Oy-een-bo

I am Oyinbo. And if I’m sunburnt, I’m Oyinbo Pepe.  I am white.  Whitey, white girl, white bread---a clear identifier in a sea of black.  I don’t mind this moniker as a mark of my background.  I find it funny.  It is amusing seeing the sometime gawks as if I were part of some sideshow attraction.  Kids seem to be especially mesmerized by my skin, or the freakish look of me altogether.  I get stares of curiosity and interest.  Yet if I speak to these skin-gazers, these oyinbo ooglers, the eyes go down and silence ensues…for the first couple of times anyway.  After that, it’s all open arms and hugs and smiles. 

Part of my job entails going out to different communities throughout participating states in Nigeria and monitoring the activities of Sesame Workshop.  I love this aspect of the work I’m doing, because through it, I get to see the many diversities that encompass Nigeria:  the different schools and architecture and the varied landscapes and ways of life.  The first time I did this type of visit happened during my first or second week here.  I was so excited because it was my first time in the field; my first assignment in my role as an IFESH volunteer. 

The first site I visited was an orphanage in Kari, and the only orphanage I have ever been to to date. I was amazed.  It was a huge compound, home and school to about 100 forgotten children.  When we drove up, the students were on their break: laughing, playing, wrestling.  I considered breaking up a wrestling-about-to-turn-fight match…but I left it alone, as we were on a timeline.  It was only about 5 minute walk from the entrance of the compound to the admin office.  Who knew what could happen in five minutes.  

When we began our mini-trek down the dirt path, a few of the students pointed and murmured.  A bold little girl pointed, smiled, and enthusiastically said, “Oyinbo!”  That bold little thing, though sweet, ended up getting everyone riled up.  In a matter of moments my colleagues and I found ourselves in a throng of children. They followed us down the path, swarmed us, chanting, “Oyinbo! Oyinbo! Oyinbo!”  I kept the surface me cool, I think, but inside, I felt overwhelmed.  I repeatedly looked to my colleagues to the right and left of me, both Nigerians, who I knew were amused yet were conveniently avoiding eye contact.  I wanted them to do something, to rescue me from the mob of children who had surrounded me, pulling on me, immobilizing me, and freaking me out.  But no. They remained cool, calm, and collected.  Maybe this went on for seconds or only a minute or two.  I don’t remember.  I do remember being relieved when a teacher finally came along and shooed all the kids away. 

The same thing occurred on our way out, but to a far less extent (thank God).  Now, when I go to village schools, I’m better primed to be seen as a Side Show Bob.  And though the attention is well-meant, I’m still not quite comfortable knowing that my appearance can be so distracting.  Hearing Oyinbo, my first Yoruba word, always brings a smile to my face, even when it’s from adults  (though they don’t do it nearly as often).  I imagine that I may have gotten a taste of what it’s like to be a celebrity; and  I realize I’m not ready for it...yet.

My Assignment

It’s the first workday in my new space at Intellichild school/Sesame Workshop.  Each Monday the staff meets to set the energy of the week with prayer.  I’m a little intimidated, as my way of praying is non-existent in the traditional sense.  This is also my first day…like your first day at a new school getting introduced to the class.  Although everything is different, everyone is very kind to me, and treats me with extreme respect.  (Some too much though…as there are a few teachers who will not even look at me.)

We stand in a circle and the prayers begin.  The prayers are unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.  A staff member begins by singing a hymn, and the rest of us join in.  The melody of voices is unlike anything I have ever heard before and moves me to tears  (but I try to hold them in because this is my first day, and I don’t want people to see me cry).  The prayers last for 30 minutes, with pauses in the singing (and dancing) in between to allow each of us our own personal space with God in order to voice our own individual prayers/gratitudes/concerns, etc.  Usually, in churches I’ve attended and the faith I grew up in, we do this silently with eyes closed.  Here, people still have their eyes closed, but there is no silence.  Rather, there is a continuous hum of murmurs until a staff member redirects us again into song, and then the benediction.  Maybe this is like being in to churches in the states with gospel choirs, yet I don’t know, as I’ve never attended.  What I do know is that I love the spontaneous, continuous flow of song and dance, all for gratitude and praise to whatever higher power one believes in.  

Fast forward two weeks and I receive an African name.  It is Chinyere…it’s Igbo and means “gift of God.”  If you’re Nigerian, you can call me ChiChi for short…but if I know you and you have a similar culture to my own, you can forget it because you know as well as I that ChiChis is latin slang for boobs. I live and work at Intellichild School in Abuja Model Estate in Gwarinpa.  My room is similar to my studio in San Francisco; maybe not as quaint…but close in size, clean, and functional.  By day I work with the Sesame Workshop team on education, research, and outreach.  AND I visit classes and teach dance…well…salsa for now.  I work from 7 am to 7 pm…so by night I do nothing except read, watch TV, and or personal projects if I’m not too tired.   Each day, someone cleans my room, and each day, I have my meals prepared for me if I choose.  Or, I can request certain foods, but usually feel guilty about it. I don’t want to come off as a white princess, even though my body’s acting like one  (as her digestion’s not as hearty as I thought).  Weekends are spent catching up on projects or giving to myself with reading, writing, meditation, and shopping.  For now, it’s a little lonely.  I miss my friends.  I miss the routines of my day-to-day life.  And I really miss dancing.  It’s funny; I did everything (move to the other side of the world, leave my job, etc.) to get out of my routines, and now I miss them.  BUT I’m still in adjustment mode.  And even though I’m on the pity pot right now, I am extremely grateful for the opportunity I have.

Abuja is a sprawling city home to much of Nigeria’s government agencies and mission organizations  (CBOs and NGOs).  There is a large expat community here, yet I am surrounded by the local people.  This is thanks to my environment and host.  In fact, we went to a popular restaurant last week and I was amazed at the number of foreigners in the restaurant.  The number of foreigners well out-numbered the locals, and I found myself gaping, thinking in the back of my mind, “What are they all doing here?”  It was a bit surreal.  Before coming here, people would say, “You’re lucky.  You can get almost anything in Abuja,” which is true.  However, I do not frequent hot spots within the expat community, and I’m not sure if I want to, given the political climate.  (To ensure safety, the embassy has warned to not frequent “hot” expat spots and to avoid crowds.) I feel a bit “holed up”  at times given embassy warnings and with conflicts happening in the north.   The fighting, in case you’re unaware, has to do with extremist Muslims in the north exercising their beliefs that everything western  (which is everything not based on the Koran and fundamentalist Islamic ways of life) is evil.  However, what I’ve been told is that that is just an excuse.  When there has been conflict in the past between Muslims and Christians, Muslims would kill not only Christians, but also Muslims from different tribes.  This is not to say Christians are innocent.  They have retaliated and instigated in their own way…but they have not  (as far as I know) killed Christians from other tribes.  Again, I do not have hard facts about the chronic, long standing religious and ethnic divides that plague Nigeria.  I only have hearsay from the locals, who I find know a whole lot more than anyone/anything else I’ve spoken to/read about. 

There are three main tribes in Nigeria: Hausa, Yoruba, and Igbo.  Hausa people are from the north, Yoruba are from the west, and Igbo are from the southeast.  Those in the north are very poor, with the rich (who are really, REALLY rich) being few and far between.  Those in the south, by contrast, are very wealthy thanks to the oil boom and refineries  (yet there are still poor and those who have been disenfranchised due to western conglomerates).  Central Nigeria has a mix of both of worlds.  And it is in the center that the goals of these many mission organizations, including mine, seek to provide villages and schools, particularly those in remote areas and in the north access to education.  Through access to quality education and initiatives, it is believed that many limiting mindsets that contribute to Nigeria’s class inequalities might be eliminated.  As development work goes, this is an ongoing, slow, and many times challenging process.  I often find myself struggling to keep busy…or look busy…but maybe that’s because I’m still in the beginning of things.  Yet I was warned many a time that development work is slow. 

The people I work with are mainly Yoruba and Igbo.  I’m still learning how to curse.  The only curse I “Waka” which is Hausa, and akin to flipping someone off.  If you do that while you’re driving you are asking for a throw down.  I can’t wait to learn other phrases and spontaneously curse at people, if only to see the surprise on their faces followed by laughter  (well, the latter is a big assumption.  I’ll try it on the office folk first). 

On the Road

It’s 6:30 am and I hear some kind of sound.  It sounds like maybe a siren, maybe an alarm.  I sit up and listen for it again.  There it is.  It sounds like it’s coming from outside my hotel room door.  I sit alert and listen for it again, afraid that it is my door.  On the fourth ring, I get up and peer into the peep hole.  Outside my door I see a man with a stern face.  No smile.  He knocks this time and I stand there watching him.  I think, “Maybe he has the wrong room.”  He definitely does not look happy.  And after about 5 minutes of ringing, I realize he is not going away.  I call through the door, “Who is it?”  No answer.  Again I ask, “Who is it?” Still no answer.   Scared, I take a deep breath, and open the door a little ways.  I ask, “Can I help you?”  The man looks at me and says, “It’s time for you to wake up.  Fanisa says you need to be ready by 8:00.”  I say, “Okay.”  (Actually I was trying to clarify the time with him that it’s 8:30, but it was only making him confused, so I gave up and said, “Okay.”)  Fanisa and Sophia had asked that I be woken up so as to ensure my readiness.  Here, at Bayecu Guest Palace, wake up calls are personal;0)

Today we are making our way to Abuja, where we’ll stay the night, attend a briefing at USAID  (I haven’t figured out what the difference is between a meeting and a briefing is yet) and then I’ll be taken to my assignment.  It’s a five hour drive from Kano to Abuja and I am exhausted.  It is seriously hot and I’m already dirty.  As we get ready to go, three young boys in tattered clothes come up and start singing to me.  This is their way of asking to be given money.  The driver shoos them away.  My first thought, “Why aren’t they in school?”  Throughout our journey I see many similar boys along the side of the road.  They are working in some way, as none are idle.  What I find out is that even public school is not free after elementary grades (grades 1-5).  Because of this, many families cannot afford to pay the fees for their children to continue.  *Hence, you see many children, ages 9 and up, doing various tasks along the sides of the road.  You do not see girls though.  They are either at home or in the Islamiah schools.

Before coming to Africa, they (IFESH) told us to NEVER drive.  Now I know why.  Nigeria, the second most corrupt country in the world, is not known for safe driving practices and standards, as enforcement of such practices is few and far between.  In fact, you don’t even have to know how to drive to get your license.  You just pay a fee and there you go.   You learn how to drive AFTER you get your license.  Kano is notorious for mad (like crazy) drivers and driving in general.  The roads are of okay quality, meaning that they are paved, yet there are no lines or markers dividing lanes.  This means that when you drive, you make your own lane.  And even if there is a marked lane, people still drive in the middle of the road.  I cannot tell how people navigate their way, with few street signs and exits and zero traffic lights.  (Actually, in Abuja, they are beginning to install some.  Police in Abuja direct traffic at busy intersections…but in Kano it’s every man for himself.) 

Amidst the crazy traffic there are motorbikes.  These motorbikes are a convenient, cheap way to travel.  However, they are inherently dangerous.  No helmets are required…and even if they were no one would wear them unless there was some severe penalty for not doing so.    Yet, these dangers do not phase Nigerians.  You’ll see moms on motorbikes with their babies in papooses or you’ll see two adults on a bike with a kid (or two) sandwiched between them.  [For this reason…it is illegal to use a motorbike like a taxi in Abuja.  The penalty = your vehicle being impounded.  Instead, people use taxis OR teppakappli  (I have completely messed up this word.)…little go cart like cars that safer than motorbike…though still precarious.  Still, people in the outlying villages use motorbikes.]

The road to Abuja is a bit long…a five hour drive with normal traffic conditions.  As we head south, the landscape variably changes.  The dusty, oil thick air gives way to a more tranquil landscape.  On either side of us, along the freeway, there are nothing but farms and villages.  You see most people, adults and children alike, working with millet.  Some villages look quaint, while others look like shanty towns, hewn together like tin shacks.  It is in one of these places we stop to  “take some rest”.   (Actually, it’s more of the market adjacent to the village…I think.)

I do not know the name of this place.  This place is my first encounter with a public latrine  (as they say here).   These ones are akin to joined, seven foot tall port-a-potties, built of metal with a large swinging doors.  I venture in and am greeted by an unpleasant smell and a concrete floor with a step at the back.  The step gives way to a recessed hole in the ground on the left hand side, and a basket with used toilet paper on the right.  Damn!  I forgot to bring my own toilet paper.  I’m already in the stall and don’t want to go back out and ask Fanisa how to do “it” properly without making any unnecessary mess.  I surmise that my rear goes where the step is…judging from the toilet paper and the hole.  I do my best to squat without touching anything, but, not having a penis, I cannot really aim.  My pee has a mind of its own, and seems to go every which way except where it’s supposed to.  Thankfully  there is running water outside to wash your hands and feet.  A nice lunch and a blended fruit drink help to wash public restroom culture shock away too.  

*This is true from what I’ve seen in the North.  I’m not sure if this applies to Nigeria throughout.