Christmas in Yorubaland

It’s Christmas, it’s Christmas and I’m in Nigeria!!  Before I get to all the good stuff that happened on Christmas, let me tell you about my Christmas Eve night.

Now, if you’re Nigerian and reading this, you will call me bush.  I am bush in many ways, I know.  And I am ashamed to say it, but I scared myself shitless on Christmas Eve night.  The night was quiet, meaning we had a quiet evening at home after helping Mr. Dairo open his birthday gifts and share in the cake.  (Cake always seems to be eaten later here…I’m not sure why.)  We watched a Medea Christmas  (I think that’s the title) and to bed it was.  This is when the crazy bush in me begins to assert itself.  As I’m laying in bed, I think I hear gunshots.  These shots are random at first, and then come in quicker succession.  At first I pay them no mind, but they keep persisting.  I begin to listen to try to gauge their distance.  At times they seem very close, and at others they seem far away.  Because they are rather constant, and go on for an hour, not to mention that people came knocking at the door late in the night saying things we could not understand, I begin to freak out.  I move to the mattress on the floor and listen.  I do this for at least an hour and a half, having butterflies and shallow breathing imagining what I would do if robbers came to the village, or worse, if there was some Christian Muslim thing happening.  Finally, after sweating for some time, and being seriously scared  (more scared than I can remember in quite some time), I go to my hosts and tell them what I hear.  Bimbo, my host’s husband goes to my room and listens, and lets me know it’s fireworks.  On Christmas Eve it’s not uncommon for fireworks/firecrackers to be going off all over.  Boy, do I feel dumb, but I couldn’t help it.  Maybe I was being sensitive of what was to come.

The next morning, while heading out to our next destination (Osun state), news spread that a church in Suleja  (about an hour or so from where we live in Abuja) was bombed during Christmas morning service.  Not only was this close to home, our hosts knew people who witnessed the tragedy.  There were bodies strewn along the ground and the roof.  One man lost his entire family  (wife and three children).  Can you imagine?  On Christmas??  Of course Boko Harem claimed responsibility for the attack.  Apparently the bomb was detonated in a parked car somewhere nearby the church.  It was not a fun way to start Christmas.

Yet, despite that, I found joy in friends who adopted me quite easily into their family.  It truly felt like home away from home in a house full of joking brothers and sisters, a matriarch, and cousins running around playing and fighting…which gave me great, great amusement.

Many of the children were fascinated by me, and by the end of the day I wanted to take some home with me.  It was like I was a giant doll to them.  They were fascinated by my hair and skin.  They kept petting my hands and feet.  They even asked me if I had a belly button, and wanted me to prove it by showing them mine. 

Still in the village, but this time in Osungbo, I ate the most delicious food.  Again, I’ve been eating traditional Nigerian foods for some time…because that’s usually all that is served, yet it is here that I fall in love with pounded yam (akin to mashed potatoes, but different) and egusi soup  (sorry, can’t really describe egusi soup).  I even eat the liver in the soup.  And although I’ve come to a point where I’m more adventurous when it comes to eating food, I still draw the line at pomo  (boiled cow skin), cow stomach, gizzard  (although maybe I’d try gizzard…not sure yet), and various types of bush meat  (beaver, ant-eaters, etc.).

Bimbo’s family is so kind to me, a trait found in many Yoruba families, as they plan a special outing to Osun shrine.  Osungbo is famous for the Osun festival that happens in August.  This festival honors Osun, the goddess of Osun River, who was the queen and founder of Osogbo.  Osun is most renown as the goddess of fertility, protection and blessings. She possessed the ability to give children to barren women and power to heal the sick through use of the medicinal waters from the river.

Outside Osun Shrine

Monkey Feeding!

Osun is also known to be a mermaid by some, with lips of gold.  Her arrival is marked nowadays  (if I understand everything correctly) by the sighting of a goldfish each August, when they have the Osun festival.  However, one of my friends says that Osun has been captured and taken to New York.   Whatever the case, I am fascinated by Yoruba spirituality, and I have barely scratched the surface.

As we drive into to the grounds of the shrine, there is a visible shift in the energy.  All is lush, green, tropical, and tranquil.  Monkeys are everywhere.  Before entering the shrine, we actually stop to feed the monkeys.  We buy bananas and they come…some are shy while others are quite bold!  While I can’t remember everything the tour guide said,  I am touched by the beauty, architecture, and tranquility of the place.

We end the day in a joint.  Joints here are like bars, but better!  They are outdoors in open spaces.  You are surrounded by greenery, a laid-back atmosphere, and music.  The one we go to is owned by Bimbo’s sister.  It’s a small place in the village, with thick leafy trees and colored lights—giving the space a nice ambiance.  There’s African-style Christmas music playing on the combo.  We have beer, catfish, and peppe (short for pepper) soup.   Everything is so chill.  I enjoy hearing Bimbo and his brothers speak and laugh in Yoruba.  I also enjoy his brothers trying to speak to me  (some don’t speak English to often), laughing, and smiling.  I like it very much.  A very special Christmas indeed.  

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.

Holi-daze

It’s 4 am and we’re off on a Christmas adventure.  It’s December 23^rd.  We were going to leave at 3 am, but decided against it to avoid armed robbers.  Yes, that’s correct.  There are armed robbers camped out on roadsides who will disguise themselves as policemen and/or block your vehicle at checkpoints, forbidding you to pass until you negotiate with them and give them what they want.  When I first came here I thought this was some kind of urban myth, but no, it’s very true.  We even missed some coming to Jos a few weeks ago.  If the roads are too vacant  (which they are either very early or very late) you are setting yourself up for travel trouble.

As we haul out we sing praises for our safety.  I am beginning to LOVE road trips…but I’m in the middle.  I hate being in the middle.  Seven hours of squishiness.  I think I can handle it. 

Traveling through Nigeria (and maybe Africa in general) is a lot like camping.  You want to be prepared for any situation.  You bring sanitizer, toilet paper, soap, your pillow, and your own set of sheets…amongst other things.  For example, if you need to use the bathroom during your roadtrip, you might be lucky enough to find a gas station with latrines…but they won’t have toilet paper or maybe they will have water to rinse your hands.  Forget about soap!  And if you don’t find a bathroom, you use the bush.  We are headed to “the village”, which isn’t really a village but more like your local small town.  Some have running water, some don’t.  And usually you are without electricity…unless there’s a gen (generator).  As we reach Lakoja, the capital of Kogi state, we know that we are halfway through our journey.  Along the way we have seen cars packed, and I mean packed full of people.  (These are really more like cargo trucks that have been modified into buses, replete with what look like reclining chairs.) The people in these vehicles are determined to get to their destination.  There are legs dangling out windows, people hanging off of the sides, people on top.  I WISH I had a picture of this one truck.  It was madness.

Can you see the monkey?

Just a side note, the holiday madness here is different than back home.  While people fight and line up for sale items, there are no sales here.  Instead, prices are jacked up to meet the demand of the season.  You’ll see queues of cars packed in and out of petrol stations, trying to get fuel before the prices skyrocket for holiday travel.  Then there’s the traffic.  Traffic here is no joke.  Nigerians are not very patient drivers.  If one side of the road is blocked from traffic, cars will go to the other side of the road  (with oncoming traffic) and continue driving towards their destination.  Never mind that this is the wrong side of the road.  Never mind too that this then creates a traffic jam on both sides of the road.  Never mind that people are cursing each other from their windows.  It’s normal.  A friend left 3 hours after us, at 7 am, …and it took him 5 hours to go through a spot that should have taken 2 hours time.

Another fascinating thing you find while traveling through Nigeria during the holidays are checkpoints.  There are many inter and intra state checkpoints…common to checking for bombs, security, and even immigration.  Checkpoints though, during the holidays are both annoying  (because there’s so many) AND entertaining.  Everyone gets stopped.  Along our journey to Kwara we must have gotten stopped a minimum of 10 times.  And each time we get stopped, and although these men are wearing fatigues, helmets, and carry AK47s, pleasantries are exchanged with a Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays sort of feel.  They might ask where we are going, and maybe they’ll inspect the vehicle or ask for papers.  But what they really want is money.  You are supposed to give these guys “small money”—anywhere from 50-100 Naira  (maybe equivalent to 40-75 cents) to pass.  This is expected.  One time we asked the guy to sing and dance before we gave him money, and he did!!  Before you travel, you need to make sure you have plenty of “small money.”  And if you don’t prepare, or have a run-in, you negotiate.  We never got pulled over and searched, thankfully, as my skin served as a kind hassle-free checkpoint pass.  Yet, others weren’t always so lucky.  I noticed one car with a policeman walking away with their Christmas chicken.  Not a frozen chicken, mind you…a live chicken that they had packed into their car to take with them for Xmas dinner.  

The little Thanksgiving that was...n't a disaster!

I will not lie.  This past Thanksgiving was a little bit challenging.  The week prior to Thanksgiving I felt okay, but as the days to Thanksgiving got closer and closer, I was a little jealous of all of you back home.  Lazy fall days, coziness, the long weekend, and just overall preparing for relaxing with family and friends.  While you all were having holidays, we over here were working are butts off.

To help alleviate the homesickness, my boss—ever intuitive as she is—suggested we all have a Thanksgiving party.  We decided to have a Thanksgiving party the Saturday after the “real” Thanksgiving.  This party would entail me making all the Thanksgiving foods...for about 20 people.  S***!

You should know that I’ve never made Thanksgiving anything before.  Not pumpkin pie, turkey, nothing.  It’s not that I haven’t wanted to…there just has never been an opportunity, as my mom’s pretty much boss in the kitchen followed by my brother.  So this was my opportunity to make it or blow it.  Just in case I would blow it, I advised people to bring their own food.  In the meantime my coworkers teased me that they would video and post my culinary prowess, or lack thereof, on YouTube.

So the venture began to find all the ingredients I would need.   While I found some ingredients, and substitutions for others, I could not find a turkey.  Actually, I did find one that wasn’t very big for over $100.  No way was I going to pay for that.  As time drew nearer, I asked embassy folk where I might get one.  They have their own commissary, of which you need to be a member.  If I had prepared in a more timely manner, I might have been able to buy one for about $40.  But, time was running out, and the only option I had left was to buy a live turkey and then butcher it.  (My boss refused to accept chicken as an option.)

We  (meaning my boss, her colleague, and I) ended up driving two hours to pick up the turkey.  It cost about $40.  I had to stay in the car when they went in to get it, because the color of my face would drive up the price.  As I waited, fear began to settle in the pit of my stomach.  I became more and more anxious, because for a week, my coworkers had said I would be the one to kill, de-feather, and clean the turkey.  I didn’t know if they were serious or not, but decided I could force myself to de-feather and clean it; but not kill it.  Imagining having to do all these things was like sinking into an abyss of despair.  And then I saw them coming out, carrying the turkey by the feet.

The turkey was stressed, with its legs tied.  During the ride back into town, it stayed relatively quite.  I kept looking back at it, checking to see if it was okay.  It reminded me of Chloe, my conure.  I couldn’t believe I was going to have to kill and eat a bird, when a bird is my pet  (even though I eat chicken all the time…but it’s different when you see it alive before you eat it).  When we got home, it sat in the kitchen until it was time for beheading.

Thankfully, gratefully, sometime while I was working, the caretaker killed and de-feathered the bird.  I found out later that he de-feathered it wrong, as there were still feathers embedded in the skin, and darn near impossible to pluck out, but beggars can’t be choosers.  I also found out that you are supposed to clean the turkey as soon as you kill it.  But, out of ignorance, I refrigerated it overnight with innards and all, which, gratefully (again), the cook cleaned out for me the following morning.  She seamlessly pulled out the intestines, liver, and whatever else is in there.  I did keep the gizzards for the gravy though.

Before:  Head and neck are on the far left.

Saturday evening was our scheduled Thanksgiving.  I began cooking at 6 am, starting with the pies.  The apple went off without a hitch, but the pumpkin didn’t turn out as nice.  I made it from whole pumpkin as canned pumpkin was nowhere to be found.  Although the pie tasted good to me, the crust got messed up because 1) I didn’t have a pie pan, and 2) there are no temperature markers on the oven…so I was guessing.  The pie was not good enough for presentation, but I did make it from whole pumpkin…a goal I have had for quite some time.

By the time I finished the pies it was about 10 or 10:30 am.  By now all the kids are up.  This was also the weekend that the school was preparing for their annual Christmas competition, Sing for Joy, which is televised.  40 of them spent the night so that they could practice all of Saturday.  So, in addition to being stressed about making food I’ve never made before AND making it for people who will judge me and my culture based on it  (truly they will want to know if I can cook, and many have never had American food before), there were a minimum of 5 people at a time in the kitchen, not to mention kids coming through here and there asking for this and that.   The kitchen consists of a fridge, sink, small stove with two functioning burners, a freezer, etc.  It’s a good size kitchen and functional; but with five people plus, it gets a little too close for comfort. To top it off, I am irritable because I am overwhelmed.  Everyone kept telling me, “Don’t worry Amy, we’ll help you.  You won’t have to do everything alone.”  Yeah right.  They were all busy with the kids, and my Pity Pot self took over for a bit…maybe a half hour or so…then I let it go.   

Crowded kitchen.  People hovering, literally…watching every move I make.  I know they are just curious, but it is driving me crazy!  We run out of salt and flour.  I continually can’t find what I put down.  Aagh! While I finish up the pies I start the stuffing.  I season bread for stuffing, bake it and set aside.  Some people try the bread; some like it and some lie and say, “It’s nice.”  Nigerians are not very adventurous when it comes to foreign food.  I think it’s funny that when someone says, “It’s nice,” before it barely touches their lips.  I was surprised though that no one would taste the prepped apples for the pie.  Apples with cinnamon and sugar?  Yum!  To them, not so. 

Thankfully, the staff helps peel potatoes while I surmise the turkey situation.  That was a HUGE help, because I suck with the type of potato peeler they have here. I had wanted to brine the turkey, or at least marinate it in beer for a while to prevent it from being dry.  No such luck.  No beer on hand.  And people are soo busy, I don’t want to ask to send someone to the market.  So, I decide to clean the turkey, and rinse out the insides with boiling water, because it doesn’t smell right to me.  Good thing I did because there was crap, really, inside the cavity.  People wonder what in the world I am doing.  The cook gives me a look, asks, and leaves me alone.  I put it back in the fridge.  Even though it has parts of feather (akin to whisker stubble) in it, and smells a bit off for my liking, I’m still going to cook it.

I take a break for an hour or so, look for a gravy recipe, and go back downstairs to start the turkey.  First, I finish the stuffing.  Then I stuff the turkey.  It is said that if you don’t have a meat thermometer, that you shouldn’t put stuffing inside your turkey.  No can do here; people want it stuffing stuffed in the turkey.  I don’t know how to cook a turkey; and we don’t have any foil to cover it, or string to tie the legs.  Also, you are supposed to fold the wings back to support the neck.  I can’t do it; it doesn’t seem to work.  So I ask my coworker to help me, who also finds some parts that need to be removed.  She twists the wings back, cracks and tears bone out.  I realize that I’m not quite cut out for the bush, as I really don’t like hearing those sounds.

Anyway, she says to leave the heart in and asks where the gizzards are.  I told her I was using it.  Nigerians like organ meat.  Eating liver and kidney, among others, is common.  I’m grateful my coworker was there, and I admired the way in which she handled the bird with such dexterity!  She tried removing feather stubble by sticking it over the gas burner…but it wouldn’t work.  So, into the pan it went, and I basted with butter (there wasn’t much juice from the turkey…it was a scrawny bird), rotating every half an hour.

Potatoes were the easiest; I didn’t have a recipe, but watched my mom enough to know what to do.  I was really pleased with the gravy too.  As a kid I wouldn’t eat the gravy because it was made with gizzards.  Here, though, I depended on those suckers to give flavor and heartiness.  It worked!  I was so happy that it turned out, especially since I deviated some from the recipe to make it taste good, get to the right consistency, etc.

After:  FYI...there was no string to tie the legs together.

We did have about twenty people, with fried rice and salad for those who might be hesitant to try some traditional Thanksgiving foods.  The favorite amongst everyone was the mashed potatoes and gravy, most likely because it similar in texture and consistency to pounded yam (and maybe pepper soup…they kept calling the gravy “soup”).  We all gave thanks, ate, danced, and were merry.  It is always said, “Be careful what you wish for.”  The past several years I have wanted to make a Thanksgiving dinner for friends…for a diverse group of people.  While I envisioned making dinners and meals for friends when I came here, I had no idea it’d turn out like this.  Not only am I grateful that everything turned out, tasted good, was edible  (although the turkey was dry…an apparent genetic marker I did not avoid, and the stuffing wasn’t perfect) I made everything from scratch!  YES!!  AND the oven didn’t have a temperature dial.  Anyway, I am so lucky and incredibly blessed.  I love the opportunity I have and the people I work with.  This truly was a memorable Thanksgiving.

Destination Wedding: Nigeria

Any wedding (most often) is a treat to attend; yet it’s double the pleasure and double the fun when it’s a traditional Nigerian wedding.  They last anywhere from two to three hours, and while ceremonial, involve dramatic reenactment, dressing “native”, and don’t happen too often.  It’s been only a month, and I get to attend one!

It’s a Saturday and we (meaning Intellichild staff) are leaving at 7:00 in the morning to attend Ms. Tolu’s wedding.  Her wedding is taking place in the North, in Zaria, about a 3 hour drive from Abuja.  We are all dressed in some form of our finest; something native—which means traditional Nigerian clothing consisting of some dress/skirt/suit you’ve had made for yourself into a special style.  Because I don’t want to stand out anymore than I do, I choose to have something “native” too.  And I love it—clothes tailored to your fit at a reasonable price!  What more could a girl want? 

There were some misgivings the week prior to the wedding.  That was the week following the el-saheed  (check spelling) holiday.  Maybe a few days just before that long weekend, the US embassy sent out warning messages asking everyone to lay low, as there was a possibility that some buildings in Abuja might be targets for the Boku Harem (or Boku Crazies, as I fondly refer to them).  Though everything was peaceful in my area (thankfully), fighting did occur in some parts of the north.  It was through one of these areas that we would have to pass, indirectly, to get to the wedding. 

Anyway, we all packed ourselves into the bus at around 7:30 am and headed out.  One thing I love about my stay in Nigeria is that the energy is always set with prayer in some form.  As we make our way out, a staff member leads us in a song of thanks---thanks in advance for a safe journey and time to be together.   The road trip is scenic.  We pass by Zuma Rock, the tallest rock in West Africa, which they say is haunted.  And I get to know new teachers on a more personal level. 

We arrive about ½ to an hour late  (it’s African time).  This is in part due to the many road blocks and check points.  In Nigeria the military is always checking for bombs.  You’ll find yourself at these checkpoints on entering and leaving a state.  The military men are still intimidating to me, as they always look so stern and hard.  But all Nigerians greet them cordially, and in most cases the soldiers greet them cordially back.  Yet, if you look suspicious  (and I don’t know how you look suspicious), you are asked to pull over.  In most cases, people just have to slow down at the checkpoint a bit.  Sometimes they stop you and knock on the sides of your van/car.  Then you get the okay to go.  I’m not sure how knocking on people’s cars indicates whether a bomb is present or not, but I think it’s pretty funny that that is the solution.  One woman in our party rode up separately to the wedding.  Her bus driver got asked to pull over, and he refused.  Instead, he sped away and a police chase ensued down the expressway.  Once caught, the drivers and passengers were all dragged to jail.  Luckily, after much pleading, law enforcement released the passengers, and she did make it to the wedding before it was over!

Despite our tardiness, we realize that we haven’t missed much of the wedding.  The groom’s relatives (I think) are making their entrance.  (I say “I think” because the wedding is conducted mostly in Hausa, with some Yoruba mixed in.  This is an aspect of what makes it traditional.)  At this point in time, I don’t think things are too different from weddings I have attended.  The wedding is outdoors and has themed colors. The groom’s party is seated on one side, beneath a canopy, and the bride’s party is seated on the other.

There is a big hulabalu when the groom’s party enters.  They are requesting the bride’s family for their daughter’s hand in marriage.  The groom’s family is turned away at least three times before an acceptable offer might be made.  That offer includes a letter, a “why is your son good enough” sort of thing, money, etc.  Once the offer has been accepted by the bride’s family, the groom and groomsmen have to go and prostrate themselves before his prospective in-laws.  Then they have to perform a serious of exercises: jogging and jumping jacks to prove fitness levels, bending over and hoeing to ensure good farming skills, and dancing to make sure he can move well. 

Once the groom is seen as fit to be a husband, his offer is accepted, and the bride enters with her party.  Friends from the audience, in addition to the bridal party, escort her to meet her husband.  It is at this point that I am pressured to go and help escort her in.  I don’t want to because 1) I don’t know the bride very well and 2) I don’t want to stand out.  Too late.  They’ve pulled me up and I stay in the back, following the party.  There’s singing and dancing.  I have no idea what I am doing.  Smiling, feeling uncomfortable, I try to match the moves and chants as best I can.    I finally see my boss and she ushers me to come back to my seat.  Thank God.  I felt as though I have overstepped boundaries.

During the nuptials part of the wedding (which seems a bit more ceremonial, yet is different than what I am accustomed to) we are served a meal, desert, and favors.  After all is said and done, we take photos, blablabla and pack it in to haul out.

It’s a little after 2 when we leave.  It’s hot of course, and about an hour into our drive back, the fan belt starts acting up.  We pull off the side of the rode, across the way is a mechanic, thankfully.  However, the mechanic intends to rip us off with a replacement belt, so the concensus is to have people in our party hop on a motorbike to the next village/town and get the part for the correct price.  Enter waiting in the hot sun.  I am tired, and my stomach is acting up.  We had shut off the air earlier because of the belt.  At least we have cold water and drinks.  Finally, after about forty-five minutes or so, we are back on our way.

We are squished a bit, as we have more passengers than on the way in, but it’s not so bad.  As dusk approaches it cools off a lot, and I am thankful for the breeze.  It feels soooo good!  We are lucky to have uneventful anything until we get near Abuja.  By then it’s dark, and our luck changes.  First, traffic is awful.  It’s worse than SF traffic…and it’s hot!  (I don’t know what happened to the breeze.)  Some of us are dripping, while others of us are merely glistening.  But we could have it worse; there are vans next to us packed with twice as many people, without air too.  To top it off, someone bumps us.  No damage is done, yet it is at this time we realize water is leaking.  We all hop out and get some air.  It feels good! People wash off, make calls, and otherwise just hang out on the side of the road watching traffic not move.  It’s at this time that a passenger in a jam-packed bus a few lanes over shouts, “Oyinbo  (white person), are you lost?  Don’t you know where you are?  Do you know you’re in Nigeria?”  The response: laughter.  It was funny. 

I’m not sure how they fixed the water leak, but we finally, FINALLY get home safe and sound.  It took us 3 hours to get to Zaria and 6 hours to get back.  Although I was exhausted, I had a fun adventure.  I think breaking down on the side of the road was one of the highlights; I’m not sure why.  Maybe it’s because Nigerians are so good at making any situation a humorous, fun one.

PS--I DO have pics, but there's I can't seem to get them off of the camera because we can't find the cable. They will be posted though, hopefully sooner than later.