya Ramota was my worst nightmare. She stored us near the darkest recesses of her person where the dank smell defies adequate description. Mercifully, I passed out.
I came to the next day when I felt light on my face. Sunlight and oxygen never felt so good. I was suddenly (most happily you bet!) transferred from Iya Ramota to Adebayo, the taxi driver, a large impatient man with tribal marks on his cheeks. He crammed me into what was originally an ashtray but now served the dual purpose of both the ashtray and a money-cache. To say this was uncomfortable is an understatement. Before I even had time to come to terms with my discomfort, several others were dumped on top of me. By now I was permanently squeezed into a ball.
Later that day, which was a Saturday, we were all taken out, flattened and transferred to Adebayo's agbada. He took us out and as we got closer to his destination, I heard music and drumming. 'Civilisation at last' I thought. A little while later, I was a HANDKERCHIEF!!! A handkerchief, I ask you, wiping the sweat of Balogun, the juju musician's forehead. I felt like saying,' Pardon me but isn't there a mistake here? I am your national currency. You're supposed to respect me not use me as a tool for personal hygiene'. Soaked in sweat, I was then dumped in a carton with several other notes.
The next day, I was passed to Chudi, the molue conductor by one of Balogun's bandboys. He stuffed me in his pocket with tens of other grimy notes. This time I had no complaints because I was no longer a snob. At least I was dry although creased, dirty and limp. I was in Chudi's pocket a short while then I was passed on to Roli, a student as change accompanied by expletives from the conductor. I wonder why!
Roli treated me much nicer than I had been treated the two days. She thrust me into her school bag together with her books where I spent a very educative night.
Monday morning breaktime at school, I was jolted out of Roli's bag onto the floor. I lay helplessly as I watched her leave without a backward glance. Suddenly I was grabbed by Efere who noticed me on the floor but at the same time, Essien lunged at me but only managed to get a hold of my corner and he tugged hard. I felt myself tear and again thankfully, I passed out.
I woke up to find a clear, sticky plaster holding me together and I was in Efere's pocket together with two marbles who unreservedly banged into me with no consideration for my injuries. I slipped in and out of conciousness until gladly, Efere passed me onto Isa, the Mallam in exchange for some sweets.
Isa flattened me out and laid me gently under the tablecloth. I slept peacefully for most of the day until Isa passed me to Roseline Omaghomi who stopped to buy some chewing gum. Roseline! I will forever think of her with a smile on my lips and a song in my heart. She gently laid me in her wallet. At last! Finally, a wallet. Those rare things that we were told about at the Minting Maternity. It was of the softest leather and smelt of Roseline's perfume. I was facing her ID card which showed she was a banker. That was my nicest experience. It was paradise. If I had died then, I would have died a tattered but [on] a happy note.
The next day, Roseline went to pick up her car from Nwoke, the mechanic. After getting the car, we, (I was now thinking of us as inseparable) were about to leave when Peter, one of Nwoke's boys shouted, 'Madam, you no go give me anything?'. I was heartbroken when to my consternation, I was the 'something' Roseline threw to Peter. Thus ended my brief but wonderful respite with Roseline.
When she threw me, all the boys there dove to get me and in the struggle, I fell into the gutter. Peter fished me out and put me to dry on top of a car. I got dry alright as well as sunburnt. He picked me up later with his greasy hands and stuffed me into his pocket. At home the next morning, he gave me to Bidemi his daughter who was on her way to school. Bidemi decided on her way to buy some groundnuts so I was again passed to Iyabo, the groundnut seller. She immediately tried to give me to you as change, dear friend, and you turned up your nose. So now you know that it is really not my fault I look the way I do. In 6 days of existence, through 14 people, only one person treated me right. How dare you, dear friend, snub me? I ask you, here and now, do you own a wallet?
P/S This piece was inspired by the current CBN campaign against the abuse of the naira.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Lagos, their Lagos...
Lagos, is said to be unlike any other town in Nigeria. Eko, the city that never sleeps, home to the brave and the foolhardy, a city that can make you but also breaks you, a city of sharp contrasts and contradictions...Its cosmopolitan allure is irresistable and despite its obvious disadvantages, it still manages to attract the strangest motley of individuals, each trying to eke out a living from the extremes of affluence, dynamism, poverty, unsanitary conditions, human perseverance and a mix of the best and the dregs of human society. This urban jungle has several problems but worth singling out for mention are the diehard problems of accomodation and transportation. Transportation in Lagos is an entirely different ballgame. The most popular means of transport still remain the indefatigable molues and danfos, where the denomination you proffer for your fare determines just how far down your ancestral lineage the conductor is allowed to insult before he grudgingly gives you your change. If you have a N100 note, you thank your God as this just earns you a hiss and a glare that says 'were, oloshi'. With a N200 however, the conductor can rain insults on your good self and your immediate family i.e. your parents and your offspring. The code of ethics of the 'Conductors Association Incorporated' categorically states that he can go no further. If you dare possess a N500 note, this is when you begin to see how the art of insults can be taken to greater heights. This note gives the conductor a little more room to manouver, excercising that civil (civil?) right of freedom of speech. Here the inate poet in us all surfaces as the conductor waxes lyrical, denigrating your grandparents and greatgrandparents. The winner takes all is the N1000 note. First of all, your courage is to be commended if you possess the nerve (also called liver, also called foolhardiness...) to present this note. The deluge that spews forth at the sight of this note is like Hiroshima, the eruption of Mount Etna and the bombing of Baghdad rolled into one. There is really no limit to how far (or how far back as the case may be) the conductor can go. He is allowed the liberty of cursing your 'Kunta Kinte' up to your 'Alex Haley'. He spares no one remotely connected to you, from the doctor or midwife that delivered you to your greatgrandprents neighbours. Some conductors have even been known to rope in people who live in the same hamlet with your mother's uncle's cousin's niece three times removed. He can go on even after you disembark as the molue or danfo rambles on. However, not being people to waste energy on a victim that is no longer within earshot, the conductor usually switches dissaffections and the tirade resumes at the next hapless fellow which is usually by the next bus stop. By the way, the conductor is allowed to join two or three complete strangers in 'transport matrimony', by giving all three the same note to share out as change. How you do this is no concern of his, as he has done his bit in the quest to achieve unity for the various peoples of this nation. How more can you get to know each other if not by spending time together as you fruitlessly search for change.
As for Lagos landlords, they are a different breed altogether. Sometimes a potential tenant ( AKA victim, AKA mumu...) is asked to pay in advance for an uncompleted building under construction. Anywhere else in Nigeria, your defense system would immediately go on red alert at this unusual request. In Lagos however, due to a chronic accomodation shortage, rationality takes the backseat and you of course pay, immediately promoting yourself from plain fool to a world class moron as later developments would confirm. Desperate as you are, you pay for two or three years depending on how humane (?) the landlord is. He then uses your hardearned money to complete the building and the next thing you know, there are tenants in the house. When you finally find him 'on seat', he gives you the spiel that the cost of building materials had risen so dramatically while he was still constucting it that he would be doing himself, his children and antecedents yet unborn, great harm if he lets out the house on the agreed rate. Getting your money back (...your dignity, never) depends on whether you know any army officer or some one in the underworld. You do not push it. You take your money and chalk it up as experience. Anyway, sha, God dey! A friend said the way crime evolves in Lagos is in direct connection to technology; 419 became 2 419 when Lagos became digital, it is now 080 419 in this wireless age.
Eating out in Lagos is quite the experience. Strategically placed near those large and influential corporate offices on Victoria Island, are several bukkas and 'mama puts' where one needs both hands free in order to eat. One needs a hand to successfully mould and sculp the eba to the appropriate shape and size (good training ground for potential sculpters) before throwing the lump in the mouth. The other hand is needed to swat the multitude of flies, as well as wiping the cascade of sweat that drips down your forehead with the regularity of the appearance of a molue at Oshodi bus stop. Regular customers do not bother with the latter part for I am reliably informed that any sweat that drips onto your plate just seasons the meal to perfection. The most interesting part is the calibre of customers you find eating there. These are mostly professionals working in fully airconditioned and 'generatored' offices, giving out instructions, speaking through their noses with British accents or American twangs acquired from a two week vacation in London in the early nineties. At these street bukkas, all egos are checked at the entrance which is actually the pavement. Bank officers rub shoulders with labourers from the building sites around. Throwing all pretenses and dignity to the winds, people re-adopt their mother-tongue accents and ways of talking as they order eba, iyan, bushmeat, okro, drawsoup and all other such uniquely African foods with reckless abandon. Meet them elsewhere, perhaps at a social gathering and they would insist that they only eat salads and drink bottled water. Lagos, na waa. Then there is Iya Solimat, where you experience the epitome of customer service as it is practised in Lagos. At this popular bukka in Akoka, each serving of food is accompanied, for the slightest infractions, by your money's worth in insults from Iya Solimat's very vituperative and acidic tongue. To give credit where it's due, the food is absolutely delicious, so despite constant resolutions never to go back to be insulted even as they spend their money, her clientele remain loyal.
No discourse on Lagos is complete without a mention of the flooding problem during the rainy season that converts every building to a 'waterfront property' ?(v. convenient for real estate listings...). During my two weeks, the rains, which are usually my favourite season up North, exasperated me to despair because everything stops when it rains in Lagos. The traffic becomes horrendous and tempers are on a short (dare I say, shorter than usual) fuse. So many times, I had to wade through black, muddy waters infested with God Knows what to get to my training on time. In Kano, we say the rains are Allah's blessing but in Lagos, its a curse.
I look at the inherent problems of Lagos and think to myself, I am so lucky, I dont live there. With each passing day, I would count down my return home to Abuja. Lagos is so-o-o expensive. I have nostalgic feelings about Gaya, my village in Kano where N400 buys a 'mudu' of Gari, a bunch of spinach leaves, enough tomatoes, onions and pepper for stew, six oranges or mangoes, two average size fish and one female goat! In Lagos, N400 buys one meatpie, one boli (roasted plantain), one mouth organ (roasted corn) and a bottle of drink. In Gaya, one buys six oranges and probably get two more as 'jara'. In Lagos, nothing goes for free, except the air we breathe. Although clean air is fast becoming a thing of the past considering all the pollution and smog in the city. Lagosians, being the ingenious people they are, will soon start selling clean oxygen in little sealed plastic bags in 'go slows' as they do 'pure water'. 'Undiluted clean oxygen, o mo gan, twenty, twenty naira' (...and it will be worth it).
It was Romain Gary that said humour is an affirmation of dignity and a declaration of man's superiority to all that befalls him. Readers of my blog (...God, that sounds so immodest, like I have delusions of grandeur...) might have notice a certain thread of humour running through the pieces I write. Through my writing, I try to lessen life's pressures both for me and the reader. Well, I hope my piece amused you. To the Lagosians amongst you, think constructive criticism cos actually there is a lot the rest of Naija can learn from you. Your Governor, Fashola, is really doing amazing stuff. He is opening up roads (the one from Onikan to VI), dualising some that are long overdue (Bourdillon, Alexander etc) and beautifying the city (Cloverleaf Park) to name a few. The BRT idea is progressive and a first in Nigeria. So what you hear unsaid in my words is actually envy. O.K. thats it, go back to work...that's why your company pays you. It's over. You have had your break. Come on! Back to the grindstone, or in this age of technological progress, back to the blender!!!
As for Lagos landlords, they are a different breed altogether. Sometimes a potential tenant ( AKA victim, AKA mumu...) is asked to pay in advance for an uncompleted building under construction. Anywhere else in Nigeria, your defense system would immediately go on red alert at this unusual request. In Lagos however, due to a chronic accomodation shortage, rationality takes the backseat and you of course pay, immediately promoting yourself from plain fool to a world class moron as later developments would confirm. Desperate as you are, you pay for two or three years depending on how humane (?) the landlord is. He then uses your hardearned money to complete the building and the next thing you know, there are tenants in the house. When you finally find him 'on seat', he gives you the spiel that the cost of building materials had risen so dramatically while he was still constucting it that he would be doing himself, his children and antecedents yet unborn, great harm if he lets out the house on the agreed rate. Getting your money back (...your dignity, never) depends on whether you know any army officer or some one in the underworld. You do not push it. You take your money and chalk it up as experience. Anyway, sha, God dey! A friend said the way crime evolves in Lagos is in direct connection to technology; 419 became 2 419 when Lagos became digital, it is now 080 419 in this wireless age.
Eating out in Lagos is quite the experience. Strategically placed near those large and influential corporate offices on Victoria Island, are several bukkas and 'mama puts' where one needs both hands free in order to eat. One needs a hand to successfully mould and sculp the eba to the appropriate shape and size (good training ground for potential sculpters) before throwing the lump in the mouth. The other hand is needed to swat the multitude of flies, as well as wiping the cascade of sweat that drips down your forehead with the regularity of the appearance of a molue at Oshodi bus stop. Regular customers do not bother with the latter part for I am reliably informed that any sweat that drips onto your plate just seasons the meal to perfection. The most interesting part is the calibre of customers you find eating there. These are mostly professionals working in fully airconditioned and 'generatored' offices, giving out instructions, speaking through their noses with British accents or American twangs acquired from a two week vacation in London in the early nineties. At these street bukkas, all egos are checked at the entrance which is actually the pavement. Bank officers rub shoulders with labourers from the building sites around. Throwing all pretenses and dignity to the winds, people re-adopt their mother-tongue accents and ways of talking as they order eba, iyan, bushmeat, okro, drawsoup and all other such uniquely African foods with reckless abandon. Meet them elsewhere, perhaps at a social gathering and they would insist that they only eat salads and drink bottled water. Lagos, na waa. Then there is Iya Solimat, where you experience the epitome of customer service as it is practised in Lagos. At this popular bukka in Akoka, each serving of food is accompanied, for the slightest infractions, by your money's worth in insults from Iya Solimat's very vituperative and acidic tongue. To give credit where it's due, the food is absolutely delicious, so despite constant resolutions never to go back to be insulted even as they spend their money, her clientele remain loyal.
No discourse on Lagos is complete without a mention of the flooding problem during the rainy season that converts every building to a 'waterfront property' ?(v. convenient for real estate listings...). During my two weeks, the rains, which are usually my favourite season up North, exasperated me to despair because everything stops when it rains in Lagos. The traffic becomes horrendous and tempers are on a short (dare I say, shorter than usual) fuse. So many times, I had to wade through black, muddy waters infested with God Knows what to get to my training on time. In Kano, we say the rains are Allah's blessing but in Lagos, its a curse.
I look at the inherent problems of Lagos and think to myself, I am so lucky, I dont live there. With each passing day, I would count down my return home to Abuja. Lagos is so-o-o expensive. I have nostalgic feelings about Gaya, my village in Kano where N400 buys a 'mudu' of Gari, a bunch of spinach leaves, enough tomatoes, onions and pepper for stew, six oranges or mangoes, two average size fish and one female goat! In Lagos, N400 buys one meatpie, one boli (roasted plantain), one mouth organ (roasted corn) and a bottle of drink. In Gaya, one buys six oranges and probably get two more as 'jara'. In Lagos, nothing goes for free, except the air we breathe. Although clean air is fast becoming a thing of the past considering all the pollution and smog in the city. Lagosians, being the ingenious people they are, will soon start selling clean oxygen in little sealed plastic bags in 'go slows' as they do 'pure water'. 'Undiluted clean oxygen, o mo gan, twenty, twenty naira' (...and it will be worth it).
It was Romain Gary that said humour is an affirmation of dignity and a declaration of man's superiority to all that befalls him. Readers of my blog (...God, that sounds so immodest, like I have delusions of grandeur...) might have notice a certain thread of humour running through the pieces I write. Through my writing, I try to lessen life's pressures both for me and the reader. Well, I hope my piece amused you. To the Lagosians amongst you, think constructive criticism cos actually there is a lot the rest of Naija can learn from you. Your Governor, Fashola, is really doing amazing stuff. He is opening up roads (the one from Onikan to VI), dualising some that are long overdue (Bourdillon, Alexander etc) and beautifying the city (Cloverleaf Park) to name a few. The BRT idea is progressive and a first in Nigeria. So what you hear unsaid in my words is actually envy. O.K. thats it, go back to work...that's why your company pays you. It's over. You have had your break. Come on! Back to the grindstone, or in this age of technological progress, back to the blender!!!
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Home, sweet home...
To paraphrase the words of that old negro spiritual...'Home at last, home at last. Thank God Almighty, I am home at last!!!"
Thursday, June 26, 2008
It's hard out there for a girl...
For the last five months, I have been job hunting in Abj and it hasn't been easy. Is it me or are the recruiters getting younger, more smug and arrogant. There is a general condescending attitude towards applicants by these upstarts but we have to grin and bear it cos, of course, a beggar cannot be a chooser. I will blog in detail about my experiences. Now, I have good news and bad news... the good news being I got me a job that I think I'm going to like; the bad news is from Monday June 30th, I have to be in Lagos for two weeks training and orientation...aaargh!!! I am getting too old to be 'suffering and smiling'. Anyway, wish me luck. I hope to blow the trainers away with my intellect, charm, efficiency, good looks, comportment etc so that I can rise to the executive cadre in, say 2 years....A girls got to reach for the sky...
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
My neighbours from hell...
HELP!!! My neighbours are driving me crazy. Every night, I say a prayer to the God of Oil Companies to transfer Mr Oil & Gas (O & G) back to PortHarcourt. Please join me in this prayer. It is for a most important cause; my sanity. Let me start from the beginning. Our family moved from Kano to Abuja in August (although I moved in January). My husband found a nice four bedroom flat in a secluded part of Wuse. The flat was in a block of four (Block A), with another block of four (Block B) in the same compound. Our flat on the second floor is opposite that of a couple which for this piece I will call O & G which incidently are their initials. When I finally joined the family in January, my husband and I went around all eight flats introducing our family and so I met O & G formally. By this time, my nine year old son and their nine year old, Daminabo, were best friends. It did concern me that their two sons (9 & 7 yrs) were in my house every freaking day immediately after school until about 6.30pm. They intrude on us even on Saturdays. I understand the addiction of my kids Nintendo WII video games and other toys in my house but I came to realise that I had in essence become their baby sitter. The kids would come straight to my house IN THEIR SCHOOL UNIFORMS and their housemaid would follow them in with their lunch. I soon put a stop to that. I insisted that they go home, change, eat lunch and do their homework first. Another inkling I had that things might become uncomfortable is when my son said that Tonye the younger son said my whole family will go to hell because we were muslims. He told my son that his mother said so. The couple are staunch members of the 'church of mountain, fire and brimstone' or something of that nature. I did not say anything but filed the incident under 'hmmm?'
About two weeks after that, their second car was involved in a crash and was a total right-off. The driver survived, thank God. Since my childrens school is near their childrens school, we offered our driver to drop off their kids and then mine and at the close of school, pick up my kids then theirs. That was early February. We naively thought that they will quickly make other arrangements. We were still doing school runs for them three months later and not once, did they ever offer to fuel our car or even give our driver a tip. I finally put my foot down when my kids midterm did not coincide with that of her kids and she still expected my driver to ferry her kids. That morning when she realised that my children were not going to school and that my driver was out on an errand, she had the audacity to say to me, 'a'ah I will be late for work if I take them to school now and who will pick them up?'. As Madonna sings (amazing, I am quoting Madonna), 'the road to hell is paved with good intentions'. I suddenly realised that the line had been drawn in the sand. I calmly told her that it really was not my concern and also told her that they have to make alternative arrangements for their school runs. She looked amazed but left. After work, my husband told me that O, the husband called him to tell him what I said. Imagine, they reported me to my husband! This was a couple who constantly and relentlessly called my husband on the Saturday that I was rushed to the hospital, to complain that they wanted to go out and were still waiting for my husband to pick up my kids from their house ( the first time since I moved to Abuja). My husband left me in the hospital, picked up the kids and took them to another family in Block B.
Now the final straw! They suddenly started hosting noisy night vigils in their home Friday nights. Singing, clapping, spewing in tongues and shouting. I honestly respect everyones right to freedom of religion but I believe with rights come responsibilities. 'Your right to swing your arm stops where my nose starts'. Our parking lot would be filled with about 25 cars, right onto the street. The tenants would not even find spaces to park. The landlord did not allocate parking because there is ample parking spaces. After the second vigil, the three other tenants in Block A agreed that a representation would be made to them to complain. Mrs Adegoke and I volunteered to talk to G but the men insisted on handling it. So the three husbands (Buttri, Indian muslim, Adegoke, Yoruba muslim and my better half, Hausa muslim) went to see them. I only mention the religion and tribe to put what happenned in the proper context. O & G, mostly G, blew up. They accused the three of 'religious persecution' and ganging up to run them out of the flats. They said that even before moving to Abuja, they had been told that all Northerners wanted to destroy Christianity. I wish I has been there to see the priceless look of shock on the faces of Buttri and Adegoke accused of being part of the Northern conspiracy. Adegoke, perhaps if one squints, closes one eye and looks through a blindfold, just might pass, by the skin of his teeth, for a Sokoto man (that is if you disregard his tribal marks) but Buttri, no stretch of the imagination can make him pass. He is the most indian looking Indian I have ever seen. If you look in Websters dictionary, under Indian, you will find Buttri's picture. G then brought up the fact that no one had complained about the Muslim call to prayer that can be heard faintly in the background in the neighbourhood disregarding the fact that (1) it is not on the property in question (2) it comes from somewhere way behind the property (3) if they feel so strongly, the onus is on them to find the mosque and complain accordingly!!!(...they would NOT dare, I'm willing to bet the family farm). Anyway, needless to say, the meeting was not productive at all and the next Friday night, they were even louder and it went on later that usual. The good thing about Abuja, is that there is a noise ordinance and it is usually adhered to. Without telling my husband, I wrote a complaint letter and personally delivered it on Monday to the Abuja Environmental Protection Agency (AEPB). I was extra polite to the Asst. Director and he promised to take it up immediately. On Wednesday, O & G were served with the AEPB equivilent of a cease and desist letter. Their kids still came to our flat to play. On Thursday, we met outside. I said Good Morning, O replied but G glared at me, then ignored me. However, their kids still came to play. And so they did on Friday. Then came Friday night. SILENCE!!! Victory!!! My husband still believes that O & G must have had a change of heart after their conversation. He said 'y'know, people mostly make the right decision after they have had a chance to calm down and think'. I smiled and nodded. I will just let him live in that world while I live in the real 'dog-eat-dog' world of surviving by the flexing of official muscles to get people to do the right thing.
About two weeks after that, their second car was involved in a crash and was a total right-off. The driver survived, thank God. Since my childrens school is near their childrens school, we offered our driver to drop off their kids and then mine and at the close of school, pick up my kids then theirs. That was early February. We naively thought that they will quickly make other arrangements. We were still doing school runs for them three months later and not once, did they ever offer to fuel our car or even give our driver a tip. I finally put my foot down when my kids midterm did not coincide with that of her kids and she still expected my driver to ferry her kids. That morning when she realised that my children were not going to school and that my driver was out on an errand, she had the audacity to say to me, 'a'ah I will be late for work if I take them to school now and who will pick them up?'. As Madonna sings (amazing, I am quoting Madonna), 'the road to hell is paved with good intentions'. I suddenly realised that the line had been drawn in the sand. I calmly told her that it really was not my concern and also told her that they have to make alternative arrangements for their school runs. She looked amazed but left. After work, my husband told me that O, the husband called him to tell him what I said. Imagine, they reported me to my husband! This was a couple who constantly and relentlessly called my husband on the Saturday that I was rushed to the hospital, to complain that they wanted to go out and were still waiting for my husband to pick up my kids from their house ( the first time since I moved to Abuja). My husband left me in the hospital, picked up the kids and took them to another family in Block B.
Now the final straw! They suddenly started hosting noisy night vigils in their home Friday nights. Singing, clapping, spewing in tongues and shouting. I honestly respect everyones right to freedom of religion but I believe with rights come responsibilities. 'Your right to swing your arm stops where my nose starts'. Our parking lot would be filled with about 25 cars, right onto the street. The tenants would not even find spaces to park. The landlord did not allocate parking because there is ample parking spaces. After the second vigil, the three other tenants in Block A agreed that a representation would be made to them to complain. Mrs Adegoke and I volunteered to talk to G but the men insisted on handling it. So the three husbands (Buttri, Indian muslim, Adegoke, Yoruba muslim and my better half, Hausa muslim) went to see them. I only mention the religion and tribe to put what happenned in the proper context. O & G, mostly G, blew up. They accused the three of 'religious persecution' and ganging up to run them out of the flats. They said that even before moving to Abuja, they had been told that all Northerners wanted to destroy Christianity. I wish I has been there to see the priceless look of shock on the faces of Buttri and Adegoke accused of being part of the Northern conspiracy. Adegoke, perhaps if one squints, closes one eye and looks through a blindfold, just might pass, by the skin of his teeth, for a Sokoto man (that is if you disregard his tribal marks) but Buttri, no stretch of the imagination can make him pass. He is the most indian looking Indian I have ever seen. If you look in Websters dictionary, under Indian, you will find Buttri's picture. G then brought up the fact that no one had complained about the Muslim call to prayer that can be heard faintly in the background in the neighbourhood disregarding the fact that (1) it is not on the property in question (2) it comes from somewhere way behind the property (3) if they feel so strongly, the onus is on them to find the mosque and complain accordingly!!!(...they would NOT dare, I'm willing to bet the family farm). Anyway, needless to say, the meeting was not productive at all and the next Friday night, they were even louder and it went on later that usual. The good thing about Abuja, is that there is a noise ordinance and it is usually adhered to. Without telling my husband, I wrote a complaint letter and personally delivered it on Monday to the Abuja Environmental Protection Agency (AEPB). I was extra polite to the Asst. Director and he promised to take it up immediately. On Wednesday, O & G were served with the AEPB equivilent of a cease and desist letter. Their kids still came to our flat to play. On Thursday, we met outside. I said Good Morning, O replied but G glared at me, then ignored me. However, their kids still came to play. And so they did on Friday. Then came Friday night. SILENCE!!! Victory!!! My husband still believes that O & G must have had a change of heart after their conversation. He said 'y'know, people mostly make the right decision after they have had a chance to calm down and think'. I smiled and nodded. I will just let him live in that world while I live in the real 'dog-eat-dog' world of surviving by the flexing of official muscles to get people to do the right thing.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
My six quirks...
I have been tagged by *nigeriandramaqueen* and *simispeaks*. I was hoping no one would tag me cos I am JJC to this blogging thing but 'nigeriandramaqueen kindly gave me a tutorial (LINKING 101 for dummies) so here goes... Here are the rules:
Link the person who tagged you
Mention the rules in your blog
Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours
Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them
Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged.
1. I count ceiling squares, bathroom tiles, pavement sections, in fact anything that comes in squares and sequence. I read that this is a sympton of OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder). Perhaps I need to see a shrink where (if I was an American) our first session would uncover the fact that my OCD emanates from my childhood where I saw my brother kill a lizard when I was 4 years old or something just as ridiculous...
2. When I fart (yes, everybody does, even yours truly) I sometimes grab at the air behind my butt to smell it. This quirk REALLY is from my childhood when we (my sisters and I) would try to guess the 'fart origin' (eggs, meat, beans, tuwo or rice).
3. I practice crying in front of the mirror. This is because I have a very ugly cry, red eyes, wayward tears, mucus intermingling with the tears and running into wide open mouth...you get the picture. I wish I could cry like I was being directed by a hollywood director (note pls that I said HOLLYWOOD not NOLLYWOOD.
5. I have a terrible memory for names. I can always remember the face but names are my nemesis. I try to link names with another object so that I can remember so whenever I am introduced to someone new, mentally I automatically rhyme the name with something else. I just met my husbands colleague, Ajibike. In my mind, I quickly made a mental note 'Ajibike Fiffike', the second word meaning 'wings' in Hausa. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.
6. For breads, cakes and pastries, I prefer when they are slightly burnt. I love to eat the edges of cakes that come out a darker shade of brown and I also love the crust of the bread .Those are my 6 quirky things. I tag Chxta, Wetindey, 36inches, Ijebuman, anonymousgal, and Naapali.
Link the person who tagged you
Mention the rules in your blog
Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours
Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them
Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged.
1. I count ceiling squares, bathroom tiles, pavement sections, in fact anything that comes in squares and sequence. I read that this is a sympton of OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder). Perhaps I need to see a shrink where (if I was an American) our first session would uncover the fact that my OCD emanates from my childhood where I saw my brother kill a lizard when I was 4 years old or something just as ridiculous...
2. When I fart (yes, everybody does, even yours truly) I sometimes grab at the air behind my butt to smell it. This quirk REALLY is from my childhood when we (my sisters and I) would try to guess the 'fart origin' (eggs, meat, beans, tuwo or rice).
3. I practice crying in front of the mirror. This is because I have a very ugly cry, red eyes, wayward tears, mucus intermingling with the tears and running into wide open mouth...you get the picture. I wish I could cry like I was being directed by a hollywood director (note pls that I said HOLLYWOOD not NOLLYWOOD.
5. I have a terrible memory for names. I can always remember the face but names are my nemesis. I try to link names with another object so that I can remember so whenever I am introduced to someone new, mentally I automatically rhyme the name with something else. I just met my husbands colleague, Ajibike. In my mind, I quickly made a mental note 'Ajibike Fiffike', the second word meaning 'wings' in Hausa. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.
6. For breads, cakes and pastries, I prefer when they are slightly burnt. I love to eat the edges of cakes that come out a darker shade of brown and I also love the crust of the bread .Those are my 6 quirky things. I tag Chxta, Wetindey, 36inches, Ijebuman, anonymousgal, and Naapali.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Postscript: The bigger they come, the harder they fall!!!
There is a God afterall. It's a knockout in round one. El Rufai 10, Senators 0. I cannot find words to describe how confident and eloquent El Rufai was in shooting down every accusation. He was precise, concise and factual. He had documents to back up his every decision as Minister and being a lawyer, he made sure his every move was legal. Even the senators were mesmerised. El Rufai took control of 'their' senate right under their noses while they sat slackjawed! I bow in submission and cannot even organise my thoughts enough to write. Luckily, the Thursday Retort column at the back page of Thisday Newspaper (1/5/08) did a most honest and brilliant job, expressing my sentiments exactly. How I wish I could have plagiarised and passed off the article as my own LOL. The panel could not exhaust everything yesterday and requested that El Rufai reappear next week. He so humbly asked them to reconvene tomorrow, Friday, because of his Law Exams in the UK next week. They refused and insisted he reappears next Wednesday. How petty! Anyway, people say that they want the time to regroup and decide what next, since they were obviously showed up in this round. Hausa people say that 'if you are digging a grave to trap someone, make sure you dig deep enough for two. You might just end up inside'. In this instance, the intended victim seems to jump over the grave while the diggers are about to fall in.
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