Christmas Eve

It’s my host’s father’s 70^th birthday.  After hours of driving, we arrive safe and sound, yet super tired.  After socializing, dinner, and TV installation  (Mr. Dairo’s birthday present.  And in case you were wondering, many village homes have TV with cable.  They won’t have refrigerators, but they will have cable!), we are taken to our quarters.  We are staying in a hostel type of accommodation at a nearby college campus.  It’s a modest house with a kitchen, fridge, family room, bathroom, and two bedrooms.  There’s no running water or air, yet we do have electricity and ceiling fans.  Although the place looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in years, and despite the starkness, we have still water  (water put in buckets or drums for bathing and washing), a bed, and a mattress  (it is not uncommon for a person’s bed to be a mattress on the floor).  After a long day it’s time to pack it in.  I am exhausted.  And I sleep sooooooooo good.

I’m an early riser by nature.  My body automatically wakes up at 6 or 7 am.  Nigerians are early risers as well.  Except they are up and active by 5 am.  It’s about 7 am and I’m up, enjoying the quiet of the country, the birds, the chickens and the goats.  It’s definitely more arid here than in Abuja.  We visit Mr. Dairo’s house for some breakfast, and everyone’s busy.  Moi Moi (bean flour seasoned with fish, egg, red pepper and spices) is being wrapped in palm leaves, chicken is being roasted over the fire, yam is being pounded, stew is stewing. 

Parties in Nigeria usually have a program or agenda.  There’s traditional food  (but there’s traditional food everywhere, everyday), an MC, favors  (in this case a bowl with a happy birthday wish commemorating the celebration), and there’s (live) music.  Because we’re in the village, everyone is dressed native style for the party.  (DUH! People dress native anyway because it’s the village.)  As I’m seated, looking around, everything seems so surreal to me.  The dusty roads, modest houses, dry air, gentle breeze and blazing sun; the kids (baby goats) grazing away, chickens, the dark skin, different body types, variety of clothes, children carrying goods for sale atop their heads.   I am truly, truly in a different place.  This village in Kwara is far more rustic, quiet, and even quaint, than Abuja.  This is what Africa…Nigeria is to me.  And I can’t believe I’m here…grateful to be part of something so different…so foreign and outside of myself.

I have tuned out the MC.  I don’t understand what he’s saying half the time as it’s in Yoruba.  When the program is over  (finally), we get to have music!  The band who’s performing happens to be one of the teachers at our school and my host’s brother-in-law.  The music is traditional Highlife, which goes back generations and incorporates the styles of Jim Reeves, which surprises me.  Highlife incorporates a variety of instruments, including the talking drum, which I love.  The talking drumi s held under the arm and it yields an unusual sound.  When the singer is singing about a person, the talking drum provides inspiration—it communicates to the singer, telling him what to say about the person they are calling to dance.  And when they call you, you are to go up, dance and spray (throw) money on the performers to show your appreciation for their musical ability.  And then in turn, people come up from the crowd and spray money on you in appreciation for your dancing.  As a whitey, many Nigerians think Oyinbos  can’t dance...like white men can’t jump.  I always enjoy surprising them though, as they get a good laugh in discovering a white girl can move and have rhythm, although I still can’t go down low and make my butt move like they do.  That will take practice.  Despite that, I made a good chunk of change. Money spraying, dancing, people watching.  It was a good day.