Snippets... Mo Fiya

So there is one consistent facet of a night out on the town in Lagos, and that is the legless bums on roll-carts. Picture Eddie Murphy in trading places, if you can recall, and that’s pretty much it. Now make him dirty, skinny, and just very pitiful looking. My first night out I was intrigued by the man’s existence but that was about it. At the second place we went to that same night, I saw what I thought was the same man, and thought, “wow, for someone with no legs, he sure get’s around town.” Later I realized that there are many legless cart-men rolling through the streets of Lagos. But it was not until this past weekend that I began to ask myself why I feel so ambivalent towards them. After the Karaoke bar, a bum literally hung on to the car for probably a quarter mile, begging for money as we attempted to shake him off. I began to worry that his shirt was caught in the door or something, but he must have been just hanging on to the underside of the vehicle because he let go when he felt the effort was futile. After he drifted into the distance, I asked myself…why do I feel intrigue but no sympathy? I should feel sad or bad or something sympathetic for the homeless guy right? Whether I should or not, I don’t and that made me think I am as my sister reminds me ‘a cold-hearted bastard’. Except I don’t want to be that, so maybe there is some other explanation. Honestly though, I have never felt that particularly bad for almost anyone. I say things like ‘that sucks’ or ‘that’s unfortunate’ but rarely do I have real sympathy accompany the words. Generally real sympathy is saved for abuses to the young or helpless, or rape and murder, but everything else I feel you can sort of deal with. There are obstacles in life, and some people are born with more than others. But we all just have to make peace with them. If my little spot of Vitiligo takes over my whole face, I would just have to make peace with that, not feel terribly sorry for myself. Maybe it is pompous or ignorant to expect the same from everyone else, but I do. If your fat, get over it; if your ugly, get over it; if your short, get over it; if you have no legs, get over it…haha.

Before you solidify your contempt of my lack of sympathy, allow me to tell you about a recent discovery. Those bastards on the carts DO have legs. I saw one lift himself up with his hands, and there beneath his bended knees were gen-u-ine FEET! Granted, his legs and feet were in terrible shape, but they were there. You may be thinking that I just saw one faker, but I have been paying attention later. And I was able to witness one other faker, a big ole’ pinky toe was sticking out the back of the cart. So I have witnessed two separate fakers, the rest I could not get a read on. This leads me to a new theory. Maybe I felt no sympathy because I could subconsciously tell that the guy was a faker. Yes that’s it. These guys were just like Eddie Murphy in Trading Places, fakers, but with better acts.

The goodies from the admin came in today, and I am ecstatic. I have 6 cases of evaporated milk, one huge jug of powdered milk, a giant box of corn flakes, Pringles, and some digestive cookies. I am set for at least a week if Nigeria erupts in an unexpected civil war that traps me in the office! My boss is still grumpy because he did not get all that he ordered, further convincing him that Florence is making off with the remainder.


By the way, why don’t they have fresh milk in Nigeria, I can’t find it anywhere. I know they have cows, I have seen them. Why can’t they just squeeze a tit or two? And they don’t refrigerate the eggs here, I don’t know if that is okay or not. I asked my friend about it and she said asked “why would you refrigerate them, do you think they are going to hatch?” I did not have an answer for that. So if anyone knows, let me know, does refrigerating eggs make a difference?

At lunch the other day, folks were talking about their family members and Dimola started talking about her pregnant sister and how she was going to give birth soon. Ladun then asked if she was going to have the baby here. I assumed here meant Lagos. ‘No’, replied Dimola, ‘she is going to the states’. Evidently here meant Nigeria. Letting my naiveté shine brightly, I ask ‘why the states, does she not trust the hospitals here?’ To which they laugh, and move on with the conversation. Later I get them back to the topic. They explain that she is going to the states to have the baby so that the baby will be a US Citizen, and will be able to go in and out of the states without an issue. I do not approve. I never considered myself a Minuteman (meaning the guys who board the Mexican border not sexually… I mean, yes sexually as well) but in this instance I wanted to warn immigration that the lady had sinister plans for her US visit. I understand the ladies motives, but I also think that the US should probably have some sort of plan to prevent this from happening. Easier said than done I know, but worth a try.

At the hotel, I was talking to the desk clerk about how my mom traced our heritage on her side to Senegal. She said that she had hoped I was Nigerian. I told her perhaps that is where my Dad’s side came from, and she did not understand. She asked, ‘your dad is black also?’ When I told her yes, she said, ‘Your not American, you are African.’ For some reason that made me happy.

This past Friday, the all night outing Friday, we were quite the interesting group. When Ehi picked me up from my hotel room, it was hard to ignore the four young pretty women stuffed in his back seat. These girls had to be between 18 and 20, no older than that. Now I felt old as a 24and a ½ year old (taking it back to elementary school), so I know Ehi and his partner Obi had to feel old. I suspect Ehi and Obi are closing in on the big 30 so it was very fitting that towards the end of the night, R Kelly was brought up. Obi, who only referred to Kelly as Kells, was a staunch supporter of him getting free. Arguing, the girl is not pressing charges, why go to jail. But really his point was, in Nigeria, R. Kelly never would have gotten in trouble for that. Which made me ask, what is the legal age here in Nigeria? The responses varied from there are none, to there is one but no one besides lawmakers knows what it is. Jokingly I said that Obi would find out when he is being arrested. Obi laughed, but responded more cleverly with, I will tell them I am not a Negro (African American) I am Nigerian! And demand that they let me go.

I eat at the crappy hotel restaurant virtually every day for food. It’s easy, it’s free, and I don’t have to call for a cab to take me anywhere. Besides, I like talking with the staff and have become superficially close with some of them. One of whom is a server named Ben. Ben and I talk about sports and the books that I am reading and just general banter. So I thought it no big deal last Friday when Ben started talking to me about his weekend plans. He was describing how he was going to have fun on Saturday (his only day off) and that I should wish him a good weekend. So I say, ‘I wish you an excellent weekend Ben’. He says, no, no, and he lowers his voice and says something that I can’t understand. I ask him to repeat himself but he says he will tell me when he delivers my food to the room. So ten minutes later [I was actually on the phone arguing with my sister about diseases and their levels of badness at the time] he shows up with my food, and he says, ‘I was asking you to wish me a good weekend.’ Thinking the message was lost in translation, I tell him I don’t know what he means. So Ben says, ‘Money, I want money.’ To which I was so thrown off, that I just end up saying some mix of Ohhh, Of course, and Hold on. As I walk to my wallet, I start to get over the shock of his request, and realize that he is forcing a tip out of me. This was coupled by the realization that I only had 1000 Naira bills and a quickly diminishing supply of cash early on a Friday night. But I had been feeling bad about not having ‘tipped’ Ben the whole time I was here, so I relented and gave him the 1000 Naira. Needless to say, he was very pleased. Ever since then he has been EXTRA nice to me.

There is this one street in Lagos that is more entertaining than other’s to drive down. I call it Ho Row because the real name is hard to pronounce and not nearly as cool, but as the name implies, its where the prostitutes congregate. These aren’t the ‘classy’ meet you in the club type prostitutes, these are the street walkers, the come up to your car window type. What is so entertaining about this road is that there is only one institution of note once the sun goes down. The place is called, very fittingly, Why Not? And the pro’s are spaced symmetrically around this central hub. I have heard many of the expats joking about this place, because if you go in there, you know exactly what you are going for. But other than the blinking neon bulbs that spell out the name of the joint, the other entertainment comes in seeing the ho-wear. Some of these women might as well stand out there naked. I have seen a fishnet outfit people, not just the stockings, the whole outfit. Then there is the deep v-cut shirt where the nipples are purposefully not covered. Oh the sights and sounds of Lagos.

Tuesday I had a pleasant surprise. The tailor for my African outfits came to the office. I made the mistake of saying I wanted to have a traditional outfit so I can dress like everyone else on Friday’s (Traditional Day), and the ladies of the office have made it their goal to hook me up. They have brought in fabric to show me, helped me pick stuff out; pretty much everything but make the shirt. Luckily they have a tailor, and she was coming to the office to measure the girls for their outfits. They were going to get me measured at the same time but I had strict rules. Mostly, I could not speak, and I could only answer by Emeka (Emeka Chukwu was my given Igbo name). So nervous I walk to the outside of the building with them, and meet the seamstress. You try introducing yourself without speaking, I think I just managed to come off as rude. After the introduction I just went to a corner and tried to act like a shy person would. But soon they were calling Emeka and it was time to get measured. My officemate and official cultural integration expert, Ladun, stood by my side during the whole process in case I got stuck in a bind. Naturally the seamstress asked quite a few questions. Is this sleeve length ok? Is this pant length ok? How would you like this designed? To everything I just nodded, yes, yes, yes, to everything. I thought I was doing fine until Ladun bursts out laughing next to me. I look over and she can barely contain herself. The seamstress notices and gets suspicious, but Ladun says something that makes her calm down. After the measurements, I went back to my corner and then up to my office. I went up to my office having successfully faked being Nigerian. Can’t be paying no foreigner price for stuff, especially not the American foreigner price.

I have periods of suspicion around these Nigerians. I wonder if they are being nice just so they can dupe me into being kidnapped. I keep expecting one of them to say, why don’t we take a weekend trip to the Niger Delta… doesn’t that sound fun? So far I can’t pick up on any malice, but there has to be some catch to them being so nice. Right?

I felt really bad at lunch the other day. I was approaching fullness and giving up on finishing, when Ladun asked me, why don’t you finish all your food? All those times Mom said, ‘There are starving kids in Africa, and you can’t finish your food!’, came rushing back to me along with a flood of guilt. I was twenty feet from those starving kids and I had not finished half of my plate. Needless to say I gave my food another shot, but I have decided to request smaller portions from here on out. Must not waste. In a related point, I saw this man sitting on the side of the street making a feast out of the contents of a garbage bag, and it made me feel sad for the guy. Not sure why I felt so bad for the guy, I see bums in the US eating out of the garbage all the time, and I don’t feel to bad for them. But this guy got me. Maybe it was all the flies buzzing around his head. That last sentence was not meant to be funny, but it sort of was.