No Need to Apologise!

A VSO went into the examination hall to observe how exams were conducted. The Finals , for Year 3 students.

There were over 200 candidates but not enough tables and chairs to go round; those without would have to sit the exam some other time (unspecified).

 Shortly after question papers had been given out,  a student drew the attention of the supervisor to the fact that the papers  now being pored over,  were for an exam the following day, not the current one! Papers were hurriedly collected in and supervisors went off to find the right ones,  leaving the students unsupervised but having first instructed them  to remain in the hall in complete silence. Twenty minutes later the supervisors returned with the correct paper and blasted the students because they were not in silence. A girl who had been sitting on a desk was slapped across the head and told she would face a charge of examination malpractice!

The exam resumed with three students sharing one question paper. They were told not to lean across each other or this would also be considered malpractice and the students concerned would face automatic dismissal from the exam hall and disqualification from the examination.

In so many dealings between people there is no sense of a need for an apology or even an explanation or a need to respect the person being spoken to if they are considered to be in any way of lower status.  In this society, status and hierarchy lie embedded in the root .

For the past two nights we have had no power or water. Our sleep has been regularly interrupted not only by waves of  heat but by the noise and fumes of the generator owned by the bank manager who lives next door which is positioned not far from our window. He leaves it running all night long with no thought of the effects on his neighbours. ‘This is Nigeria!’ is his response when tackled about it.  In a society where a bank manager is of infinitely higher status than a teacher – or anything else in civilian life,  nobody will put up much of an argument.

OROgenic uplift?

Most of the past two weeks I have spent going to and fro between Ilorin and Oro College. My job has been to assist the College management in reviewing and strengthening their Teaching Practice Cycle.
After a non-welcome from the Provost, who managed to ignore us the whole time we were there, we settled down to do business with the Teaching Practice Committee and some of the Deans/Heads of Department who rose to the challenge - in between their other duties - and advised us on the system as it currently exists and commented constructively on our suggestions as to how things could be developed.
They were focussed and positive and left me with the impression they were serious about the need for a root and branch overhaul of the whole process (I almost used the word 'shabbang' but wasn't sure how to spell it. Spellchecker was not very enlightening).
Anyway, after four days, we have managed to produce a solid foundation on which to base student-teachers' teaching practice, hopefully for years to come. I felt an upward surge of reassurance, confidence and expectation that I rarely, if ever, have experienced here.
The next stage was to have it approved by the management - a tougher nut to crack. The principal qualities that seem to be required for these posts are lethargy, indolence and avoidance with a distinct  aversion to engaging with anyone who they think might be in boat-rocking mode. In spite of 5 days' notice of an agreed meeting, at the appointed time there was no-one to meet with. We had travelled 40 miles or so to be  there early while they were travelling 40 miles or so in the opposite direction. Apparently our respective drivers recognised and saluted each other in passing on the road - but nothing was said to us.
We were not best pleased and consoled ourselves with a luke-warm bottle of Coke. (I don't know who this 'Luke' fellow is but I wish he would get a proper refrigeration system set up here!)
We returned the following morning at an agreed time -  they weren't there. A phone call 30 minutes later revealed they were in another meeting two rooms away and had completely forgotten about ours - but arrived within two minutes.
We presented them with all the work that had been done by their TP Committee over the preceding days. They seemed to accept - in fact they DID accept - all that we presented to them. We also stated what they were expected to contribute to the process and you could feel an almost physical effort to lift the heavy fire blanket of lethargy and allow the blood once more to flow, activating brain cells that had lain dormant for years. The next stage, we said, was for them to train their lecturers in the new procedures. There was a momentary flicker of panic and a weak, embarrassed laugh before they realised we weren't joking. Their next response was to ask if there was not a consultant who could deliver the training for them. 'No!' This was their responsibility - their job, in fact - for which one of them had gone on an all-expenses paid trip to the UK two years ago to brush up his mentoring skills for just this very development. They were then looking at me. Now, I have had many years experience of concocting cunning plans and I could see one being hatched before my eyes. I was not going to be drawn into delivering this, but assured them I would be there to help them plan their workshop and present it to their staff. We came away reasonably confident that they would come together to plan their next move - but what that next move will be, only time will tell!

Juju - The other African Magic

Juju is strong medecine -at least in the eyes, heart, mind and other organs of many Nigerians. Ask a Nigerian to swear on a holy book - no problem, but ask them to swear an oath on the relics of a family member in a family or village shrine and they will not go there. A fervent belief and fear by some in the power of the dark arts is evident in everyday life. Some taxi drivers display beads, tangles of hair, bits of bone and other objects from their rear view mirror - if they have one! - presumably to ensure the safety of passengers and to ward off evil spirits and rogue policemen extorting naira.

I have previously written about children who, having been beaten by their parents almost killed them by poisoning, having followed the advice of a 'herbalist'; other pupils had a curse placed on fellow pupils who stole their mobile phone, for which they were soundly beaten. There are also those who, before setting out on a journey, make offerings of food and drink to appease the spirits of the road and/or rogue policemen extorting naira, to ensure a safe and trouble-free journey; occasionally you see small roadside shrines set up for this purpose, which in concept is not very far away from wearing a St Christopher medal.
Many such traditional practices lie just beneath the surface of established religious observance, but some are difficult to credit: there is a juju that is apparently effective in encouraging conception or driving away a childless or barren wife. Wives who fail to conceive are verbally abused in public and their husband urged to take another wife. Neighbours will continually harangue the poor woman, trying to force her out of the marital home.
In some parts of the country wives are required to sleep with the corpse of a deceased husband and the following morning, the body having been washed in preparation for the funeral, drink the washings. If she dies soon after, it is proof of her inadequate signs of grief. Either way, the widow loses everything and in order to survive may have to sleep with her late husband's brother in order to secure patronage. She becomes a family slave to all intents and purposes. Any offspring are entrusted solely to the male side of the family - they may lose all contact with their mother.
We have been told of women who, having been told they cannot have children by a doctor, have consulted a herbalist and after medicinal concoctions and rites, have conceived very soon after.
On a slightly different tack, we have had warnings from neighbours and colleagues against answering certain phones calls that begin with a particular number - if we do we are likely to soon die. Serious people seriously believe that answering these calls will mean your imminent death. I'd tell you what the number is so you can avoid using it, but I may not live to see another dawn if I do!

White Cattle

White cattle

When I come to compile my list of ‘Things I will miss about Nigeria’, the sight of a Fulani herder with his loyal bunch of gorgeous white cattle will surely emerge near the top. I am continually thrilled to see them, ambling across the road or grazing in the undergrowth nearby, or seen in the distance on the fringes of a village or beneath a cluster of trees ; always calm, peaceful, silent, undemanding – at least, when I have seen them; perhaps  they are just being accommodating to the camera, trying to create a good impression and when my bus has passed by or under cover of night they make a horrendous din and start stampeding around the place, stealing each other’s patch of grass  and irritating the hell out of their long-suffering herdsman – a bit like the performance of some people I could mention – but won’t! 

And when I come to draw up my list of what I have learned from my Nigerian experience, I will surely reflect on the benefits of a more peaceful pace of life closer to the rhythms of nature as illustrated by the humility of the herdsman as he turns away from the roadside and heads into the bush as night descends.  Where does he go? Where will he sleep and will he eat tonight?

Not that I mean to romanticize his existence – it must be an incredibly hard,  insecure and frankly boring life, at least from my perspective as a person who has possessions that are valued and who really needs to feel the assurances, security and some satisfaction  in  life, for at least a some months  ahead.

Does the Fulani herder – man or boy – gain satisfaction from spending days in the bush with a bunch of cows, warding off  - what, wild animals, vagrants, cattle rustlers, the bovine-registration police seeking bribe or a tub of yoghurt, swaying mini-busses  travelling at break neck speed (possibly literally!) and threatening to leave the road at the next pothole?

What does he think about? Does he have his dreams too? And do they lie on the land or in a town or distant place? Clearly he has his responsibilities, but presumably he does not have to concern himself over a rising council tax bill, achieving attainment targets, reviewing his performance over the previous year and setting goals for the next one. I guess a visit at short notice from Ofcow with the threat of being declared a ‘failing herdsman’ and having his herd taken over by a more experienced and skilled practitioner, is an unlikely occurrence.

But I guess he has his own life-pressures that are just as troublesome to him as ours are to us.

I do love seeing  those cattle though!

An African Boy

I know you see me from your place
The fat flies crawling into my eyes
Claiming my last bead of moisture
Searching the pale track my tears once traced
 I’m sure you prefer that wavy cheeky TV grin.

That was me – an African boy.

At the junction you will find me

Scuttling on my wheels or limping through smoking traffic
In your cool car you can select your views
Unwind  your  window as I come near or choose
To  look away

Me –  just an African boy.

As dawn attacks the night you’ll find me in the motor park
Barrow ready to bear your load
Running barefoot  over rough and miry ground;
I’ll accept whatever you choose to give

To  just  another African boy.

I lead my proud cattle to pastures new

Looking for green  where  just stubble remains
As they follow I feel the red earth in my veins
Sleep beneath stars and follow the rains

The deep soul of an African boy.

In dead of night I have many fears
Borne the scars of my birth for so many years
Living  close to the raw edge of pain
Seen my future stolen again and again

Like many an African boy.

I hear the drum beating or is it my heart?
My soul sings out to the light
Infectious rhythms felt often before
I want to dance on as I rise from the floor
New musical landscapes I want to explore

Cause I am an African boy.

In my sleep I would wait on your table
Serving rich Californian wine
Learn from you all I am able
Feeding on scrapings of thought word and deed
Alive to the dance of ancestral need

The dreams of an African boy.

But I’d willingly climb over mountains

Follow great  rivers down to the sea
Sail across oceans with no stars to guide
Cross burning deserts with nowhere to hide
Answer my own prayers with God by my side

Cause I am an African boy.

Where the Heart is?

We have just returned from Abuja where we have participated in a workshop devoted largely to the enhancement of skills of the School Support Improvement Teams in ‘ESSPIN’ states within Nigeria.

The course was most useful and it has been  nice to meet with other VSOs and educationalists whose names had become familiar through emails but  to which  I can now place a personality and a face.  It has also been a relief to spend some time out of the spotlight. Westerners are not quite the novelty or source of comment and attention there that they are in Kwara.    

We were accommodated in the grandest hotel I have yet to experience in Nigeria – though I have only experienced two. Our room could have accommodated the entire population of a small African state; an Olympic event could have been staged within its walls. The bed if fitted with a sail, could almost have been used to sail single-handedly around the world – I say almost,  the mattress being  so dense I doubt  it would have floated. So, it was a big room. Unfortunate then, that the size of the TV was not to the same scale. Viewing its screen, trying to follow the progress of the Barcelona v AC Milan match from the comfort of the bed was impossible without the use of field glasses.   

Our first morning excursion to the restaurant threw up (unfortunate phrase) an unexpected problem: We were required to sign against our room number to indicate we had taken breakfast, but while Caroline’s name appeared on the register, mine did not – though I was required to sign too. It seemed difficult for the girl or the system to cater for the fact that we were a married couple sharing a room though actually taking part in the same course and had successfully registered with reception the evening before. Apparently the system could only cope with a single occupancy concept: one room = one occupant =  one breakfast; any deviation from this caused consternation and a ‘scam’ was suspected!

Anyhow, after several anxious minutes during which I refused to pay for my breakfast, I was left alone to my three thousand naira hard-boiled egg while investigations proceeded. On subsequent  mornings there was no such problem – clearly they gone into emergency mode, flown in IT boffins  from Microsoft HQ with their sonic screwdrivers  and rectified  the situation!

Flying back to Ilorin was hassle-free. I used the phrase ‘going home’ , almost choked on the phrase and then reflected on what led me to say it. Obviously it is not my real home and yet in some strange way it felt as though it was. In spite of the manic roads and environmental degradation, as we drove into Old Cemetery Road, now even worse having had its sandy surface scoured by recent torrential rains, I felt that comfort of being back where I sort of belong. Yes, it is physically grim, but we have nice neighbours  who are used to us being here and  we have made our house our home as far as we can.

It is now Sunday morning; the gospel choir is in full voice – a Ginger Bakeresque drum solo combined with Aretha  Franklin-style vocals that could penetrate  Earth’s mantle ; the children upstairs  calling out in those tones that suggest they are completely pissed off with each other  - and their mother’s voice suggesting the same only more-so; the occasional cockerel feeling the need to belatedly comment on the morning’s weather; the cheery ‘ekaaros’ of the guards; even the whistling vigilantes out in force last night - it all seemed to slot back into place in my emotional jigsaw and appear normal –  a picture of  simply what it’s like – not too scary somehow, lively, industrious, friendly -  home, albeit temporary.

I think perhaps in a small way Nigeria is starting to get to me – ooooer!  I won’t be applying for citizenship just yet, however! No doubt my next trip on a bus or an okada will restore my sense of reality!!

I'm Back!

I am now back in the saddle, having spent the past month in the UK, mainly to attend our daughter's wedding, which was a grest success -  a fabulous day from start to finish.

 Once back in Ilorin we were warmly greeted by colleagues and neighbours, which was such a consoling experience and helped us focus on our placement and not on what we have left behind. With much sadness we learned that our friend and colleague Julie would be returning to the USA the following day- for good, which kind of took the shine off things. We wish her well and hope our paths cross again somewhere.

So, we girded our loins and resumed work the next morning –  but not before being harangued by the owner of the bush meat restaurant who insisted on dashing us a bottle of Sprite as a welcome back gesture. We were invited to witness his staff pounding yam with much sweat and gusto (gusto being an essential cooking ingredient, like Bisto  but with more wind and flapping garment!)

We made our escape and arrived back in the office to more greetings. That evening we collapsed into our house, hoping to get a meal under way before darkness fell but found ourselves entertaining our upstairs neighbour and her three children well past their bedtime and probably hers.

The trials of life out here then truly hit home when we attempted to find ingredients, cook and eat them and then wash up by the light of a couple of candles.  A Big Mac  with all the trimmings seemed a long way off, and a 6 inch tuna and sweetcorn ‘Sub’,  on some far distant planet!

    Once back in Ilorin we were warmly greeted by colleagues and neighbours, which was such a consoling experience and helped us focus on our placement and not on what we have left behind. With much sadness we learned that our friend and colleague Julie would be returning to the USA the following day- for good, which kind of took the shine off things. We wish her well and hope our paths cross again somewhere.

So, we girded our loins and resumed work the next morning –  but not before being harangued by the owner of the bush meat restaurant who insisted on dashing us a bottle of Sprite as a welcome back gesture. We were invited to witness his staff pounding yam with much sweat and gusto (gusto being an essential cooking ingredient, like Bisto  but with more wind and flapping garment!)

We made our escape and arrived back in the office to more greetings. That evening we collapsed into our house, hoping to get a meal under way before darkness fell but found ourselves entertaining our upstairs neighbour and her three children well past their bedtime and probably hers.

The trials of life out here then truly hit home when we attempted to find ingredients, cook and eat them and then wash up by the light of a couple of candles.  A Big Mac  with all the trimmings seemed a long way off, and a 6 inch tuna and sweetcorn ‘Sub’,  on some far distant planet!

   The expected emotional turmoil accompanied us all the way back to Ilorin but our arrival was greeted with such warmth from friends, neighbours and colleagues - I think they were surprised to see us again after recent events.

We landed at Abuja airport just before the crack of dawn and emerged once it had well and truly cracked. As we had a 10 hour stop-over, ESSPIN paid for us to be put up in a hotel to enable us to catch a few zzzzzs. We arrived back in Ilorin in the early evening via the chaos and clamour of the domestic airport – not for the faint-hearted. The concept of ‘Smart-boarding’ doesn’t extend much beyond making sure you are on the right plane. A woman flight announcer with a shrill and barely comprehensible voice that must surely have damaged many an eardrum, raises the pitch each time she comes on,  clearly exasperated at the lack of consideration shown by the few remaining passengers who have not yet boarded and are delaying take-off - I would almost expect to see her at the gate waiting to beat and lecture them for their tardiness.

 Once back in Ilorin we were warmly greeted by colleagues and neighbours, which was such a consoling experience and helped us focus on our placement and not on what we have left behind. With much sadness we learned that our friend and colleague Julie would be returning to the USA the following day- for good, which kind of took the shine off things. We wish her well and hope our paths cross again somewhere.

So, we girded our loins and resumed work next morning –  not before being harangued by the owner of the bush meat restaurant who insisted on dashing us a bottle of Sprite as a welcome back gesture. We were invited to witness his staff pounding yam with much sweat and gusto (gusto being an essential cooking ingredient - like Bisto  but with more wind and flapping garment!)

We made our escape and arrived back in the office to more greetings. That evening we collapsed into our house, hoping to get a meal under way before darkness fell but found ourselves entertaining our upstairs neighbour and her three children well past their bedtime and probably hers.

The trials of life out here then truly hit home when we attempted to find ingredients, cook and eat them and then wash up by the light of a couple of candles.  A Big Mac  with all the trimmings seemed a long way off, and a 6 inch tuna and sweetcorn ‘Sub’,  on some far distant planet!

   One of our first jobs was to sweep up the carcasses of cockroaches that had been enjoying rent- and hassle free accommodation during our absence. There were enough of them to stock a Heston Blumenthal restaurant for weeks.

Odd thing about cockroaches - at least, the ones I find - we don't often see them alive - just dead or dying on the floor - usually when we return from work. Why is this, I wonder? Can our aerosol sprays been so efficacious after weeks away? And why are they always on their backs? Are they just crap at clinging onto ceilings?  Or is it something they ate - the remains of the candle-lit meal I cooked the night before - understandable!
Or are they suicide cockroaches, invading the premises of the business community and western educationalists in broad daylight, just to make a point and remind us they are still around? They never seem to have a recruitment problem but their fate is always the same - probably drugged up to the eyeballs!  Those that dare crawl out of their holes induce instant revulsion - even the thought of their scuttling and flitting menacingly about, most,I think, find repulsive. They take advantage of our structures to arrogantly try and impose themselves, while we wonder from which crack or orifice they will emerge next and which room they will target.
My advice is to ensure you are ever watchful and keep a broom and a spray can within reach!
Anyway, back to our return.
Our guards now have a shelter within the compound, which makes us feel better about their working conditions. There are also vigilante groups patrolling the neighbourhood from midnight onwards, following a spate of burglaries in the area - including ours. On the one hand it makes us feel we are in a bad area, but on the other it reassures us that miscreants are likely to be scared off by their presence. They certainly make themselves heard! For the past three nights they seem to have been out on a rota basis and in pairs at least - each pair has its own signature warning which is loudly announced to the neighbourhood throughout the early hours.  One group has referee whistles - I know Nigerians love their football but I am fairly sure there are no matches on at this time of night - the floodlighting is so poor for a start! Another group howl like wolves - they are not that good at it - you can tell they are not really wolves and any wolfaphobes would not be fooled! Others fire guns or  make scary noises you might have heard coming from aliens in an episode of Doctor Who. Either way, one's sleep is somewhat disturbed - almost to the point that you might as well get up and practise you house-breaking skills!