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.