May 4, 2008

It has been eight months and a few days since my arrival here and since my last entry. It was anti-climatic, my arrival, unremarkable in almost every way. Stepping off that plane in no way shape or form prepared me, or cemented my new reality, my new beginning, the next marked segment of my life.

In fact, as I sit here now, in the back of my car on my way from Ibadan back to Lagos, that day melts into countless others. There is something about the trees, the tropical weather that makes time pass differently. Sometimes in the evenings, I just stand outside and let a cooling breeze wash over me and I’m so glad, even thankful to be here. It’s a welcome departure from the sun at noon or 1pm, or 2 pm when your only thought is to breathe through the heat and try not to pass out. And then the rains come, not as heavy as they did in my youth, but spectacular still; powerful and seductive they sweep through suddenly raw and intense like a fresh wave of pain or grief. Sometimes, the rain is calm. It falls and the drops are preternaturally big but soothing like a melody in low tones.

They day of my arrival gets lost in other times I have arrived in this country, dreading the heat, the scent and the jet lag less than I dreaded the inevitable boredom. It blurs into times when I was the one leaving so many others, regretful expression molded onto my face, masking the joy I felt in my heart (I’m finally out of here!! Back home to everything that’s familiar to me, later suckers!!).

I’ve seen both my parents melt into the crowds beyond the gate at Murtala Muhammed airport, looking tentatively over their shoulders at me, probably wondering if and when I would break. I watched them thinking, ‘who’s the sucker now?’ and laughing to myself, at myself. ( Sidebar: I’ve also seen Don King parading through the airport, tufts of his ridiculous salt colored tresses swaying to and fro with his movements, waving a miniature American flag on a stick. Humiliation doesn’t begin to cover it.)

Outside of that, there is a reason why this compulsion to write anything comes in spurts. I have scarcely felt that urge since I’ve been here. I began work 7 days after I touched down. I didn’t have time to adjust. It was like trying to breath at the bottom of the ocean, with a powerful undertow holding you down, pulling you back. I just needed to break the surface, fill my lungs.
So many things have happened here, so many things have I seen. I look in the mirror now and I know it’s possible to live a lifetime in eight months. I don’t know this because I previously believed it to be so. I know this because it has happened to me. Inescapably, undeniably, I look into my own eyes and see someone I do not readily recognize.

On the way to work one early morning, the sun rose as we drove on the express on the way to the third mainland bridge. The sky was brightening with each passing minute, yet when I looked up, I saw the moon. Pale and shy compared to its nighttime majesty when it owns the sky, it was faint but still it was there. I wondered what it must be like for the sun and the moon; passing like strangers but for a few fleeting moments at dawn and dusk each day. Each glimpsing but a shadow of the other before passing beyond view. This, I feel, is how my inner selves reconcile with each other. They interact in glimpses, fleeting memories, The person I was before I came and the person I am now are different, too different, but sharing the same heart, soul and mind nonetheless.

Nothing could have prepared me for this. No research, familiarization, talking to others or optimism could have prepared me for this. I can honestly say I see something shocking, new, important, different everyday. I have loved in a way I never knew possible here and lost as well. I have stepped over boundaries I never dreamed I would encounter and bested them. My heart and prayers tell me that I am on track. Things have not happened quickly, or easily. I curse my traitorous intuition when I encounter daily annoyances that make my eyes burn. I will never complain about I-95, Beltway or any other traffic again. I will not be ungrateful when a beggar asks me for money or food (although I would still rather give them food) because just now, I am blessed with the ability to give. I will not let the ruining of my favorite shirt unravel my whole day because I have so many clothes here I cannot fit them in my closet, yet I notice how some of my staff wear the same things to work day in and out and always look ironed, neat and professional. I will not take for granted that the place I order breakfast from delivers when I’ve passed at least six children banging on my window looking for handouts on my way to the office. I have witnessed the last moments of a victim of a biking accident die by the side of the road because no one could help.

I have seen only 3 ambulances during the entire 8 months I have lived here. I have seen at least 6 bodies of car accident victims either laid out on the road or already covered with a wrapper or sheet. I have seen forgotten people and been afraid to remember them myself, for, what could I do?

Then again, amidst all the tragedy, I have seen hope for this country. A booming economy, but so many skeletons in the closet, I wonder who will help clear them away? Who will bring light to the benighted, who will give color to the colorblind? And as I ask these questions, my task, my purpose begins to take shape. Ask and you shall receive and I truly believe that.
I came home for a week or so in March. For a moment, it was as if my ‘other life’ hadn’t happened at all. I was right back on the smoothest roads I’d felt in a long time. Guzzling starbucks (skim lattes only) and talking on my cell phone that never once dropped a call. I wrapped myself in the luxury of constant electricity and dared to wash (AND DRY) my hair without fear of PEPCO/ NJ GAS taking light and leaving me with a half damp head. I reveled in a place where (the majority) of everyone follows the rules, where there is order. It was fabulous. Truly. But something within me couldn’t deny that I feel a certain peace being here, for now at least. Something that lies still inside me, instead of trying to break out through my rib cage and escape. This thing… it lies still amidst the uncertainty of this country. It breaths in deeply and is still.

I can’t count how many times someone has asked me what I’m doing here. Why did I leave the ‘land of opportunity’ to come to Nigeria. They stare in slack-jawed amazement when I tell them I just did. I was bored, I wanted a change. Mostly, I think, this is because they see it as a change for the worse. A lot of people spend their lives trying to get away, or at least thinking about getting away, yet, here is this oddity standing before them, insisting with gleaming glossy eyed fanaticism that they were bored.
But you see, that doesn’t even begin to cover it, but how many people do you know have time to listen to the when’s and whys of a complete metamorphosis? So, for now, I’ll stick with, “I just did. I got bored and needed a change, that’s why I’m here.” When you think about it, it doesn’t sound ALL that crazy does it?