Nigeria's a Mess & Abuja is Burning, so I'm Back in London

My dear readers, I have relocated to England. I will return to Abuja one day, but boy, Nigeria is in a BIG mess. I can't even begin to tell of what I've been through.

So after the first explosion in Abuja, my family were calling me from England and asking me to reassess my habitation in Abuja amidst the growing insecurity. So I did.

The crazy thing was that I was in Nyanya on the Saturday before the first blast for a wedding, and drove past the scene of the explosion, which is by a very busy motorway. Nyanya is a densely populated, poorer area on the outskirts of Abuja where many civil servants live because the rent is much cheaper there than in the Abuja metropolis (average rent is around N500, 000 a year for modest lodging in Abuja, whilst in places like Nyanya it's around N100, 000 or less).

I imagine myself like I'm in one of those movies where the city is under attack and buildings are erupting in small explosions behind me everywhere as I dock and weave my way to safety, finally I leap in slow motion and grab unto a swaying ladder hanging from a helicopter labelled 'BRITISH AIRWAYS', and as the helicopter veers away the whole city finally explodes in a huge ball of yellow inferno, and I look down on the burning, hot mess with a tear in my eye, all bruised and battered from my two and a half year life living as a returnee to Abuja.

I will write about distinct aspects of my bad experiences in another post, as this post will concentrate on my departure and why Boko Haram is winning the war in Nigeria.

The First Nyanya Bomb
Firstly let me make one thing clear: the official death toll of around 75 for the first Nyanya bombing on Monday 14 April has been grossly under-represented. I was working for a broadcast media station in Abuja before I left and was responsible for their social media output, and from reports and eye witness accounts, I can confidently tell you that at least 400 people died in that explosion. Yes, 400, and I believe even much more.

One of our freelance journalists who lives near Nyanya called me to tell me he saw four burnt out buses after the explosion, and each of those buses would have been full at the time of the bombing (around 7am on a Monday morning) and each bus carries 50 people. But with the way Nigeria is, I believe if the official capacity is 50, at least 55 would have been on these buses.

I count seven burnt out buses here, and I believe they would each have been full of people that fateful morning. 

Another row of four burnt out buses. Still believe that only 71 people died?

Other pictures from the scene show a row of up to eight burnt out buses, not including kekenapeps, motorcycles, pedestrians, commuters queuing to board buses, street hawkers and cars nearby also loaded with people. A bus park like this is usually heaving with people trying to get into town for work. And remember that some of the injured would have died later in hospital.

So it really pisses me off whenever I see reports from CNN and Nigerian media of the death toll in the 70s, it's a gross injustice to the actual number of people who died, and dangerously underplays the enormity of the blast.

Such unrepresentative figures of the dead in these situations come from eye witness accounts usually from a journalist from Reuters or something who counts the bodies they see before them, but don't take into account bodies in other areas of the scene, the obliterated bodies (human parts were strewn everywhere) or those that die later in hospital. And Nigerian reporters, inadequately equipped to take proper account of the dead, and without a streamlined system for recording those missing, or forensics taking details of bits they find (it usually takes weeks before the final death toll figures are released) and the propensity for Nigerians to regard as correct information from CNN rather than figures from their own people, the initial report stands and is rarely updated.

The numbers injured, officially in the 100s or 200s, should also be much higher.

Some reports also say it was a suicide bomber, then there was a picture of the supposed suicide bomber (with body in tact, is that possible?), then other reports say it was a car bomb. One of my colleagues, who also lives near Nyanya and would usually have traveled to work that fateful morning but was late, says there were rumours that it was a boy with a bomb. The freelancer that called me told me an empty car was seen by commuters parked in front of one of the buses, and as a bus driver horned for the car to get out of the way, it exploded.

But can one car bomb make such an impact, with reports of a huge crater at the scene of the carnage and the rows and rows of burnt out vehicles? Reports of petrol tankers nearby that exploded too might explain the level of impact, but who knows?

This image has been touted all around Nigeria as the suicide bomber. But has there ever been a suicide bomber found intact like this, whilst other victims of the blast were obliterated?

The fact remains we don't know what type of bomb it was, how many people were killed and how many are still missing presumed dead. And nobody will ever find out.

The Second Nyanya Bomb

I heard about the second bomb on Friday May 2 - which occurred right by the scene of the second bomb - after I'd arrived back in England. And judging by what I now know of the first incident, the official figure of 19 dead is most likely 119. I'm serious. People die in Nigeria and nobody knows or cares to find out the details. Again the hospitals were filled, there were calls for people to donate blood, and President Jonathan called another security meeting afterwards to access the issue. Nonsense. But more on President Jonathan later.

I heard reports that the bomb supposedly exploded earlier than planned, and the target was for the following day or Monday? 

Either way, Abuja proper, the central areas that is, are still safe (for now), and Nyanya is quite a distance away. But the point is that Boko Haram have now infiltrated the nation's capital. 

FACT: Boko Haram are Mightier than the Nigerian Army

This is sad but true. Boko Haram not only have better weapons and transportation, they are also united in their purpose and vision, something the Nigerian army (thanks to lack of funds, tribalism and various motives for joining the force) are not. 

And I think the numbers they say Boko Haram have killed in Nigeria in the past five years is 1,500? Well triple it and you'll get closer to the right number. Hundreds have been killed in Borno, Yobe etc, but because these are remote states, no official eye witness is there to count, unlike in Abuja, and see how the numbers there were still under-estimated. My mind boggles at the carnage BH have caused, not just the trail of countless dead, but the maimed, blinded, orphaned, widowed, homeless, income-less and whole communities that have been destroyed. 

And the army, although celebrating a few successes here and there of foiled bomb attacks, and despite the $6bn in funding they receive annually, they are not performing. I've heard reports that the huge funds are siphoned away by the generals and 'ogas at the top,' and the soldier on the ground gets a pittance to live on; they sleep on the bare ground when on duty, have three pure water sachets allocated to each of them and faulty, aged weaponry, some of which are from the Biafran war of the 60s. I have a friend who is a lieutenant who tells me some of their challenges.

And they resort to lying to look as if they're performing, not just lying about finding the missing Chibok girls, but also about catching Fulani militants. The military/police released the pic below, supposedly of Fulani men, but they most certainly are not. They don't look Fulani at all, and rural Fulani men rarely ever wear boxers even. Lies.

These men are not, nor were they ever, Fulani herdsmen in any shape or form

Boko Haram's leader, Abubakar Shekau, in a video claiming responsibility for the Nyanya attack, not only taunted the Nigerian president and said 'catch me if you can', he also boasted that the Nyanya attack was a small one compared to what they're planning. They also confirmed they were behind the school girls' abductions, and said they'll sell the girls off.

His video online was so odious it hurt my ears to listen to the Arabic/Hausa, although I read somewhere there was close to 20 minutes of his rantings, yet I can only find a 1 minute video which was cut mid-sentence. Hmmm. 

#BringBackOurGirls

The way that the whole world has campaigned for the release of the over 200 girls abducted by Boko Haram men dressed as the Nigerian army (Umm...who supplied them with army uniform??) from their boarding school in Chibok, which is in Borno State, has been astonishing, heartening and wonderful in a sad, uplifting way.

Firstly, the exact number of girls kidnapped remains unknown. it's been 85, 197, 234, 250, etc over the weeks since their abduction, with reports it could be up to 300, as students from neighbouring schools were brought into Chibok at the time for exams. The names of the girls have been released, and the majority of them are Christians, but I believe the number abducted is more than 300. 

Now I'm aware of some in the Muslim community both in Nigeria (see here) and around the world (see here) who forcibly kidnap Christian girls and marry them so that they convert the girl and the eventual offspring become Muslims, and there are reports that the Chibok girls have been married off to the militants, who need both cooks and wives to tend to them in their camps. Some of the girls have also been reportedly taken out of Nigeria into neighbouring Chad and Cameroon.

Street protests in Abuja, Lagos, London and everywhere else have taken place about the issue, the kidnapping is front page news on the BBC and CNN websites, and widespread attention has been given to the issue, with American and British celebrities, politicians etc speaking out on the issue. It's a BIG story. 

Yet am I being pessimistic when I say that, from what I've seen and heard, those girls will never be found? Remember that another group of girls were kidnapped in similar circumstances weeks before these ones in Chibok, and those ones were never found, and they're out of the news.

  

And everyone knew, after a couple of days, the location of the Chibok girls. They were in the Sambisa forest, as locals saw groups of girls, many still in their school uniforms, been loaded and unloaded unto trucks and driven away. 

Some of the parents of the girls tried to go into the forest themselves to rescue the girls, but failed. I believe the military also knew where the girls were but were afraid to go into the Sambisa forest, maybe due to an agreement between themselves and the terrorists to stay away from that area (this is very possible) or because they are inadequately equipped to go in, rescue the girls, detain or kill the kidnappers and emerge safely. That takes a lot of planning and fire power, all of which were probably beyond the capacity of the soldiers.

I know I sound negative and condescending about the power of the Nigerian army, but dear readers, I've seen these things. It annoys me so much, the way corruption and ineptitude has made fools and wicked men out of a force that should be strongly focused on citizen's safety.

I pray for the girls too, and God bless every non-Nigerian that has lent their voice to the campaign, and the Nigerians whose hearts bleed at the injustice of having children stolen and the government unable to do anything about it, despite it seeming so easy to get them back, and knowing if you lived in a different country such a thing would never happen, and if it did, it would be the government's priority to find them and they would have done so by now. It's excruciatingly awful that the Sambisa forest was off-limits to soldiers because of the might of Boko Haram, who operate with impunity and can kidnap more students again at any time.

This report by the Guardian newspaper quoted a source from Nigeria's intelligence agencies who said: 

“We in the intelligence were ready to penetrate the sect but they [the government] wasted too much time concentrating on irrelevances. Now it is too late, the intelligence guys are not ready to risk their lives any more after all the frustration from the managers in Abuja. We have given them all the information they need including the level of sophistication of the insurgents; it’s up to them to act.”

Those girls should have been found days following their disappearance. Now I fear it's too late. And if BH decide to release some (I've heard reports the Muslim girls have been released), it would be their own decision independent from force or any negotiations.

A Nice But Dim President
President Goodluck Jonathan seems like a nice man. He would have been a great lecturer I'm sure, but putting him in charge of the most populous, richest and most troubled country in the whole of Africa was a big mistake.

Not only because he lacks the 'killer instinct' to be tough on the bad guys in the Nigerian system, but also because his political enemies (mostly the Muslim North) are hell-bent on making his tenure a mess, because they feel that, in the grand tradition of the turn-by-turn Christian/South then Northern/Muslim system of voting in Nigerian presidents, that it wasn't the South's turn yet. (Former President Yar'Adua, a Northern Muslim, died in office, leading to his vice president Jonathan taking over prematurely).

So repeated attacks by Boko Haram have been orchestrated to frustrate Jonathan and make him look inept, and the feeling is that if he contests and wins Nigeria's national elections next year, things will be worse.

His Presidential media chat yesterday in which he answered questions and showed he had no idea where the missing girls were (he told the journalists present that they knew more than he did about the situation) and in which he said that many people were stealing government money in Nigeria but that this was not corruption, was sad to see. (Read more about that Presidential Media chat here).

The powers that be in Nigeria are mostly there to 'chop,' their minions on the ground have become mean due to lack of money and resort to bribery at every turn, and the ordinary man exists in a helpless void of knowing you're all alone, and the government will most probably hurt you rather than do well for you in your life time.

So...I Left
Yup. And as many Nigerians looked upon my decision to opt out of the mess with envy, saying I could never claim to be Nigerian when I can so easily disengage and run off, I say yes. And you would too if you could.

You're proudly Nigerian because you have no choice.

I'm back in England now, where things are so decent it's almost boring, and although there are challenges, I don't have to worry that my siblings could be stolen from their schools never to be seen again, or that my government doesn't know I exist, neither does it care and it could in fact kill me tomorrow and bury the evidence.

The fact that I automatically got an NI number through the post when I turned 16, and if I turn 100 the Queen automatically sends me a birthday card, and my details are on countless systems somewhere, all attesting to the fact that I exist and the government knows me and is watching, is a source of comfort to me. Absolutely.

Nigeria, my Motherland, I tried to love you, I tried to make it work, but it was just too much of an uphill battle. Adios, for now. I will visit for sure, but I shall never live with you again, even if I become fabulously wealthy and could afford all the trappings of the West in my house.

Two good female friends of mine, born and bred in the UK, relocated to Nigeria (Lagos) recently and are thriving: they've launched successful businesses, enjoy a vibrant social life and are living large. I believe if you have lots of money (which I didn't) and have an entrepreneurial flair (which I don't), you can make it in Nigeria.

But I'm just not built for all that. I don't want to live in a beautiful castle in the middle of a gutter, next to a den of robbers and adjacent to a brood of vipers, knowing that if the outside gets in, I'm on my own.

There's just too much wrong in Nigeria for it to ever be OK for me.

No Validations from Fulanis Required

When I first started this blog, I posted one of my blog posts on Nairaland, a popular website where Nigerians everywhere come together to discuss both serious and fun subjects relating to their country.

It was on that site that I enjoyed the acerbic Nigerian humour and saw that no matter where they were in the world, family, marriage, money, religion, patriotism, education and tribe remained important for Nigerians. Nairaland was my online entry into Nigeria before I physically arrived, and I landed at Abuja’s Nnamdi Azikiwe airport equipped with knowledge about my countrymen.

I learnt a lot from the Nigerians on that site, but one interaction with a Fulani man in particular influenced my view about Fulanis and myself.

I’d posted a link to my blog and in response, the Fulani man proceeded to dismantle all I held sacred about my Fulaniness, calling me a fake, a fraud and a fool and regarding my religion as the greatest and most distasteful barrier towards my acceptance into Fulani-land. He stated that a Yoruba Muslim was more of a kin to him than me, a Fulani Christian, and other unpleasant things. What he said and what I felt gave birth to the post ‘You are a Fake Fulani.’

I started this blog to provide a Fulani voice in the plethora of Southern Nigerian voices online, and part of me also wanted to call attention to Fulanis out there and say: “Hey! Here I am! See, I’m just like you! Kind of anyway. So, what’s up? Let’s hang out.” I wasn’t in need of affirmation but I wanted to be welcomed, as if from a long journey away, and for them to say “Hey, sister! Welcome. Sit down, have some Fura da Nono. You look so much like our cousin Halima...” and other forms of easy acceptance. For them to say “We know you’re not quite ‘it’ but it’s OK. Fulanis of all kinds are welcome here.”

But that was before the Expert Fulani’s comments on Nairaland. It hurt. And it also made me stop requiring acceptance. I became Fulani all by myself: a rare, unique offshoot not seeking reintegration but just flourishing where I am.

Other Fulanis were happy that I was out there blogging, and I’ve since received a ton of kind words, with many Fulanis from around Africa happy to converse with kin online, a place where Fulanis rarely entered (or if they did, they were male or communicated in French or Arabic).

I’ve become pen-pals with some and even met a couple off-line. They’ve added immensely to my knowledge of myself and Fulanis (thank you all so much). Some have tried to convert me too, and my reticence in broaching the subject of religion with Fulani Muslims remains. I always feel like they feel I’ve done something terrible in becoming a Christian, and the issue is often so raw and immense and bigger than me that I avoid it altogether. Mostly Fulanis I meet online understand that I don’t need their approval, I’m just happy for their presence and acknowledgment and knowledge.

The funny thing is that my Fulani identity was rarely brought to the fore prior to my blogging. In England, being Black, being female, being a Christian, being British, being a journalist, being from South London and being Nigerian were all far more active parts of my being than being Fulani. That aspect of my identity was relegated to the background and only emerged as an act of will on my part, when I realised that I came from a little-known (in the West at least) yet highly admired people that were known as much for their beauty as their remoteness.

The exoticism of it all, and the pride in being able to claim as mine this almost mythical tribe of nomads – who settled in various African countries and had a distinct look that harkened to a history of migration from outside sub-Saharan Africa – was fascinatingly wonderful. Now I understood why I didn’t look like or behave like the usual Nigerians and why I took to Britishness better than others: there are aspects of Fulani culture, like the reserve and the modesty, that compliment British middle-class culture.

My family spoke little of our heritage. My father was no longer alive and his side of the family was largely unknown to me, and my mother was immersed in her Britishness and wasn’t given to talk of ‘the old country’ except to criticise it. My siblings didn’t care and we didn’t live among other Fulanis, so I got information about Fulaniness from an aunt and her husband, and at the time I was also dating a Nigerian with a Fulani mother so I got to know about various aspects of my culture. But there were also traces of my culture that was inherently known to me, I don’t exactly know how, and the more I read and heard the more I knew that I knew it. Like hearing the whispers of past generations or imbibing the instincts and culture that swirled around you invisibly, or receiving knowledge passed down through your blood and DNA.

I always knew I was Fulani, but I didn’t care until months before I started this blog.  

So to have someone shatter this new mirror I was now looking at myself through was not nice, but because being knowingly Fulani was a recent addition to my already robust identity, it wasn’t so bad. I’m pretty solid in my internal sense of self to not need external validation.

So I got over it, and over the years of blogging my Fulani identity evolved: at first it was a thirst for knowledge, then I married a man also of Fulani heritage who opened my eyes even more to Fulaniness so that it became a familiar enough reality to put to one side, like a new present at Christmas you receive and explore with a hot desire that cools by Boxing Day.

Then a recent comment on the ‘You’re a Fake Fulani’ post by Raji Bello brought back memories of the earlier rejection, only this time my reaction was anger, not hurt. He  said that I was of Fulani origin but I was not Fulani, and my claims to being Fulani were weak. I was like, wait, do you presume to think that I need your permission to be who I am? Later I realised that he didn’t mean any harm, and the truth was that ‘authentic’ Fulanis will always raise their eyebrows and say ‘Hmmmm’ when they hear my story.

Then a follow-up comment on the same post by Aliyu Wali, which spoke about the difference between how I saw myself and how Fulanis see me, brought it all home: I will never be Fulani in the full sense of the word.

Now on the one hand it’s sad, but on the other hand, it doesn’t matter at all. Mostly because such intense discussions of my Fulani identity only occur online; I haven’t surrounded myself with full-blooded Fulanis in the real world (besides, rejection in person would be harder to take), and everybody else in Nigeria sees my Britishness more than anything else. But even if I got their acceptance, what then? It wouldn’t make me taller or wealthier.

I’m loved by God and wonderful people, that’s what matters. I’m just happy to have people reading and learning and enjoying my blog and engaging with me, and I’m even happier to discuss these things with other Fulanis, because I’d never heard their opinions on anything before.

So today, one part of my Fulaniness is an unquenchable glow within, and the other part is fragments I’ve gathered and stuck together. It’s incomplete and crooked and fragile and not as whole as other people’s, but I cherish it and I wear it on my lapel along with the other badges of my identity. The Fulani badge is one of the smallest but often shines the brightest, and sometimes I even forget it’s there, hidden amongst the more robust identities. But when I remember, I touch it and smile.

Yearning for Christmas Spirit in Abuja

This year, come December 25th, Christmas will happen, but not as I know it. In fact Christmas in Abuja is pretty much exactly like any other day, except for the knowledge within that it is Christmas, and perhaps the larger than usual presence of family and friends around, and extra helpings of Jollof rice and fried goat meat.

Christmas Nostalgia

I was supposed to return to England this December, but sadly, a perfect storm of disappointments means I'll be spending my second Christmas in Nigeria. My first was in 2011 when the novelty of heat and sunshine on Christmas Day made it exciting, and a lovely picnic at Millennium Park and a visit to Jos on Boxing Day made for a lovely time.

I was back to London for Christmas 2012, where I gained a new-found love and appreciation for the English version of the occasion, and this year I yearn for that again. This is also because Abuja as a city is absent of any discernible Christmas spirit. There are feeble attempts here and there at marking the occasion, with lights and Christmas trees decorating random shops and homes, and even a snowman display at Silverbird in Abuja, but it all rings false, because there's lack of a national conviction about how to celebrate the event in a Nigerian way.

Snow scene at Silverbird Galleria, Abuja

I've spent Christmas in America and Spain and they all add their own distinct flavours to the Western concept of Christmas (in Spain there's a greater emphasis on the Three Wise Men with festivals and processions celebrating them). But what I see in Abuja are half-hearted attempts at imitating the Western idea of Christmas, with hollow, misunderstood efforts at manufacturing an atmosphere that doesn't fit the region, and attempts to ignite a collective feeling that just isn't there.

The Christmas traditions of particular Nigerians seems to only be exhibited in towns and villages away from the capital, where cattle is slaughtered and the roasted/fried meat is shared out, families and well-wishers gather and rice is the grain of the season. My parents and older relatives speak fondly of their childhood memories of Christmas in Nigeria, but such festivities are harder to replicate in Abuja, a city of wealth-seeking immigrants from other parts of Nigeria who arrive to the city called 'No Man's Land' to work, leaving their traditions and extended families behind in their native state or village.

I've downloaded Christmas carols to listen to and pore over pictures of my younger siblings, nieces and nephews in their various nativity plays to help stem my Christmas homesickness. I could kiss the people behind the BET channel on DSTV for allowing those in Africa access to the British TV adverts they run, which at this time is on Yuletide overload. I'm sure I'm also boring the people around me with "at Christmas in London, we usually..." observations. I'm rarely usually homesick, but this year, at this time, I miss the UK.

Here's the Christmas I'm used to:

One month before Christmas: Shops start stocking Christmas products, much to the chagrin of some newspapers who splash pictures of the too-eager retailers. The nation is abuzz with conversations about Christmas parties, Christmas holidays and 'Where are you spending Christmas?' questions as the countdown to the day begins, with the growing frenzy of 'Only 32 days left to Christmas' and 'Only 28 shopping days left!' all over the streets and the media. It's already pretty freezing outside, and TV guides and television adverts start advertising their special Christmas programming.

On the radio, Christmas carols start playing and Christmas controversies, events and news are discussed, and kids in schools all over the country start their Christmas carol evenings and Nativity plays, where school children dress up as Mary, Joseph, shepherds, sheep and the inn-keeper to recreate the birth of Jesus in their own cute, hilarious and heart-melting ways.

12 Days before Christmas: You've handed out Christmas cards to colleagues at work, having purchased either the Bumper Value Packs of 20 or 50 to give out en masse (you buy a few individual, more expensive ones from Clinton's to give to 'Special people'). You've smirked at the the usual jokes about kissing underneath the mistletoe sprigs hanging over the doors, and repeated the story of where you'll be spending Christmas (at home with the family) dozens of times. There's a Christmas tree with fake gifts underneath and other decorations in the office, and Christmas-related emails and discussions occur.

Bumper Christmas Cards

Office Christmas Party
The Secret Santa gift-giving has yielded much laughter, appreciation and gossip, and the Christmas party has either happened or is about to happen, either in the office specially decorated for the occasion or in a swanky location. There's usually lots of wine, colleagues looking slightly unfamiliar in fancier clothes, a Christmas sit-down dinner/lunch; Abba, Christmas carols and other feel-good music afterwards and merriment or embarrassment ensuing depending on how drunk some colleagues become.

Christmas cards: With the usual designs of the nativity, Father Christmas, Reindeer, red-breasted Robins, snow-covered cottages and Holly and Ivy

Stores and businesses across the country put up their Christmas opening times and the Royal Mail announces it's last posting date. Public transport companies release their Christmas service times, and carols and Christmas-tinged announcements are heard through the tannoy systems in tube and train stations. Billboards and signs all wish everyone a Merry Christmas, with 'Victoria Station wishes you a Merry Christmas' and similar messages scrolling across the electronic timetable system in stations.

Christmas Shopping
Every business relays a Christmas message to its customers and clients and every store you go into on the high street plays Christmas carols, and there are lights, trees and decorations inside the majority. Signs advertising 'Christmas sales or Special Discounts abound, all designed with Christmas iconography. Price tags, shopping bags and store receipts have been re-designed for the holidays and red and green is the colour of the season and is worn by people, animals and inanimate objects. Christmas accessories, advent calendars and sections for Christmas presents For Mum, For Dad, For that Special Someone and gift wrapping sections spring up in stores, with sales girls wearing the ubiquitous red woolly hat with white furry trimming and bobble.

Christmas deocorations outside Boots in London's Oxford Street

Everybody looks forward to the Christmas and New Year sales, and tons of Christmas wrapping paper depicting seasonal imagery is bought at 'Two for Three' or 'Buy one get one free' discounts. People rush around getting presents for family and friends before the shops sell out or shut, although stores open till late for the holiday season. Things are cheaper or more expensive for Christmas, but either way there's a feeling of rush and capitalism-inspired sentiment in action.

Christmas inside stores

Christmas in the Media
Every other Television programme is a Christmas Special or Celebrity Christmas Special of the usual show, and the Channel icons are festively-decorated and TV presenters wear Christmas hats and allude to other Christmas paraphernalia, clichés and stereotypes (Scrooge, Tiny Tim etc). Billboards also advertise Christmas deals, events and products, and on TV, print and radio adverts for Christmas food and gift ideas are everywhere, with advertisers adapting well-known carols and jingling bells to suit their brands' message. The light jingling of the Christmas bells becomes the soundtrack of the season.

My favourite Christmas TV advert song is by Coca Cola, with the lyrics: "Holidays are coming, Holidays are coming, watch out, look around, something's coming, coming to town, Lalalalala...tis the season it's always the real thing, always Coca Cola." I look forward to it every Christmas.

Holidays are coming...my favourite Christmas advert by Coca Cola

Newspapers and magazines bring out their Christmas editions packed with Christmas-themed programming, articles, features, news, coupons and adverts, and at the theatre, Pantomimes take over with festive adaptations of classic fairy tales.

Christmas Edition of Radio Times TV Guide

Family film classics like Mary Poppins and It's a Wonderful Life start showing on TV, including animated favourites like The Snowman and Wallace and Grommit. Christmas songs are heard everywhere, one of the favourites being Mariah Carey's All I Want For Christmas. Music artists release Christmas albums and singles, and the Christmas Number one in the Pop Charts receives much media attention.

Christmas Lights
The switching on of the Christmas lights in Oxford Street by the biggest celebrity of the moment is a major event and crowds gather to count-down to the moment the sky is colourfully illuminated with ever more elaborate neon lighting, and the scene is replicated in city centres across the country. 

 

 

The lights in Oxford Street 

 

Christmas lights are put up in almost every home, with the media getting excited about 'The Most Lit-up Street in Britain' or 'The Man who Spent 30, 000 pounds on Christmas Decorations.' The shorter days and longer nights are illuminated with twinkling, neon Christmas lights, which light up the houses in many areas. Some houses have elaborate displays complete with fake snow and a Father Christmas mannequin riding a sledge fixed on the roof, to simple lights with a Christmas wreath hung on the door.

A house lit up for Christmas

 

Carol singers (is that Father Christmas joining in?)

Christmas Carols
Churches around the country hold Christingle and special carol services, and listening to choirs singing Handel's Messiah in a cathedral in London is my favourite thing to do, along with going to numerous carol by candlelight services, where mince pies and mulled wine is served afterwards. Since I learnt dozens of carols in Primary school for various nativities and Christmas choir events, most of them are stuck in my head, and repeated listens every Christmas further embeds them into my memory. My favourites include 'O Little Town of Bethlehem' 'Once in Royal David's City' and 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing'. But I love them all really; the power and depth of the words, the distinct melodies and the sanctity of what they represent; singing them en masse becomes a spiritual experience.

 

My Favourite

Christmas carol singers gather outside many train and tube stations to sing carols for charity, and men and women dressed in Santa outfits collect money for their charities, wishing you a merry Christmas as you drop a coin in their coin-collectors.

Christmas Traditions
'Ho Ho Ho' and 'Merry Christmas' are the most used phrase this season. There are also visits to Santa's Grotto hosted by various department stores, ice skating, the brilliant Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park and various Christmas markets and fairs. Chestnuts roasted on a semi-open fire by the road sides are sold on high streets, and Christmas-only drinks like egg-nog and mulled wine appear.

Wrapped up in all this is the chill of December, meaning coats, boots, scarves, gloves and woolly hats are necessities. Although it rarely snows on Christmas Day, there's often snow before or after. A fireplace, heaters, hot water bottles and cups of tea keep you warm inside the house.

Christmas Day: Some go to church in the morning, but almost everyone begins the day very early when everyone, still in their pyjamas, excitedly open their presents that have been waiting under the Christmas tree for days. For some, this is the best part about Christmas.

Oh Christmas Tree Oh Christmas Tree!

After everyone gets dressed, Christmas lunch is laid on a table decorated with special crockery, Christmas table-cloth and Christmas crackers. There's turkey, roast potatoes, stuffing, gravy, brussel sprouts and other vegetables (in our house we also have jollof rice, fried rice and chicken) with Christmas pudding, Christmas cake, mince pies, ice-cream and custard for dessert. Large tins of Celebration or Quality Street chocolates are also quaffed, the Christmas crackers are pulled apart (Marks and Spencer's make the best), the little gifts that come out of it scrutinized, the jokes are read out and the paper hats worn on the head - the one day in the year when everyone happily wears flimsy paper hats around the table.

Christmas Lunch

Photos are taken, songs are sung, and the big Christmas movie plays on TV, as does the Queen's Christmas Speech which everyone tunes if for at around 3pm. Then some take naps, others plays games and make Christmas visits and phone calls, text messages and emails wishing the receiver a Merry Christmas. Tomorrow at boxing day the leftovers of the feast will be eaten, the gifts further explored, more TV will be watched and trips to shopping centres with friends to explore the Boxing Day sales will be made to spend the Christmas money you received.

Christmas Feeling
The usual activities - tinged with sadness if loved ones are missing, or excitement if new additions are present - also adds to the uniqueness of the occasion, but apart from all the activities, there's a Christmas glow, a warm fuzziness illuminated by neon lights, a heightened excitement, a feeling that is hard to express and even harder to manufacture outside of the season.

There's the cosiness and the coming together of family mixed in with the anticipation of gifts and frantic preparations for the day; the buying, wrapping and labelling of presents and writing in cards, and the buying, storing, preparing and eating of the mountains of food. You become soaked in Christmas, it's all around you and  permeates almost every aspect of normal life, until it is over and the new Year comes round.

However, the reason for the season, the birth of Jesus Christ, is often lost amongst the presents and turkey and tree, much to the consternation of Christians everywhere. But I think the fact that the occasion is still so well observed, and an emphasis is placed on family, love, sharing and giving marks the original event well enough.

The reason for the season: The birth of Jesus Christ

Christmas is an occasion, but it's also an emotion fuelled by long-held traditions, national events and the anticipation and excitement that surrounds it.

I shall miss all that this year.

How Adichie Fell Off Her Pedestal

Throughout the history of my blog, I've always revered Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. And In a recent post in which I praised her writing and excitedly looked forward to reading her latest book Americanah, I also spoke about my reticence about meeting her face to face. I’d heard her speak live twice but each time I always left (or hid) rather than meet with her or have her sign my books. This was because I didn't want my image of her – an image in which she is a gloriously brilliant and noble genius devoid of any human failings or flaws – to be ruined. 

I didn't want the real Adichie to disappoint me.

But this past week, I've read many things that have knocked Adichie off the pedestal she occupied in my mind, and the truth is, I saw it coming.

In a recent interview she did with American blogger Aaron Aden, Adichie came off as intelligent, measured, forthright and accomplished, but also condescending and egotistical. She described Elnathan John, a Nigerian writer who had attended one of her writing workshops (and who, by the way, has has THE best ‘About Me’ Blogger Intro I have ever read) in a manner that belittles him and exalts her. Here’s the offending part of the interview:

AB: I would love to ask you about the Caine Prize. I find it interesting that so many Nigerians are on the short list this year—that it’s four Nigerians out of five . . . 

CA: Umm, why is that a problem? Watch it. 

AB: Well, none of them are you! 

CA: Elnathan was one of my boys in my workshop. But what’s all this over-privileging of the Caine Prize, anyway? I don’t want to talk about the Caine Prize, really. I suppose it’s a good thing, but for me it’s not the arbiter of the best fiction in Africa. It’s never been. I know that Chinelo is on the short list, too. But I haven’t even read the stories—I’m just not very interested. I don’t go the Caine Prize to look for the best in African fiction. 

AB: Where do you go? 

CA: I go to my mailbox, where my workshop people send me their stories. I could give you a list of ten—mostly in Nigeria—writers who I think are very good. They’re not on the Caine Prize short list. 

This condescension irked Elnathan, who wrote a passive-aggressive retort to Adichie in his blog. Nigeria’s literary community were also irked, and took to newspapers, blogs and Twitter to vent. I only heard about the beef via a Twitter link to a story written by Sylvia Ofili in response to Adichie's comment that the best in African writing where found in her mailbox. 

Nigerian writer Elnathan John and Chimamanda Adichie

The reverence, accolades and praise she has been showered with since her debut novel Purple Hisbiscus seems to have elevated Adichie’s sense of self to a level where she now looks down from on high on the rest of us. Many reader comments in response to the Elnathan Caine Prize Beef have also confirmed my fears, as many of those who have met her state that Adichie is cold, distant and smiles with her lips but not her eyes during meet and greets. One girl recalled how, after she met Adichie in London following a talk, the writer scolded her for wearing a weave.

It is sad, but not surprising, to see that brilliance has been marred by humanity. But isn't that always the way? I never expected her to be perfect, that was why I preferred to admire her from afar. I never wanted to see this unpleasant side of her. I caught glimpses of her personality from the female characters she writes about, from Ifemelu to Kainene to Ujunwa, who are almost always quietly acidic and saturnine. This characteristic reminds me of a couple of friends I have, who are also brilliant, accomplished and loyal friends, so it didn't bother me. But I think she crossed the line by belittling Elnathan, who also stated in his blog that she emailed him scolding him for tweeting against her natural hair, and refused to speak to him afterwards despite his apologies. Adichie had also scolded a Nigerian magazine for referring to her as 'The Glamour Girl of Nigerian Writing', stating that it was an inappropriate description because she was past 30. Fair point. Yet she called a man above 30 ‘one of her boys.’

So Adichie has now come off the pedestal I had put her on. But it’s OK. I still love her writing, and Americanah was sublime. I loved the acerbic commentary on what it means to be Black in America, but not only to be African-American, but American African. I loved the dissection of liberal America both white, Black and other, loved the way the book weaves in the British Black experience too and the breezy but hard-hitting blog posts. The books says EVERYTHING I've felt, thought, said and experienced about race and Nigerian life and wealth, and much more that rang true, and the love story wasn't too bad either. 

Americanah felt so familiar. And unlike most people who read it that are either American, British or Nigerian but cannot always identify with all three cultures, I can identify with it all. I understood and recognised the American idiosyncrasies as well as the British nuances and the Nigerian ways, even the subtle and overt privileges of being an 'Americanah' (a Nigerian with experiences of living abroad). 

The best part for me was when Ifemelu described the initial shock of having to go into a capsule-like enclosure whilst entering and exiting a Nigerian bank. I laughed out loud whilst reading it, because I felt the exact same way when I had to do that for the first time, it was like "What the hell? What's going on here? How do I get out? Get me out!" 

If Americanah was a person, we would hit it off instantly and be best friends for life, because I so get it. Adichie writes very well. She says she spends a lot of time to construct the best sentences, and it shows. How’s this for a truth so well told:

“What I've noticed since been [in England] is that many English people are in awe of America but also deeply resent it,” Obinze added. “It’s the resentment of a parent whose child has become far more beautiful and with a far more interesting life.”

The best review of Americanah I've read is by Katherine Schulz (read it here) which does well to express Adichie's success in the ambition and scope of her book, as well as the fact that she captures and perceives race in America and Britain so well because she is an outsider.

Adichie is still, for me, the best writer of our generation that Nigeria has produced. I will not cut my nose to spite my face by denigrating her completely due to my new-found dislike for her personality as expressed in an interview and other exchanges. And although these are but minute insights into her character and in no way account for the totality of her as a person, it is enough for me to shake my head and lament on the damage our egos can cause. The praise she receives is justified, I just hope that in future she will speak and deal with her fans with more diplomacy, humility and wisdom. 

I, for one, now have an empty pedestal in my mind. And it shall henceforth remain empty because no human being can ever be above reproach.

Chimamanda Adichie, Natural Hair & Me

I have a crush on Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie. Never has a writer so captured my heart, mind and spirit like this Nigerian author, whose words represent all I want to be said and all I wish to say. Yet twice I have ran away from meeting her, shaking her hand and telling her how much I enjoy, appreciate, love and admire her body of work; from Purple Hibiscus, Half of a Yellow Sun, The Thing Around Your Neck and her latest novel, Americanah.

I was at the London Southbank Centre in 2009 where she read excerpts from the then unreleased The Thing Around Your Neck in her powerful, regal tones, uncorrupted by a fake foreign accent. She was by far the most intriguing of the ladies reading from their works up on that stage, and I will be eternally disappointed that I was unable to make it to her reading of Americanah at the same venue a few weeks ago.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

The way she captures the Nigerian identity today, the nuances and pretences and false beliefs and hopes of our parents, ourselves and our society, of how strong-minded, globally connected and aspiring Nigerians grapple with embracing our broken motherland despite the allure of the US, which represents both greener pastures and a lesson in self-awareness that leaves us straddling between two cultures, neither of which fully satisfy.

Her heroines are epic: saturnine, brooding, melancholy, passive aggressive, intensely cerebral women who quietly bear the pressure they're under, until the day they snap and walk away from what is supposedly every Nigerian woman's dream: the good but uniquely flawed man, the dream job/opportunity that eats away at your soul, the chance to live or stay in America but betray yourself.

She is the voice of the upwardly mobile Nigerian today, just like Chinua Achebe (their names will forever be linked in reviews and editorials) was the voice of his generation. The late great said of her:

“We do not usually associate wisdom with beginners, but here is a new writer endowed with the gift of ancient storytellers. [She] knows what is at stake, and what to do about it. She is fearless.”

He is spot on. It must be so fulfilling for Adichie to have someone so worthyunderstand her work so well. Her poise – one interviewer described her as ‘contained’- is obvious and her sense of self is empowering.

Yet I ran away from meeting her. The first time was after the book reading at London Southbank Centre, where I left afterwards instead of lingering behind to shake the hand of the woman ‘endowed with the gift of ancient storytellers.’ Then during another event at an arts venue near Clapham Junction station a year or so later where she did a book signing afterwards (I have a recording of her talk on my phone) I’d taken my copies of her books for her to sign, but I could not face her. A friend had to take it to her for her to sign for me, whilst I literally ran away to a corner of the auditorium and hid. I'm not entirely sure why.

My friends tried to physically pull me to where she was but I refused to see her. So she signed it, plus, Plus! she spelt my name right. A name that is usually spelt with two Ls but mine is with one L, and many don’t know that, but she did. That confirmed to me that we were kindred spirits. Just like Achebe ‘got’ her, she got me, and I get her.

Adichie with her second book, Half of a Yellow Sun which won the 2007 Orange Prize for Fiction

Adichie is one of the very few people I will pay money to go see. Music is not my thing, but books are, and her books are my favourite. She is to me what Beyonce or Michael Jackson is to music lovers. It would be Adichie's poster I would have on my wall and it would be her concerts I would go to and it would be her CDs I would know all the words too. I love to see genius; that honest, unbridled, natural and seemingly effortless ability, humanity and humility certain great people have. So imagine my joy when that person is a female Nigerian young enough to be my contemporary, with similar experiences of traversing both the Western and African continents? I positively reverberated with excitement when I learnt more about her. 

As a fellow writer and commentator on race and belonging, her works and her words in the many interviews I’ve read of hers are what mine would be. Her thoughts on the poor reading culture in Nigeria and her efforts to open a library and literary centres around Nigeria are my thoughts and desires. Her view on ‘The Dangers of the Single Story,’ which she spoke about so eloquently during the now well-known TED Talks is exactly how I feel about the media when it gives only one view of a place or a people, and the ripple effect of not knowing the full story.

I used her words as part of my Masters dissertation, mostly because it matched my subject of study and also because I loved what she said and how she said it. Listen for yourself here.

Then there is a subject she espouses on at length in much of her writing, especially in her latest book Americanah: her love for natural hair, something I too feel very strongly about. 

Adichie and her natural hair

But my natural hair journey did not begin with any strong notion of expressing my Africanness by eschewing the false notion of beauty that meant having straight long hair sewn into mine (I’ve never sewn a weave into my hair in my life) or the fallacy of relaxing my hair straight by burning away its natural curls. But six years ago I decided against spending £60 every month to 'fix' my hair and spending six hours in a chair getting it fixed, so I simply stopped relaxing it and waited for my own hair to grow long enough so I could cut off the relaxed ends.

Thankfully my hair is easy to comb out, but the early stages of having a boyish short cut was challenging until it grew long enough to style, although sadly it never grew as long as it once was. Now in Nigeria I get compliments by women who wish they could ‘go natural’ but can’t because of their receding hairline resulting from too many tight braids or because their natural hair is too tough. Now I love my hair; it’s cheaper to manage and takes little time to do up in the morning. It’s how God created it and its texture is just the way He wanted it to be. Fulani women are usually less likely than other Nigerian women to wear weaves anyway, because their hair is usually longer and softer with finer curls, and also because they mostly cover it up and are not under pressure to show it off in different styles. This in itself is a shame, i.e. the women with the loveliest hair are the ones that cover it up.

There’s a saying that ‘If there’s something that makes you unique, don’t change it just so you blend in.’ My natural hair is unique in a sea of Brazilian weaves, hair extensions and relaxed hair. Although I’ve worn wigs and had braids, mostly during the harsh winters in the UK or just for a change, because there is something incredibly feminine about having long hair skimming your shoulders. But my natural hair reigns supreme.

And of course Adichie understands the importance of Black women freeing themselves from the pressure of wearing synthetic or another woman’s hair, which they deem more beautiful than their own. She said:

“As you can see, I have natural, negro hair, free from relaxers and things... From when I was three years old I already had the idea that straight hair was beautiful and my hair was ugly. But then when I went to America, I suddenly found out I was Black! Suddenly I started thinking, why do I want my hair to look like a white girls’ hair? This is absurd.”

Then she said:

"My hair is in tiny cornrows; I have a big ponytail on the top of my head. I quite like it. It is natural. I am a bit of a fundamentalist when it comes to black women's hair. Hair is hair – yet also it's about larger questions: self-acceptance, insecurity and what the world tells you is beautiful. For many black women, the idea of wearing their hair naturally is unbearable."

In Americanah, Adichie describes her main character Ifemelu getting her hair relaxed:

“She left the salon almost mournfully; while the hairdresser had flat-ironed the ends, the smell of burning, of something organic dying which should not have died, had made her feel a sense of loss.”

I was also happy to hear that Adichie is now married to a fellow Igbo doctor based in America. I’m a traditionalist, so no matter how great a woman’s achievements are and no matter how much I admire them, I always feel sad for them if they are unmarried and childless. Like Condoleeza Rice, the former US Secretary of state who got her PhD aged 26, is an accomplished pianist and speaks English, Russian, French, Spanish and German fluently, but is childless and single. Or Oprah Winfrey, who I adore and was bereaved when her show ended, and loved her even more after watching a documentary about the OWLAG school for girls she opened in South Africa. Yet I feel she is incomplete for never having married or raised her own kids. Although in her case (and probably Rice’s too) she might not have achieved so much if she were a housewife.

But marriage seems to have added nothing to Adichie: she was whole since writing Half of a Yellow Sun. After reading her first novel Purple Hibiscus, I could see the writer emerging, but by Yellow Sun Adichie had arrived. And she remains in a state of ‘arrival’ and will continue to be a fully fledged, composed and confident writer.

Her powerful prose, the fact that she writes about the reality of straddling multiple cultures, the way she views whites in the West without sentiment or ass-kissing and her rendering of fully-formed characters who see and question life like real people do is right up my street.

After The Thing Around Your Neck, I waited for more. Then forgot that I was waiting. Then I heard the news last week that her latest novel will be out in a couple of weeks (Where was I?? I’ve dropped the ball on my Adichie-watch. In the UK I googled her endlessly and had read every bit of her online writing and interviews up until a certain point) and I was elated.

The premise of Americanah, of two high-school sweethearts in Nigeria finding themselves in different continents, one in US the other in UK and their resulting experiences of race, employment, relationships abroad, identity etc has gotten me so excited. I can’t wait to read it.

Adichie's new book: Americanah

But one thing Adichie said encapsulated my feelings, but in the opposite way to how she meant it:

“I like America but it’s not mine and it never will be. I don’t really have a life there. I travel and I speak and I sit in my study trying to write, but in Nigeria I have a life. I go out, I have friends, I feel emotionally invested in what’s happening.”

This. This is how I feel, but about the UK. I like Nigeria but it’s not mine. Alas, dear Adichie, this is where we disagree. Where Nigeria is home for you and the West is a sojourn, I feel the opposite. But we’re still related you and I. We still share an understanding of the world and an appreciation of the important things that make us African women in a globalised world. I love your audacity to write about what’s real to you, not what will bring you money. You speak for all of us and say it with maturity and knowing and humour and power.

Long may your pen continue to write. We may have lost Achebe, the father of African writing but we still have you, a daughter of today’s Africa who we can claim for ourselves. Write and write until you can write no more, because for every word you write there are many like me who devour them with relish.

Perhaps one day I will overcome my innate Fulani shyness and come face to face with you. I might cry, I might laugh, I might stare at you motionless and remain mute, coming off as aloof when inside I’m dancing. But whether I meet you in person or not, I will continue to meet you in your books.

Americanah here I come!

UPDATE

I've now read Americanah, and it is all I expected and so much more. I absolutely loved it! My review will be up soon once I've had time to fully digest it and formulate a worthy articulation of its brilliance and particular resonance with me on so many levels.

My Updated View of Fulanis Since Being in Nigeria

I had my predictions, presumptions and presuppositions about Fulani people before I came to Nigeria. Now that I’m here, I’m still looking from the outside in, like a long lost daughter peering through the window at her family eating dinner inside; they unaware of her desire to join them, she not knowing if entering their world would be a good idea. Would they let her in? Or shoo her away because despite her affiliation, she is forever changed?

But there are a few things I thought about Fulanis whilst in England that now I’m in Abuja I see was wrong or not quite the whole story:

WOMEN’S EDUCATION

Pre-Nigeria: I thought that very few Fulani women were educated up to Masters Level, educated abroad, had PhDs or held any high offices in business or other reputable professions.

Post-Nigeria: I’ve seen, met and read about many educated, professional Fulani women; from psychiatrists to editors and most things in between and  with international qualifications, mainly from Arab (majority-Islamic) countries. But these women are the fortunate ones that were born into the upper and political classes.

There are also many local schools specialising in the education of Nomadic Fulani children in Northern Nigeria. From what I saw, all were in deplorable conditions and lacked adequate furnishings or school materials, and the little Fulani children where crowded into tiny rooms. Also, the families of many nomadic Fulani girls refuse to send them to school or allow them to progress past secondary education.

 A (dilapidated) nomadic school in Northern Nigeria

I read a lot of Nigerian newspapers and watch a lot of Nigerian news, and noticed that the Fulani men featured wrote and spoke at a standard far above the average Nigerian (I hope you won’t mistake this for ethnic bias!), and I can say this with authority being a sub-editor for a newspaper here, that the general writing standard in Nigeria, even for editors is shockingly poor, except for the very few bright sparks and many of those were Fulanis.

RESPECT FOR CHRISTIANITY

Pre-Nigeria: Fulanis are fiercely Islamic and disliked Christians, Fulani Christians and converts.

Post-Nigeria: Its true that most Fulanis are devoutly Muslim, but the fact that they originally adhered to traditional religions was noticeable because of the ways a few local Fulani men dressed (in tight, effeminate clothing) unlike other muslims.

Another surprising thing is hearing from the mouths of a couple of high-profile Fulanis about their admiration for the Bible, Jesus and Mary. It seemed that the older and more educated some of them became, the more they were able to appreciate the wisdom in the Bible without allowing it to conflict with their Muslim faith. I dare say that some upper-class Fulanis even admire Christianity and would have explored the faith at a deeper level if not for the societal taboos inherent in questioning Islam and looking too closely at Christianity.

CHILD HERDERS

Pre-Nigeria: Fulani cow herders were almost always grown men.

Post-Nigeria: Fulani herders are usually young children and teenagers and even young girls too grazed cows.

TRIBAL FIGHTING

Pre-Nigeria: The Fulanis were guarded, shy and soft-spoken people who herded mostly in isolation from other tribes

Post-Nigeria: There have been many reports since I’ve been in Nigeria of Fulani herdsmen clashing with neighbouring tribes because of grazing grounds issues. Recently in Benue State, some Idoma youths killed five Fulani men and their cows because the cattle were destroying their crops.  Similar clashes occurred in Jos but this time the Fulanis were the agitators. This unrest between Fulanis and neighbouring tribes was something I was unaware of before I came to Nigeria.

The remains of a Fulani settlement after the Benue State clash

UNCONVENTIONAL FULANIS

Pre-Nigeria: Fulanis were strictly muslim and reserved and avoided scandal or mixing with other tribes.

Post-Nigeria: I should have known that that was a naive view to have. I’ve since been regaled by stories of unusual (to me) Fulani behaviour including the brilliant Fulani university lecturer in his 60s who had never been married and never wanted to marry. Although he was generous, renovating an entire wing of the university with his own money, he stated that he was more successful because he was single. 

Or stories of young Fulani men in Anambra State that hung out in bars, drank beer and spoke pidgin English and Igbo with the best of them. Imagine! And of Fulani women who were less than virtuous and did secret, nefarious deeds behind closed doors, both in Nigeria and in places like Dubai. That one tripped me the most. I always thought our women were bastions of morality (in Nigeria anyway, as I'm aware of ‘loose’ Fulani women in Francophone West African countries).

The moral of the story is that no matter how many books or documentaries you hear about a place, people or thing and how much you think you know, nothing beats first-hand information or seeing the thing for yourself. 

Nigerian Medical Care:A Case of Malaria vs Typhoid

I'd thoughtlessly enjoyed free healthcare in UK, to the extent where I dialled 999 and summoned an ambulance to my office one day after a particularly nasty bout of nose bleeds. The ambulance team came within minutes, laid me down in the fully-equipped bed in the back of the ambulance, checked my blood pressure, gave me aspirin, the ambulance lady asked me a ton of health-related questions and they promptly delivered me to the nearest hospital where the doctor met with me after 30 minutes of waiting to give me a nose drops-thing, and since then I haven't had another nose bleed. And I didn't pay a penny.

Kinda silly right? But I was very worried at the huge amounts of blood coming out of my nose, so for me it was an emergency! And thankfully the medical team looked after me very well.
  
Apart from that episode, I'd never been hospitalised, never broken any bones and never needed to see a doctor in England except for check-ups, but I was always glad they were available to me whenever.

The NHS (National Health Service): High quality care for all, for free.

But in Nigeria, there is no medical insurance linked to my job so I'm left on my own when it comes to healthcare, as are most other Nigerians. And funnily enough, it's in Nigeria that I've had to come face to face with my health, or lack of it. I've already described in another post about my feeling cold all the time, so that fans and ACs get me into coughing fits and a runny nose and I have to wear a scarf a lot of the time to protect my chest. I even had an episode of prolonged vomiting that lasted two days.

But I've intentionally stayed away from doctors and never want to see the inside of a Nigerian hospital as long as I'm here. They scare me. Just to see a doctor costs around N4,000. That's just to see a doctor. Then there's the costs of each prescription (my non-prescription, over-the-counter cough medicine, which lasted a week cost N2, 000), then you pay for each test (a colleague of mine was told a blood test he needed would cost N80, 000) and a night's stay in the hospital can cost around N8, 000 or more each night. It costs to have a baby in a hospital; up to N100, 000 or more depending on the quality of the hospital, and things like x-rays, CAT scans and MRIs are not only limited to few hospitals, but are also beyond the means of most Nigerians. To put it into perspective, a N50, 000 a month salary is quite good for a graduate. Being sick in Nigeria is expensive.

Even the mosquito nets that Western charities and relief agencies collect donations to fund so that "an African family can get a free mosquito net", it is not free. I've heard from reliable sources that even the poor in rural areas have to pay for these nets because those selling it to them haven't been compensated enough and have to sell it on to make a living, because the Chairmen and managers of the Nigerian organisations in charge of distributing the donations steal all the money.

(However, all the homes I've been in have mosquito netting on the windows as standard, and along with mosquito repellents this eliminates the need for an actual net around your bed, unless you live in the village).

Mosquito Nets: They're not Free!

And medical tests here seem a bit iffy for me. Since I've been here, whenever a colleague or friend is feeling unwell, they put it down to Malaria or Typhoid. Everyone that's sick has either Malaria or Typhoid. Every illness in Nigeria seems to fall into one of these two categories, probably because these are the only two tests that the doctors can confidently test for and detect. That and AIDS (tests of which are usually free). It seems that if it's not Typhoid or Malaria, they place it in the 'unknown' category and put you on a drip. A friend's brother felt feverish, and it wasn't Malaria or Typhoid so they put him on a drip and told him to spend a night in hospital.

Rare, obscure or complicated illnesses remain undetected. You'll never here that someone in Nigeria has been diagnosed with Acute Conjunctivitis or Gastroenteritis. If it's not Malaria or Typhoid, your condition is classified as unexplained. A friend, whenever she's feeling feverish, has a cough or has a temperature, she treats herself by buying Typhoid medication. If that doesn't work, she tries Malaria tablets. If it doesn't work, she tries the Typhoid medicine again, and on and on until eventually she feels better. It's crazy.

Another friend, after his Typhoid and Malaria self-treatment didn't work, resorted to drinking some traditional medicine his aunt sent him, which consisted of a green, leafy-mint smelling liquid sludge he kept in the fridge. And it worked! He was hale and hearty in record time.

In the case of accident emergencies like a car crash, victims have to depend on the kindness of fellow motorists to ferry them to the hospital as there are no ambulances, and sometimes a potential good Samaritan will refrain from taking an injured person to the hospital out of fear that he/she would be forced to pay the medical bills, or be implicated by the police in one way or another.

The ruling class have long ceased to put their faith in the country's hospitals and routinely fly out for any major and even minor ailments. Nigeria's First Lady, Patience Jonathan, is currently in Germany receiving treatment for an undisclosed illness, and prior to that visited hospitals in Dubai, Italy and Spain.

The funny thing is that there are many Nigerian doctors and nurses in many British and American hospitals, and they're very good too. It's just that the code of practice here is so poor and under-regulated that doctors put profit over their Hippocratic oaths and the condition of some hospitals leave a lot to be desired.

Because of the aspirations and brilliance of many Nigerians I meet on a daily basis, I forget that I'm in a third-world country until one experience - like paying a visit to a friend in hospital -  jolts me back to reality. 

Anyway I've got a Health Fund, money I've kept specifically that will enable be to fly back to England as soon as I feel ill. It's a necessity. And as soon as I get pregnant I will be domiciled in the UK, so that in case of anything I will be in a country where fantastic medical care is free to me simply because I am a citizen. Even if I collapse on the street, all any one has to do is dial three numbers on their phone and free medical aid is on its way.

And on my return to England, I'll have a full medical check-up and stock up on aspirins, Ibuprofens, cough medicines etc (I've heard of fake pills and medicines in Nigeria too) to keep me until my next visit.

Long live the NHS!