The Rat in My Kitchen

"The Rat in My Kitchen... 

and Other Things That Make Me Re-Evaluate My Decision to Come Here"

I think this may qualify as another less-than-positive blog post but, at the same time, it also qualifies as a I'm-human-too blog post so perhaps I will be forgiven in the long run.

On Tuesday night, I was sitting on the back steps outside the kitchen having a phone conversation with my mother about taxes (yes, exciting phone fodder) when I felt something brush past my behind/ thigh. "What the...?!" I wondered and then saw what had caressed my side: a large, black rat. Of course, it was running down the stairs, not up them so, although I was certainly disgusted, I thought "Thank goodness for small mercies." After my phone conversation, I hung up the phone and went back inside the apartment, closing the door firmly behind me.

The next afternoon, I went into the kitchen to get a piece of bread to go with my amazing lunch/dinner of cucumbers and tuna fish (a gourmet meal around these parts). I lifted the package of bread and saw a set of large, neat teeth marks and I realized that my phone friend the large black rat had been munching on my bread. The rest of the afternoon was dedicated to cleaning every surface of the house and firmly closeting all food products.

Although the rat is certainly an unwelcome visitor, I shouldn't be surprised that my apartment has a problem with vermin.... The system of "garbage disposal" invented by our Nigerian hosts involves tying up full garbage bags and leaving them outside the kitchen door until the cleaning lady comes on Saturday or Sunday afternoons and takes the many full garbage bags down the road to a massive pile of garbage by the front gate to the estate (sounds fancy, don't be fooled). Clearly, this is an invitation for scavengers to welcome themselves to our home. However, as with so many things in Nigeria, when we suggest ways to improve upon this problem, we are greeted with fierce resistance from our Nigerian hosts who are, perhaps unsurprisingly, male.

In fact, this reminds me of another story:

  The Maggots in My Kitchen.

After a busy week, we, the American visitors, decided to go into the kitchen a make ourselves an American-style meal. However, upon seeing the kitchen counter, I immediately lost my appetite: there were maggots everywhere. As it turns out, our Nigerian hosts had left rotting tomatoes and yams out on the counter to fester over the course of the week. We wondered at first if it had been possible that our hosts, like us, hadn't been into the kitchen for a few days and thus were unaware of the maggot-ridden state of the counter. Then, upon looking around the kitchen at all the dirty pots, pans, and dishes we realized that our hosts had been cooking in the kitchen all week and had simply been too lazy or considerate to clean up after themselves.

Of course, we were fairly upset by this revelation and, as I am not personally a very confrontational person, my 2 American companions decided to inform our Nigerian hosts of the unacceptable state of the kitchen. Given the circumstances, I feel as though they handled it very diplomatically. Unfortunately, I can't say the same of our hosts. When asked to clean the mess, one of our hosts flew into an angry rage and accused us of being impatient and "not understanding of [his] culture."

Until now I was unaware that allowing food areas to become polluted by maggots was a cultural tradition.
Perhaps I was misinformed. Perhaps I didn't know what I was getting myself into.

Tuesday Morning
I'm planning to post a video on this later but, in so many words, on the way to work, our driver got lost, reversed at 55mph down a one-way bridge in rush hour traffic (and almost ran off the edge and hit a motorcycle in the process) ran out of gas (even though we asked him... and then told him... numerous times to pull over and get gas) in the middle of morning rush hour traffic, got lost again, got a flat tire, and then got lost...again... before finally dropping us off at the office. Our total commute time to work: 6 hours. It is from the instance that I first began to realize that "common sense" really isn't that common.

The Black Lung Commute 
Monday thru Wednesday I commute from an apartment in Agege (in the northern section of the city) to a part-time internship in a large office in Ijoya (on the southern, port-facing section of the city). If all goes according to plan, we leave the apartment at 6am in order to arrive at the office at 8:30am. Yes, traffic is THAT bad in Lagos. Furthermore, the "company car" doesn't have a functioning A/C Unit so we have to drive all the way to work with the windows down or risk cooking ourselves alive in the sweltering heat of the car. Now, don't get me wrong: normally, I absolutely love driving with the windows down, the wind in my hair, the gentle smell of the day unfolding in the air etc.... certainly not the case here. In Lagos, there is apparently no environmental regulation as to the amount of thick, black smoke a car, truck, van or bus can belch out of its exhaust and at least 40% of all vehicles on the road take full advantage of this. Driving with the windows down during an approximate 2 1/2 hour commute one way (going home takes at least another 2 1/2 hours)  is approximate to sticking one's head directly into a smoke stack and inhaling deeply. On the above mentioned Tuesday morning when it took 6 hours for us to make it to work, my neck was so black with pollution that it took 5 minutes scrubbing with soap and water to see skin. As I mentioned in a facebook status, if I die here, it will be from inhaling pollution, not from kidnapping.


The above stories are but small glimpses of daily life as we know it here in Lagos. I came here to find out what small business owners face when trying to enter into emerging economies so, yes, I am certainly getting extreme first-hand experience to that end. Admittedly, I have lived in less luxurious living conditions (which included large rats... but not maggots) and, yes, I believe strongly in trying to make the best out of any given experience.

However, the point I'm trying to make is that positive thinking will only get you so far. Sometimes, one needs to admit that bad things are happening and come to terms with the idea that, actually, some (small) experiences are not worth having. So... here I am, admitting that things are not perfect.

Could things be better? - Yes.

Would it be nice if I didn't share my kitchen with rats and maggots? - Definitely.

Did I make the right decision when I chose to come to Lagos, Nigeria? - Perhaps.

But.... do I think it would be the right decision to come home? - Not yet.

Its kind of like a great philosopher once said :

"Everyone has a plan... until they get punched in the face" -Mike Tyson

Sunrise  in Agege - taken on the way to work

The Rains Down in Africa

There is a magical song circa 1980-something by the band Toto. I'm sure you've heard it at one point or another and, if you haven't, you should look it up. Its titled "Africa" and every time it rains, I have the overwhelming urge to play it on my MP3 player.

Rain in Africa is unlike rain anywhere else in the world. First, the entire sky darkens in a way that suggests the end of the world is coming but, instead of ferocious, apocalyptic winds, the dark sky is accompanied by a light breeze.... and its on this soft breeze that you first smell it; the coming rain. If you've ever lived in a desert, then you'll understand what I mean when I describe the smell of rain as a cross between wet dirt and fresh air. If you've never lived in a desert or other typically dry climate, that probably sounds pretty unappealing but, trust me when I say that, in places where rain is an in-frequent visitor, its one of the sweetest smells on Earth.

Generally speaking, there is nothing "light" about rain in Africa. In fact, in most parts of Africa that I've been to, there is usually so much time between rains that, when the heavens finally burst, people going into shock and hide in their huts. The rain beats the ground mercilessly as if it were trying to force its moisture into the dry, cracked ground. Out of surprise or sheer lack of capacity, the ground seems to reject the moisture and instead of going into the earth, the rain water runs along the cracked ground forming streams, and rivers, and lakes and floods. This can last for minutes or hours and then, suddenly, just like that, the rain stops... As if someone had simply reached over and turned off a gushing faucet.

I wouldn't necessarily classify Lagos as a "desert climate" but, rain here certainly occurs in a similar sort of a way to the more "deserty'' places I've been. Despite its slightly more tropical tendencies which might imply that it should rain all the time, Lagos still has a specific "dry"and a specific "rainy" season much like the majority of the American continent has "summer" and "winter"... and all those other seasons in between. Although rainy season doesn't officially begin here until April, this year has been unusually wet for Lagos (global climate change, anyone?) and we've been treated to several thunderstorms since we've been here - the most recent of which was today.

As Lagos is a large commercial center, there isn't the same overwhelming smell of rain that precedes a downpour and, as there is little unpaved earth for the rain water to moisturize, the rain collects in much larger rivers and lakes on the streets, cars and bridges. These rivers and lakes of rain water push the large amounts of garbage on the streets into the open sewers and, if it rains long enough, the open sewers eventually spill over, flooding the streets with their polluted contents. Although the rain kindly reduces the amount of choking smog and filthy pollution in the air, the increasingly toxic ground makes the arrival of rain both a blessing and a curse.



A Nigerian Tuk-Tuk in the Rain

 When it rains here in Lagos, I wonder what this place looked like  40, 50...100, 200 years ago. Before the advent of traffic and garbage and concrete, I imagine the rain fell on banana trees and cassava fields and straw-topped huts. I imagine that, while waiting for the rain to pass, children would gather around for stories and parents would take the time to impart wisdom, values, culture, and history. I imagine that, after the rains passed, the children would then run into the puddles of rain water, laughing and splashing each other in the cool fresh water. I imagine all of this because this is what still happens when it rains today in rural Niger..... and it makes me a little sad to think that, as Lagos grows and grows and attempts to become more ''modern,'' the rain starts to lose its magic. Instead of being a beautiful blessing, rain in Lagos seems to become a transportaion burden and a health hazard. As I watch the rain water collect garbage in the filthy street I wonder:

What children would want to play in a puddle of sewage?

And then I wonder if this is what Toto meant when they ''blessed the rains down in Africa.''

A tire is consumed by sewage/rain water

A minibus ("bush taxi") takes shelter under a scraggly tree

A road-side vendor tries to prevent the open sewer from flooding into her
shop by attempting to unplug the dams of garbage blocking the flow of
rainwater/sewage.

Welcome to the Bathroom

Every culture has its own strange little idiosyncrisies and every language, every dialect has its own unique/ weird conversational patterns. Living in Nigeria has, on more than one occasion, made me think of the quote I read in a Calvin and Hobbes comic :

 "Even though we're both speaking English, we're not speaking the same language."

One of the stranger Nigerian-English conversational "isms" is the way in which they "welcome" people to various places. For example, in American-English, when someone knocks on your door and you invite them in you say "Welcome!" or "Welcome! Please come in." In Nigerian-English, when you arrive at someone's house or you begin work at a new company or you show up for work on any given day people say "You're welcome."

If you are just reading those words, thinking them to yourself in your head, you're probably wondering what the big deal is: "You're welcome"... those are perfectly normal words in the English language. However, to understand how strange it sounds, you have to put them in context and, more importantly, you have to imagine the correct tone.

In American-English, when you welcome someone to your home (Welcome!) you say it in a way that, as the exclamation point implies, makes it sound like a unique phrase that can stand on its own. I think the technical grammatical term is an "imperative phrase".... which means that, in American English, when you welcome someone into your home, one doesn't normally specify that "you" specifically are welcome. Its simply implied.

In Nigerian-English, they specify that, specifically "You are welcome." (Hopefully by now you're starting to see the difference). Stranger still though is the tone Nigerians use to welcome you: Imagine someone welcoming you to their house by saying "You're welcome" ... now imagine them saying it in the same tone of voice that one would use after you have said "Thank You." .... "You're welcome."

Do you hear how strange it sounds? ...Funny how two perfectly normal English words can sound so weird when put into a different context.

As I was mentioned earlier, people say you're welcome for a variety of things: when you meet someone for the first time, someone invites you into their house, you show up to work at a new company for the first time, you show up to work every day and... in the case of my newest "job," I'm even welcomed into the bathroom.

The building of my newest job is a large, well-maintained building that houses several different organizations and offices one of which is the Lagos Water Corporation. As a result, they have guards in multiple locations to prevent unwanted visitors: at the front desk, at the foot of the stairs, on the 1st floor landing, and outside the door into each of the seperate businesses/organizations. I suppose one could say I feel very secure... secure that is until I have to go to the bathroom.

Apparently, the organization that I work for is worried that people not working for the organization will use the bathroom and, to prevent this from happening, they have stationed yet another security guard at the door to the men and women's bathrooms. Of course, since I'm very obviously not a Nigerian, no one questions me as to whether or not I'm allowed to use the bathroom...they just let me walk right on in. Unfortauntely, because I'm very obviously not a Nigerian, they also feel the need to be overly polite and so, every time I walk past the guard to use the bathroom he says:

"You're welcome."

And every time this happens I think to myself....what a strange culture...a culture that welcomes me to the bathroom.

Perspective

Upon the advice of  "Time Out Magazine- Lagos Edition," we took Sunday afternoon to make the long trek from our apartment in Agege to the Nike Art Gallery (pronounced "nee-kay") on the Lekki Peninsula on Victoria Island. It was well worth the trip.

When we first arrived, I was surprised by the sheer size of the gallery: 5 floors of wall to wall paintings. In fact "wall to wall" is an understatement as there were so many paintings that some of them were arranged on the floor for lack of space. On the 5th floor, I discovered there were literally rooms filled with paintings just waiting for a chance to go on display. Unlike most galleries I've been to, the paintings in the Nike Art Gallery weren't limited to one genre. In fact, different genres, colors, subjects, and styles were hanging right next to each other which is certainly reflective of what it feels like to live in Lagos: everyone and everything piled on top of one another. Although this sounds jarring, I actually thought it to be very inspired. I could spend hours wandering around, taking it all in - and on Sunday afternoon, I did.

The design of the gallery is light and airy with several large windows letting in the beautiful sunshine which seemed to allow the paintings a chance to be seen in their natural, original setting. I absolutely fell in love with the place.

As luck would have it, the first group of paintings were saw were the collected works of the artist of the week and, as the artist of the week, Emmanuel just happened to be on hand to explain his paintings. Emmanuel's work surprised me and I was impressed with his creative re-creations of what might be considered "typical"African scenes and settings. He's a big fan of using the "mixed media" style of painting which, for the non-artsy types, means that he uses materials besides just "paint" to make his paintings come alive. As he explained, he feels as though the textures in his paintings help the viewer understand the intended feeling and perspective behind the scene.

For example, in one of his paintings, he had put a painting canvas on a woven grass mat which was, in turn, placed on top of a wooden crate. On the canvas he painted a picture of a young girl studying on her bed by candlelight but intentionally left the edges of the mat and wooden crate physically poking out of the edge of the painting. This, he explained, is to allow the viewer a deeper understanding, a better perspective of how uncomfortable the bed was for the girl. I was very impressed by his work and I can't remember seeing another artist who has used the same technique. Unfortunately, like most art, it is difficult to capture the genius on film... Still, I did ask Emmanuel if I could take one picture of one of his paintings just to attempt to show others his creative style:

Picture taken with the artist's permission

Since an ordinary viewer probably can't discern paint from object, I'll enlighten you. In the above picture, the straw hat on the fisherman's head is actually a straw hat not just a really good painting of a straw hat. Similarly, the rope over the fisherman's shoulder is real rope and the wooden oar to the side of the painting is a real oar (although its probably easier to make out since it's sticking out of the edge of the painting).

Like I said, its difficult to capture this kind of genius on film.

My favorite of Emmanuel's paintings was, undoubtedly, of a fisherman's boat from the perspective of a fisherman looking out towards the horizon. In a fantastic stroke of artistic genius, he had hollowed out the hull of the boat and had stuck another, smaller canvas behind the larger painting to give the boat a feeling of depth and reality. He even explained that he had gone so far as to make the hollowed-out hull the exact depth of a real hull in a real fishing boat. He had then taken another woven grass mat and sewn it into the top of the painting to give the impression of a shade hanger over the top of the boat. I would have never thought to do that.

Of course, with 5 floors of paintings to see, I didn't get a chance to see many of the other paintings the way I admired Emmanuel's work but there are many weekends between now and May and I hope to return several times to give the other paintings deeper thought. In fact... once we met Nike (the owner and name-sake of the gallery) there was some discussion about the possibility of us volunteering at the gallery on Saturdays. Of course, I would be delighted to spend my weekends in such a wonderfully inspired place... if not for the art then to hear the rest of Nike's amazing life story....

Wedding Crashers

Last Saturday night we crashed a Nigerian wedding. Although I've never crashed a wedding before, I would imagine that crashing a Nigerian wedding is a far simpler feat than crashing an American wedding. It didn't take any planning, we didn't have to concoct a fake family connection, and we certainly didn't have to memorize the family tree. In fact, just walked in.


To be honest, crashing the wedding was a mistake. We had just gone for a beer at a tiny little bar around the corner from our tiny little apartment - Merry's Place. Miriam, the bar owner, was more than ready to supply us with an endless amount of Star but we were starting to feel just a little awkward - there was a growing herd of children stopping by our table just to stare and, if they worked up enough courage, shake our hands.

Some of our staring fans

 When I was in the Peace Corps in Niger, the volunteers would always talk about how being a lone American in an African village was probably the closest thing to being a celebrity we would ever feel. Not surprisingly, its great at first - everyone knows your name, people are always dropping by just to give you things, and people always say hi to you everywhere you go. Of course, after a while, it gets old - everyone knows your name but you don't know theirs, people start dropping by to ask you to give them things, and small herds of children gather everywhere you go.... which is cute until you just want to be alone. Then its annoying as hell.


In the case of "Merry's Place," all we wanted to do was enjoy a quiet beer and unwind... all the little kids wanted to do was stare... not really an ideal way to enjoy a Saturday night.

Star  - Nigeria's beer.
(One bottle is equal to two American beers)

Our friendly neighborhood "bar"

After the growing amounts of starring kids became a problem, Komla, the Togolese member of our group, suggested we venture down the road to a nightclub that he had seen earlier. Given that children aren't allowed into nightclubs, we all thought this was a very good idea, paid our tab, and left....with Miriam, the bar owner, in tow.

As soon as we walked into the nightclub however we realized that we'd made a mistake and, for the purposes of this particular evening, the "nightclub" was actually a Nigerian wedding. Of course, since we were already inside the "nightclub"/wedding and no one had stopped us we figured it might be fun to see how long we could last until someone kicked us out. As it turns out, the answer to that question is all night. Apparently, random Americans are welcomed guests at Nigerian weddings even if they wander in off the street seriously under-dressed and obviously not knowing a single person in the wedding party.

After a cursory glance around the room, it was clear the bride had chosen hot pink and white as her wedding colors. Almost every single woman present - beyond a mere 3 or 4 bridesmaids - was dressed to the nines in tight, white outfits with the most gaudy pink head-wraps known to man. I'm not 100% certain, but I'm fairly sure that the color was so bright/hideous it actually reflected light. There was a live band playing what I think was the same endless song on repeat and almost everyone was dancing like there was no tomorrow. 


At first, we tried to keep a low profile and chose a table at the far back of the "club"/ wedding where we could observe a Nigerian wedding in full swing. However, after less than 5 minutes, we were clearly drawing stares and within 10 minutes we had been introduced to a very important-looking man who, I think, was the father of the bride. Within 15 minutes, we met the groom and were served left-over wedding cake and free beer. And then... the wedding videographer found us. For no less than 5 minutes, a home-made spot light was stuck in our face and we had extensive video footage taken of us just sitting there at our small table in the far back of the club looking very confused, a little embarrassed and trying desperately to maintain a low profile. I feel sorry for the bride who will no doubt be very confused as to why the video of her wedding contains so many shots of random Americans.


Although crashing a wedding certain seems like a fun and exciting idea, truth be told, after about 30 minutes, I was ready to leave. Nigerian weddings certain are energetic and entertaining but if you're not actively participating or, at the very least, feeling energetic, it can feel like way too much. Also, it doesn't help that the band played the same 3 chord song over and over and over and over....


Hopefully the next time I'm at a Nigerian wedding I'll be an invitee not a crasher. Hopefully next time I'll remember to come armed with red bull and an MP3 player with some decent tunes.

International Women's Day, 2011 - Lagos

****WARNING: The following blog post contains graphic content. *****

Yesterday, we celebrated International Women's Day in Lagos by attending the African movie premiere of "Desert Flower"- a true, scarring story of Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) as experienced by Waris, the Somalian supermodel.

The movie was very well done in terms of character and plot development and, although the purpose of the film was to draw attention to the ghastly practice of female circumcision, the story line also followed Waris' rise from homelessness to super stardom. Beyond the striking beauty of the main character, the scene that left the deepest impression, most jarring impression on me was towards the end.... when they graphically showed an old lady mutilate the private parts of a 3 year-old-girl (playing the part of "young Waris") with a rusty razor. As the little girl screams and screams and begs and pleads, her own mother holds her down and forces her to have this life-threatening procedure so that, at the ripe age of 12, she will be considered "clean enough" to be married to a man more than 3 times her own age. According to the tradition, after having her clitoris and labia completely removed (with a rusty razor... in the middle of the desert), a young girl is completely sown up leaving a hole no larger than a match-head through which to urinate. On her wedding night, her husband will literally slice her open and force his way inside of her and then, once she has conceived a child, he will sow her back up again so that she will not be tempted to be promiscuous while the child grows within her belly. When she is ready to have the child, she is again re-opened... but only for the birth. After the birth, she is sown up, yet again, until her husband is ready to slice her open and force his way inside of her.

I hope you're shocked and more than a little disgusted. I certainly was.

Although I have read about FGM before, I have never seen such a practice taking place and, although it was "just a movie," they certainly did an excellent job making it appear 100% real and unbelievable - "Unbelievable" in the sense that women do this to other women...knowing the pain it causes, knowing that it could mean death... just so that a future husband can be guaranteed that his bride is "pure" and "not tempted to be promiscuous." This is so shameful, I don't even know where to begin. Clearly, something needs to be done to change this tradition that affects women and girls around the world.

In Nigeria, the InterAfrican Committee works to dispel the myth that a woman's private parts are the source of sin through public education and health campaigns. Of course, as I learned in graduate school, "a change in knowledge does not equal a change in behavior." Still, armed with a rather life-like, large, mannequin display of a woman's private area, the main speaker on behalf of the InterAfrican Committee made a very compelling, graphic argument against FGM and, although I'm not the target demographic, I would certainly say I was above-and- beyond convinced that this practice needs to end.

What impressed me most about the whole International Women's Day Event in Lagos was that over half of those in attendance were men. In the US, I can't think of a single "women's event" I've ever attended that had more than a handful of men standing around uncomfortably. This always makes me sad and, in truth, defeats the purpose of events dedicated to female empowerment. After all, as women, we already KNOW we, as a gender, work hard caring for our families, trying to hold down a job, and fighting against injustice and inequality and, although its comforting to know that women support one another, it won't make a damn bit of difference until men become involved too.

So what was so different about this event, here in Nigeria, that men were more than willing to come and join women in an honest look at how we can improve the standing of women worldwide?

To be honest, its all in the marketing. When we first heard about his event, we were told was that there was going to be a big, fancy movie premiere with food and "cocktails" and the first continental showing of a film about a Somalian super model. The phrase "International Women's Day" never came up... and it wasn't until we were already there that we saw the movie poster contained a small-font description about the dedication of women's organizations and "International Women's Day."

Although I find it sad that men seem to be repelled by the idea of an event dedicated to  "International Women's Day," I think that the Nigerians may have stumbled onto something here. If we want men to participate in discussions and events focused on improving the plight of women worldwide, we can't make it "all about women" - we have to make it about men too.  If we want men to attend a film underlining the brutality of FGM, maybe we should tell them that its about a supermodel instead. No, its not lying. Its marketing. Men don't want to sit in a dark movie theatre and be beaten over the head with graphic images and statistics.... but they DO want to watch a sexy, leggy lady strut her stuff. Sure, in order to see the sexy parts they have to watch the gruesome bits but, in the middle of the entertainment, there are facts and I think this is an effective, dare I say GENIUS way of getting men to participate in discussions on female empowerment.

Maybe American feminists can learn something here.

*******
On a personal note, I found the entire event to be not only informational but most enjoyable as I was given an extremely expensive paparazzi-style camera and told to walk around the event and take pictures of everyone. Of course, having never owned a massive, expensive, paparazzi-style camera before, it took some getting used to but, I found it was a great way to meet people. As it turns out, the second you have a large camera around your neck, everyone wants you to know who they are.... and then take their picture. On the downside, as the camera was loaned to me, the pictures aren't mine to keep so I can't show everyone how much my picture taking improved from the beginning of the night to the end - you'll just have to take my word for it. Still, I have to say, all things considered, I think I take the best pictures with my uncomplicated, pocket-sized point-and-shoot digital camera.

Christine takes the paparazzi-style camera for a whirl

Happy International Women's Day.

Don't Discuss Religion. Ever.

I remember writing those words a few weeks back the motivation behind them being that religion is a sensitive issue here as in most parts of the world and, at the time, I had every intention of sticking to it. Of course, I had also assumed that Lagos, a huge city in the far South of Nigeria, would be extremely different from Sabon Guida, my rural village in Southern Niger where, as the result of a heavy Islamic influence, there is hardly a conversation that goes by without some reference to God, giving thanks to God, God blessing you, God giving you something, God doing something, God willing something, or anyone doing any number of things "in God's name." Their stance on religion is tightly woven into the fabric of their language and thus cannot be separated from their daily lives. Try as one might to avoid the "controversy" surrounding religion, you simply can't avoid it, and, without realizing it, slowly it becomes a some-what natural thing to speak about God all day everyday even for someone, like me, who isn't very religious.

An example of this is an average conversation in Sabon Guida that would go something like this (I have translated for the benefit of those of my readers who do not speak Hausa):

Me: (attempting to enter a house- a nice substitute for knocking) Peace be with you.
Villager: And also with you (this is the signal that I am allowed to enter).
Me: Did you wake in health?
Villager: In health, thanks be to God.
Me: How is your family?
Villager: In health, thanks be to God.
Me: How is your work?
Villager: One thanks God for the work.
Me: Are you planning to come into work today?
Villager: If God wills it.
Me: No, I'm asking you if you're going to come to work today.
Villager: If God wills it.
Me: (Getting frustrated) At what time, if God wills it?
Villager: At 12 o'clock, if God wills it.
Me: ....Alright. (realizing that this could mean anytime between 12 noon and never).
Villager: May God give you patience.
Me: Amen.


Did you catch all the references to God and religion? In case you missed it, I highlighted every religion-based comment in bold.

However, this is a heavily Muslim village in a heavily Muslim country (roughly 99%) we're talking about here. It seems somehow normal that religion would be such an unavoidable, important part of daily life. There's a very low chance anyone would be offended as, of course, nearly everyone practices the same religion. Of course, there would be no way a city as heavily populated, culturally diverse, and commercial as Lagos would be so overtly religious on a day-to-day basis, right? Wrong.


Although I've never spent much time in the Bible belt of the good ol' USA (thank God... haha), living in Lagos is what I imagine its like to live in Texas: Mega-churches on every corner, at-work prayer sessions, Christian rock and pop-based worship songs blaring from the radio, preaching street people, and, yeah, even BIG hair (not a religious thing, I know but still important).

True, religion isn't woven into the language here in Lagos but, looking back on it, as an outsider, I almost prefer that style of religion more. When religion is part of the language, hearing people speak about God and religion all the time seems like such a natural thing. Similar to the way Americans automatically say "fine" when a stranger asks how they're doing, Hausa people (the predominantly Muslim tribe in both Niger and Nigeria) automatically bring God into their conversation. Instead of saying "fine," they give thanks to God.

Here in Lagos however, it seems as though people look for an opportunity to throw religion into the mix; They define themselves by their religious involvements, they carry their bibles with them to work, they pray openly (and sometimes disruptively) in public, and they take great joy in the 4-8 hours they spend at their church every Sunday... and then telling others about it.

For example, when working on a brochure to advertise one of the businesses I'm currently working for, one of my supervisors was asked to submit a small, 2-sentence paragraph high-lighting what he would want people to know about him (in American terms, a "Bio") to be included in the brochure. Within those 2 sentences, he highlighted attending church and leading a bible fellowship.

At this point, I  want to interject that I'm not trying to say any of this is "wrong." What I'm saying is, its just taking some adjusting to.... and, yeah, I guess I'll also admit that I'm finding it a little unnerving.

Of course, its only "unnerving" by the Western- American standard... which essentially means anyone West of Texas.  And, of course, I say this in a ridiculously general sort of way because even in those relatively religiously- liberal Western states, there are large pockets of heavily religious people (Mormons, anyone?). I suppose the difference is that, even though I know there are deeply religious people in the US, I don't expect to walk into work on Monday morning to find my co-workers holding hands and praying loudly. Its simply not the "done" thing in the American workplace.... or most public places for that matter. The absence of overt religion in daily life does not mean that Americans aren't religious, it just means that we're highly aware of the potential controversy of bringing our personal religious beliefs into an average conversation and so, rather than risk offending someone, we keep it to ourselves. Interestingly enough though, religion has also been carefully woven into the fabric of our daily lives (i.e."In God We Trust") so that, in a way, we DO get to bring religion into everything without actually "bringing religion into everything."

But I digress.

The point I'm trying to make is that in Lagos, Nigeria as in Sabon Guida, Niger, it is difficult to avoid coming into extreme contact with religion.

As an example of this, here is an approximate recreation of a conversation I had today at work:

One of my bosses at one of my many jobs asked me how my weekend was.
I said it was relaxing. Thanks for asking.
She then asked me, without pause, "Did you go to church?"
"No." I honestly replied. (Notice how I didn't go into detail. I'm not supposed to be discussing religion, remember?)
"Are you Christian?" she pressed me
"...Uh.. yes, I guess. I mean, I'm Methodist but I believe in a lot of other religions as well so...um... yeah" (Here, as you can see, I'm not used to discussing my religious beliefs at work let alone with a superior so, clearly, I'm fumbling for the right words to say.)
"But," she continued "if you're a Christian, you're supposed to go to church." (Talk about an awkward conversation)
"Uh..um... yes.. well, I do go to church but usually only on Christmas and Easter"
"Why?" -my boss asks, pressing further still
"Well...." I pause trying to find a politically correct way to say 'I don't really like going to church every Sunday' without actually saying it "... I guess I... uh... I get busy on the weekends."
"Well, now that you're in Nigeria, your weekends aren't as busy. Would you like me to take you to church?" - my boss offers.
"Uh...well... um... isn't church here in Nigeria, like, 8 hours long?"
"Ak! No!" she exclaims "I go to church for 3 hours. But I go to a Pentecostal church so its mostly singing and dancing and praising the Lord" - she informs me
.....
At this point, without trying to offend anyone, I have to admit that churches where people sing and dance and wave their hands in the air and "talk in tongues" make me the MOST uncomfortable. Its just SO much to take in... and very, very overwhelming especially for someone, like myself, who enjoys going to church every once-in-a-while just to be in a calm, quiet, peaceful setting.
.....

"Uh..." I say, stalling "Maybe on Easter Sunday"
"Ak!" She says, clearly not satisfied with my answer, "There are so many Sundays between now and Easter. Why don't you come with me this Sunday?"
"Umm.... well, uh, that's very nice of you to offer but...um... I think I might be busy this weekend" - This is not entirely false as we do have tentative plans to spend all of next weekend in the "nice," Victoria Island part of town.
Giving me a skeptical look she says "Ok. But you let me know when you're not busy and I'll take you to church."
"Thanks" I say, breathing a sigh of relief that the conversation is over. ...Oh...but wait... it isn't over yet.
"I suppose," she says, clearly trying to come to terms with my lack of church-going enthusiasm, "If you don't go to church, you can still have a relationship with God if you read your Bible" (as she says this, she picks up the Bible on her desk for emphasis.)
"Uh...yeah..." I say, not wanting to admit that my Bible is on my bookshelf at home in the US where it has been for about 6 years. I'm also hoping she doesn't press me further. ...Too bad... she does.
"You DO have a Bible, right?"
"Um... yes. But its at home" - at this point I'm hoping she thinks "home" just means "not at work." Nope. Tough luck.
"You mean in America?!" - she is incredulous "Why didn't you bring it with you?!"
"Well... I guess because I don't really read it all that much"
"What?! How can you talk to God without the Bible?!" Oh jeeze... Isn't this conversation over yet?
"I guess I just find a quiet time when I need to" - yes, this is a vague answer but my religious beliefs are pretty vague too and, oh yeah, I'm not supposed to be discussing religion.
"How do you remember the stories?!"
"Uh... I guess I just do."
She gives me an incredulous look, clearly not sure what to do with me.
"Well," she says finally, "you can borrow my Bible if you ever want to read the stories again."
"Thanks." I say and then, before she can push me further I ask "Are you sure there isn't a project I can help you with?"

- End of Scene-

So it seems that, despite my best efforts to not discuss religion (ever.), it is something that is difficult to avoid altogether. Its very much a part of daily life.

In closing, I would like to say that Nigerians are wonderfully welcoming people...they just happen to be very openly religious too. And, of course, it doesn't seem to be that anyone is going out of their way to make me feel uncomfortable. In fact, on the contrary, any discomfort is purely my own which I suppose stems from my own American cultural bias that reminds me at every turn that religion is a taboo subject that should simply not be discussed. Ever.