The Little Fulani Cowgirl and other Abuja stories

So I'm still living and working in Abuja, and below I've documented four unique experiences with what some might call 'the lowly' amongst us. In so doing I hope not to make the same mistake US singer Brandy did, of only documenting street kids on dirt-roads from her visit last year to Lagos, and calling it 'Beautiful Africa.' 

Although I joined others in condemning her pictures - what about the fancy hotels, boutiques and plush cars she experienced? Why only show the (overused, clichéd) poverty of Africa? - I now understand her. Coming from her world, the naked poverty in Nigeria grabbed her attention and touched her more than the wealth in the country. She's familiar with luxury hotels and tarred roads, so the unfamiliar is what stood out for her.

So in these stories, which all occurred last year, I describe my encounters with people I'm not used to, often watch from afar and who I'm not able to know very well due to our different stations in life.

The Little Fulani Cowgirl

You could just make out the top of her shaggy head amidst the wide, white flanks of the cows gathered around her. Then she comes into view: a little Fulani girl barely seven years old, with dirt-brown curly hair plaited haphazardly, and the tiny stray strands that escaped forming a fuzzy halo around her little head.

Wearing a blue, oversized T-shirt that reached down past her knees, her thin legs ended in a pair of adult slippers encasing tiny feet caked in the brown dust of the earth that she had no doubt been traversing for hours already that afternoon.

She grasped in her little hand a thin but sturdy stick that was twice her height, which she used as an aid to edge her way past the slow-footed cows and around the side of the road. Now and then she also used the stick to whack a fidgety cow to stop it from heading towards the cars that were waiting for the herd to cross, a scene which occurs periodically on this residential road.

Unafraid, accomplished and proud, the little cowgirl wore a look of experienced calm and maintained an assurance that refused to be intimidated by the animals that were bigger than her or the motorists growing impatient around her.

She wasn’t perturbed by the heat of the sun, the dusty road or the long hilly hike ahead of her, and as I looked she shouted out to the herd with a shrill, tiny voice, and the animals immediately heeded their little mistress and trooped faster past the waiting cars.
 

She manoeuvred the animals with grace under fire; they trusted her and she understood them. And as she walked behind the last cow crossing, our eyes met and she looked at me for a fraction of a second with cool, haughty eyes betraying little of the innocence no doubt still within.

Here was a little girl in charge of her family’s wealth and pride, single-handedly dealing with the hostilities of the city and the terrain, armed with only a stick and her fierce resolve. She knows the roads, the routes, the hills and the valleys, she probably also knew each cow by name.

Soon she will give up herding and settle into the sedentary life of a wife and mother, but for now it was just her and her herd against the world, roaming wild and free and fearless.

As the proud little cowgirl walked off into the distance with her troop of 15 or so cows trudging obediently behind her, I marvelled at her control and confidence.

She was born to do this.

The Barefooted Prisoner

A barefooted, small-boned man with scraggly hair, a T-shirt full of holes and a hound-dog expression walked up to us one warm weekday evening as we stood in front of a Tapas Bar near the Gudu bypass.

He came to us hesitantly, as if he was a pigeon and we were holding out bread in our palms. We tried to ignore him at first, but the weight of sorrow in his eyes and his obvious vulnerability made us forego our concern that he was a scam-artist begging for money. Like the well-dressed, middle-aged man who alighted from a Jeep and asked us for N10, 000 to pay for his daughter’s medical bills. It was only after we gave him what we could and he drove off that it dawned on us that we’d been swindled.

But this small man was different. He kept scratching himself slowly all over as he told us, in a barely-audible voice, his story. Big tears dropped from his eyes, which he wiped with his shoulder in a move that was so pitiful it was innocent.

Back in Taraba State, he said, he and a group of friends were walking through a market when there was a commotion: someone had been stabbed in a fight. He helped eight others to carry the victim to the hospital, and whilst there the victim died and despite their protests, the police arrested them for murder. They were thrown into jail and later ferried to Kuje Prison in Abuja to complete their sentence. That was nine years ago. He was just released today and wanted to return to his wife and children in Taraba but didn’t know where to go or where to start.

We stared at him in silence. Was this for real? Was this poor man’s life just taken away from him for an instinctual act of kindness?

He stared at the floor whilst we consulted amongst ourselves, now and then shooting more questions at him to ascertain the veracity of his tale. He didn’t even ask for money, he just told his story and kept quiet, waiting for us to pronounce our judgment on him from on high, just like the judge and the police declared their life-changing judgement on him all those years ago.  

He mentioned that one of the friends had died in prison; they were regularly beaten up and hardly given any food. If ever there was an example of someone whose spirit had been broken, it was him.

We pitied him and gave him some of what we had, and pointed to the direction of cars going towards the park where he can get transportation to Taraba. He took the money with both hands, offered a lengthy thanks with more tears, and walked away slowly; a dejected, confused victim of poverty.

If the rage from the injustice he’s suffered caused him to kill tomorrow, I wouldn’t blame him. The depraved amongst us are made so by others, which is why we are told not to judge, for only God knows the full story. It is a wonder more men don’t turn to violence, when such violence is visited upon them daily.

How Much is an Egg Roll?

There’s an instant pleasure one derives from biting into a warm egg roll, especially when the dark brown pastry surrounding it is both savoury and sweet and crumbles in the mouth. With this yearning in mind, I walked out of the office at lunchtime in search of the eggroll sellers, who carry their cheap but sumptuous wares on their heads to many a labourers’ delight.

It was my lucky day: A teenage girl was passing by with a lidded, translucent plastic bucket on her head. I could just about make out the eggrolls inside. As she walked on, skilfully balancing her load on a head, she didn’t even need to use a hand to hold the bucket in place, such was her hawking experience.

One arm hung playfully by her side as the other held a small plastic carrier bag hooked to her wrist, no doubt containing her takings for the day’s sales so far. She walked with an air of confident abandon: “I don’t need to go to school,” she seemed to be saying. “The sun and the breeze and the open road are my education. I know these streets like the back of my hand.” 

I made short hissing sounds to get her attention, and when she heard, she turned around and walked towards me. As she reached me, she brought down her bucket and opened it. “Good afternoon madam” she said in a sing-song voice. I greeted her and looked inside her pail. There were eggrolls alright, bigger than average and the rough unevenness of the dark-brown dough glistening with grease testified to the fact that the dough will be sufficiently crunchy. But apart from the rounded eggrolls, there were elongated dough of the same colour, moulded into fat, short tubes. 

“What are those?” I asked, pointing at one.

“Fish roll” she replied, her inanimate eyes wondering away and resting on the woman walking by.

They look interesting, I thought. “Give me one eggroll and one fish roll” I said, looking forward to biting into one of the moist flour-casing and tasting bits of fish instead of a hard-boiled egg.

The girl took out one small black carrier bag from the bag hooked unto her wrist, spread it out on her cupped hand and used it to scoop up the delicacies, wrapping the bag up around them.

“How much?” I asked.

“N200”

I looked back at the snacks in the bag. “Remove the fish one” I said. Knowing that the price of eggrolls ranged from N50 to N80 depending on where you bought them, N200 for two – one of which was a flavour unknown to me – was too much. Plus I couldn’t guarantee that these eggrolls will taste good. Looks can be deceiving. And the freshness of the products, now that it was already 2:30pm and there were only a few left in the bucket was uncertain. Wouldn’t all the oil seep down to the last remaining rolls, making them soggy from the extra grease and the accumulated heat-turned-sweat from the sun?

The doubts raised by the extra N120 was immense. Did my clothes or the fatness of my purse fool this girl into thinking it was full or money? Or did the wholesale price of flour and eggs suddenly increase in Abuja so that it translated into an extra N20 charge for an eggroll? 

But I didn’t say anything. I paid with N500, and saw that I collected all her change: eight N50 notes. I wondered where the rest of her money was. But the abundance of N50s proved to me that indeed the rolls did retail at half the price. The young swindler was smart. “Thank you ma” she said, as she heaved the bucket back unto her head.

Those three words turned my displeasure into a shrug. Back at the office, I bit into the roll. It was still fresh and uncluttered by too much grease. My N100 was well spent.

My Maiguard is Getting Married

Our maiguard has one of those faces that is neither old nor young; he could be 18, he could be 38. Small in stature and speaking a dialect of Hausa that baffled us, Aminu is a good, if absent-minded guard.

I remember when he first arrived from Zaria straight to our house; he was hunched and hesitant, with overgrown hair and a furtive, haunted look in his eyes. He used to grunt to alert you to his presence, and he had a permanent scowl on his face. But after a few months with us, he became more self-assured, got regular hair-cuts, wore the clothes we gave him with pride and stood taller. He even replaced his grunts with words; it was like seeing the blossoming of a flower. Soon he started cooking for himself and made friends with the other guards in the estate, and he smiled and laughed more. Even his brand of Hausa became more familiar to us.

Yet he remained our lowly, trust-worthy Maiguard, until he told us his intentions to return to his native Zaria to get married. I was surprised. So Aminu, this young (or old, we still couldn’t ascertain his actual age-range) man who opens and closes our gate, weeds the yard, washes the cars and does other necessary work around the house for which we paid him an agreeable amount, wanted to get married?

He said that the girl had already been chosen for him by his family; she was the sister of a girl he had been dating previously, but that girl had been given out in marriage to another man when Aminu came to Abuja, so his family had accepted her sister for him.

I remember entering his messy Maiguard house to drop something for him, and on the floor was a picture of a light-skinned young woman wrapped in a red veil from head to toe. She was lying down on her side and stared blankly at the camera. So when Aminu said he’d never met his bride-to-be but had been sent her picture, my mind recalled the girl in red.

She was rather pretty, I thought. Will she be pleased with Aminu, a diminutive man/boy with a semi-permanent scowl? He told us her bride-price was N70, 000 and he’d been saving up for months for her. I wondered if N70, 000 was considered the price for a top-drawer maiden in rural Zaria.

Last week, Aminu left to get married, I could sense his excitement as he said farewell to us. But he’ll come back soon, as his family have advised him to return to Abuja after marriage because there are no jobs in their community. But he won’t be bringing his wife with him. So after a few days in Zaria, during which time he would not only meet his bride for the first time, but would have married her, he would bid farewell to his life-partner for a few months until he returned to Zaria again. Aminu will then return to us a married man.

I wondered if, nine months later, Mrs Aminu would have a baby. Would Aminu still stay on in Abuja? Will he take on more wives? Can he look after a family on his modest Maiguard wages?

All these questions cast my Maiguard in a whole new light.

In Which I Wade into the Nigerian Anti-Gay Law Debate

Nigeria has made herself the enemy of the West by banning same-sex marriage, same-sex unions and same-sex associations, with law-breakers facing 14 years in jail.

CNN (International) - Nigeria's premier news channel broadcasting on every, and I mean every, flat screen TV in every bank, shop, office and public area in Abuja 24/7- is particularly pissed about it.

I noticed how much CNN had been pushing the pro-gay agenda prior to this law. One report I remember was when famously gay singer Elton John and famously gay tennis star Billie Jean King spoke to Christianne Amanpour about the recent brouhaha over Russia's anti-gay stance during the Winter Olympics this year.

Will there ever by a Gay Marriage in Nigeria?

And of course CNN's Anderson Cooper and Don Lemon are gay (and Becky Anderson maybe? I always though she was gay. I like to think my gay-dar is strong.) I'm pretty sure they and probably the gay/lesbian CNN producers make sure to highlight injustices against homosexuals around the world and promote gay rights advances wherever it occurs.

Western movies, TV shows and music have also being promoting homosexuality as a 'normal thing,' with gay dads and their adopted daughter on comedy Modern Family and almost every other student coming out as gay in high school musical comedy Glee.

So when Nigeria's President Goodluck Jonathan came riding rough-shod over the Western media’s delicately-handled ‘Operation re-educate the world about homosexuality’ PR exercise, by passing the 'anti-gay' bill into law earlier this month, the West was livid. They threatened to withhold their aid, spoke strongly against the law calling it a violation of human rights, and Canada even cancelled Jonathan's visit to the country in protest.

CNN led the charge against Nigeria. I'm sure the channel is aware of its huge following here as the most watched and most trusted news station in the country, way ahead of the supposed national news channel NTA, which nobody watches, including me, because the picture quality and sound harkens back to the 1970s and the content is drab and mostly government-sponsored.

Nigerians also invest a huge amount to advertise on CNN International. You would think it was a national station the way Nigerian-sponsored adverts for mobile phone networks like Glo, MTN and Etisalat ,and random door and furniture stores advertise heavily on the station, and I hear these ads are not cheap. The CNN (International ) we watch here is also shown in the UK and other English-speaking African countries (America has its own version), but 50% of the adverts are Nigerian.

Plus almost every other personality on the channel's African Voices is Nigerian. Talk about dominance!

So CNN used its popularity in the country to make a point and ran extended news features decrying Nigeria's latest law, with breathlessly apoplectic journalists reporting from Lagos on the various gay-rights abuses they'd heard about. Christianne Amanpour even interviewed Bisi Alimi, the first man to come out on national TV in Nigeria, following which he had to seek asylum in Britain. He spoke passionately and eloquently on the issue; if I was gay I would have been so proud of him as the spokesman for Nigerian gays.

Bisi Alimi, Nigeria's first man to declare himself gay on TV, on CNN a few days ago

As the debates rage on, if you’re in Nigeria you’re in one of these four camps: 

1. Gays and Gay-lovers: Yes! At last, the gays and lesbians have a voice! Roll on happy gay marriages across the nation and civil rights for gay people everywhere! Today debates, tomorrow full acceptance, maybe even a gay President!

2. The Homophobic Majority: God bless Jonathan for putting those nasty gays in their place! If I catch any of those dirty men ehn, I will...Hmm. Imagine leaving the luscious beauty of a woman and handling the nether regions of my fellow man? Tufiakwa! Abeg, if they even dare to protest I will be the first in line to beat those men-chasers. Imagine!

3. The Ignorant Minority: Wait, there are gay people in Nigeria? Since when? I thought it was only a white man’s disease. Wonders shall never end...

4. The Casual Observers: Wow, all this talk about gayness. I don’t really care if they want to bum each other, that’s their prerogative. They want to marry too? Umm, OK, but just NIMBY (Not in my back yard) please.

The emerging voices of Group 1 loudly drowned out by the distaste of Group 2 has taken over the airwaves, with nary a voice from Group 4 even acknowledged.

Group 3 were previously in the dark about matters of same-sex relationships thanks to the culture of ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ prevalent in Nigeria, and only came across images of homosexuality on Western TV, hence its association with white people. (Which is naive of course, because there have always been homosexuals all across Nigeria - I hear the North plays a major role in this scene too - and it's an open secret that some top politicians are men who like to sleep with other men for homosexual/political/spiritual/financial reasons *cough cough*)

I am firmly in Group 4, whereby I am distinctly nonchalant about the whole discussion. As a non-homosexual with no ties to homosexuals and a balanced view of the Bible, I am blasé about the issue.

I’ve had friends that were gay, and I've read testimonials written by secretly gay Christians who are completely tortured by their desire for the same sex and have prayed, fasted and had counselling to dispel it, some even married and had children, but still they can’t shake it off. If they could take a pill and become heterosexual tomorrow, they would do it in an instant. They often question God in tears asking him why He would inflict them with such a reprehensible affliction.

So I’m sympathetic to their plight, and the desire for those who are happy to be gay to live without discrimination. But I'm concerned about their growing confidence and demand for not only acceptance, but full immersion into the mainstream and for their lifestyle to be accepted as alternative rather than deviant.
Lawmakers used the law to say: “No thanks. The West can legalise homosexuality and go to hell in a hand-basket if it wants, but as for we Nigerians and our country, we will serve the Lord (and punish those homos with their anal activities).”


Africans in general are vehemently anti-gay. It's in their blood. The African man that is pro-gay has either spent some time abroad, is well-read and well-versed in Western culture, or is gay himself (much to his own initial horror and shame probably.) But there are also men who tick all three boxes but who remain outwardly homophobic and inwardly tormented.


Then there are small pockets of Nigerian intellectuals and free-thinkers who argue for the rights of homosexuals in their small enclaves of enlightenment. They have been vocal on Twitter and I've also conversed with a few. They are the well-read, often (but not always) foreign-educated young idealists who are embarrassed by the hate spewed against homosexuals by their fellow countrymen, and often regard such homophobes as inadequately-educated religious zealots.

But Jesus never said a thing about homosexuals. Not one thing. He spoke against greed, pride, the love of money and adultery (all of which occur in spades in Nigeria and around the world), but not a jot about gays, which leads me to believe that in heaven's assessment of sin, homosexuality is not number one. Besides, it was pride that got Satan thrown out of heaven, not homosexuality.

But I do believe that being gay is an unnatural aspect of humanity; a glitch in the matrix, a defect in nature. I compared being born gay to being born without an arm once, and somebody took offence. All humans need eyes and all men and women were given sex organs that compliment each other to enable procreation and pleasure; some are born without eyes, and some are born gay.

To put it in another (more crude) way, if all was well with homosexuality sexually-speaking, why would gay men still need 'a hole' and lesbians an 'artificial penis' to satisfy? The normal way works best after all right?

Though some that are born gay (there are children as young as nine who tell their parents they're gay, and gay adults say they've been aware of their sexual orientation for as long as they can remember), but others become gay following homosexual abuse by the same sex in their childhood. I also believe there is a spirit of homosexuality that can rest on some families, i.e. the issue of the man who has three daughters and two of them are lesbians. I was like, wow, in one family? That's got to be a spiritual thing.

So I have a little understanding of the plight of gay people but a distaste for their demands. They are not normal in the full sense of the word, and no I would not want my child to be gay, simply because I wish for my children success, marriage, family and normalcy. And I want grandchildren the old-fashioned way. I don't want my child to be different all their lives or to be ashamed to face God because they feel innately inadequate.

What I don't have is hate for gay people. Why should I hate them simply because they are gay? I've known some lovely gay people, and they are often highly intelligent and hugely hilarious. What they do in their house is their business, but I don't want them to push their agenda or force me to accept their lifestyle as good and pleasing, because I believe it's still wrong to mate with your fellow sex. It's not normal. But if you're gay, it's absolutely fine with me. 

A gay acquaintance and I once quite happily co-existed in a plain of mutual unspoken disapproval about something hugely important to us: he disapproved of my faith, and I of his homosexuality. As long as we didn't go there we got on just fine. I would, for instance, watch a Gay Rights march with some interest, but not join in or cheer. But if one of the marchers got hurt in any ensuing violence, I would call for help and tend to them. I don't support what they do but I support their right to live, work and be.

And I believe there are Nigerians out there who are also viewing these hot debates with a pinch of salt. The world will not end if gays got married, but we don’t want to see them canoodling in the back-row at the cinemas either. The law has come, good, if it is repealed tomorrow, fine.

Recently I had dinner with a group of ex-pats and other returnees to Nigeria, and one of the women, upon hearing I was Fulani, asked me if the Fulani men she's seen dressed flamboyantly in tight, colourful tops and trousers, with their thin waists, long hair, pretty eyes enhanced with eyeliner and delicate ways are gay. I remember asking the same question myself when I came across a group of similarly-dandified Fulani young men. I am told they're not gay, they just like to dress that way. Fine. Odd, but fine.

They are also not, as far as I know, yan daudus, which are effeminate men from the North who dress like women and are mostly gay. No, this class of Fulani men just like to dress prettily, that's all.

So as a card-carrying member of the Casual Observers Group, I declare that nobody should be lynched or beaten or insulted or discriminated against for being gay, but homosexuals should also temper their demand for acceptance with sensitivity: not everyone likes what you do, so if you must, do it quietly and don’t make a scene.

That is all.

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.

A Brutally Honest Account of my Life in Nigeria

Nigeria has to be lived to be believed. It’s no good getting one’s feet wet by dipping it sheepishly into the ocean that is our great country, then running off the minute the water gets too cold or too hot, like many of my friends do who visit Nigeria on holiday and enjoy the food, clubs, parties, family and weddings on offer, then rush back to England before Nigeria gets under their skin and they can’t wash it off anymore.

I’m talking about how I immersed myself into the country head over heels until, thoroughly soaked through and dripping wet with Nigeria clinging to my clothes, I returned to England a full 14 months after first arriving in Abuja, blinking under the lights of Heathrow airport and feeling once more the icy cold of December in London. I got used to seeing white people everywhere again and remembered Nigeria only in flashes of hazy, Technicolor brilliance.

Stories of Injustices Abound

I had to go back to England and after two weeks, return to Nigeria again before I could put into perspective what it means to become a Nigerian.  And it’s no longer all happy stories of self-discovery in the Motherland and chin-chin and smiling Fulanis. It’s a collage of sweaty nights, mosquitoes, noisy traffic where horns blare each and every second and paying N400 for a DVD that others in the know pay N100 for. It’s a mixture of the freedom of not having to pay to park everywhere you go, sweet, gorgeous treats like Choco-milo and Fura da Nono and the immediate fascination you encounter simply because you’re British, all mixed with the agony of reading about a man imprisoned for three years for stealing a goat whilst the man responsible for stealing N32 billion worth of pensioner’s money got away with a N750,000 fine. 

 Former Pension boss John Yusufu, who stole N27 billion from Nigeria's Pension Fund 

Or hearing about a pregnant woman who died in front of watching nurses who refused to help because the woman’s husband didn’t have enough money to pay for her treatment. Or a colleague telling me how she got into a taxi, was harassed by the men inside who snatched her handbag and pushed her out of the moving vehicle. Or the gas explosion near my house caused by the same gas canisters used for cooking that friends of mine use. Or the parents who lost all their five children in a fire as neighbours struggled to help because the fire service were not available. Or the dozens of dead bodies found floating in a river one day, and the lack of forensics or police might meant that no one knows who they were or how or why they died.

The daily injustices, unnecessary deaths and unfair suffering those around me endure that is in stark contrast with the 20 houses and millions of naira worth of cars owned by just one person is enough to make me want to grab my red passport and board the next flight back to civilisation. But yet I stay.

Nigeria for me was a challenge, a lesson in survival, a desire to see what all my education and work experience will get me in my own country, and a longing to live in a society where I’m not a second-class citizen simply because of the colour of my skin.

My Eyes Are Open

But there are times when I've hated the very people I was a few months ago delighted to be among. It’s only in Nigeria that I’ve seen the pure wickedness one man can have for another, and the ravenous greed that drives men to steal money allocated for schools, which forces young students to take their lessons under a tree, defecate in the open and sit six to a bench in the pursuit of an education that in the end will get them nowhere unless they have a relative in high places that can give them a job when they graduate.

Nigeria has opened my eyes to the worst of humanity, and sometimes I’m appalled to call it my country. But as it is for other Nigerians, the national pride and hope for better sits alongside my repulsion at what my fellow countrymen are capable of.

The young men hawking dried fish, newspapers, puppies (yes puppies), milk and mops in traffic for hours under the hot sun has become an everyday sight now; I barely bat an eyelid. Recently though, I saw a boy whose entire jaw was jutting out of his mouth so that his face was unnaturally elongated downwards...he was weaving in and out of traffic begging along with his chaperone. Another time I saw a little girl, naked except for her underwear, with a huge tumour on her back. I was so angry my eyes turned red. Angry that we the motorists had to be subjected to the sight of such deformity, angry that there was nothing for her to do but beg, angry that her ‘chaperone’ left her to walk about in the sun almost naked, and angry that such a horrible thing was happening.

All this and worse Nigerians have to see and yet somehow continue our day. I constantly have to ask, to no one in particular, "Why do they let this happen?" and I'm met with shrugged shoulders and shaking heads.

'Runs' Girls and an Ode to a Dog 

Then there is the issue of young girls selling their bodies to the highest bidder, sometimes for as little as a BlackBerry phone, other times for houses, millions and cars given to them by their wealthy benefactors. And you know what? I don’t blame them. Even if they had the brains, if they don’t know the right people they will never get far. So why not use their bodies to get what they want? Virtue is affordable only to the rich, or those from stable societies where you can make it based on merit. But when you grew up dirt poor in a village where you ate only once a day, and you come to Abuja and there are hardly any jobs available, and men are willing to sleep with you in return for wealth, only the best among us would reject that offer.

And, I remember once watching as a dog with dirty, patchy, white fur walked alone around a rubbish dump, no owner, no home, nothing. It had sad eyes and as I watched, for reasons inexplicable to me, I fell in love with it and wanted to take it home. A dog! Not the tiny, long-haired urchins I see every day, but the dog? I watched it for about ten minutes until it ran off, and my heart went out to it and I pitied it and I wrote an ode to it in my mind; wondering where it slept, what it ate, where it was born. Afterwards, I reviewed my behaviour and laughed. Nigeria was getting into my head.

Here everything I’d learnt about fair-play, honesty, humility and politeness had to be thrown out of the window. In Nigeria, up is down and down is up as far as universal standards of behaviour is concerned. If you want something, pretend you don’t otherwise you pay more for it. And you have to be mean to your subordinates so they respect you, because the minute they see you’re nice they disrespect you mercilessly. And never discuss your upcoming successes, because there are many ready to put a spanner in the works. And I’m ashamed to admit it; I’ve also learnt to lie. Because in this upside down society, lies open doors and the truth gets you in trouble.

Nigeria, dear readers, has brought out the villain in me I never even knew was in there.

I’ve also noticed, and it has now begun to exasperate me, how many hours and column inches is devoted to deconstructing ‘The Problem of Nigeria’, where brilliant minds express eloquent ideals and ideas about how to fix the country. Everybody and their mama has a solution for Nigeria, yet here we are. So why do it? All that talk, and trust me, it’s a daily occupation with Nigerians, gets us nowhere.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly 

I wanted to experience everything in this country. So I rode on a motorcycle (Okada), which is a mode of transport for many who can’t afford taxis, much to the dismay of my friends. No matter how you do it, it remains undignified for a lady to mount a bike, and dismounting it was equally ungraceful. I also rode in a Keke-Napep, visited crowded markets (and I was overcharged every time) and walked through the ramshackle villages in the outskirts of Abuja.

I’ve also stayed in expensive rooms in Transcorp Hilton and Sheraton (smarting at the cost of the privilege and annoyed by the unbridled fawning of hotel staff towards foreigners and the wealthy) and grand houses in Asokoro and visited shockingly extravagant homes in Maitama where each and every piece of furniture was imported from Dubai or America and there were flatscreen TVs in every room including the kitchen. I’ve eaten at expensive restaurants and local Mama Puts. I’ve seen the good, the bad and the ugly, and there is a lot of ugly, and my conclusion is that Nigeria is not for the faint-hearted. It is better experienced the way white people experience it: through the windows of air-conditioned SUVs as it speeds from the airport to a nice hotel, never seeing the dirty underbelly and believing the lies your hosts tell you about how the country is improving.

Like the lies the Nigerian President Goodluck Jonathan told CNN’s Christianne Amanpour during his infamous interview, especially the one about electricity improving.

CNN's Christianne Amanpour interviewing Nigerian President Goodluck Jonathan

It might be improving, but at a snail's pace inconsistent with the billions the country makes in oil. I find many things I enjoy in Nigeria, including the delicious variety of food and treats which suits me fine as I'm a foodie with a sweet tooth, the gregarious humour of the people I meet and work with everyday and the indomitable human spirit to be found in every Nigerian that says, despite the injustices, I will smile. Still, I will rise.

I've met truly delightful people, and many others who are just tainted by their environment who I feel would soar to great heights in countries like the UK where their attributes will be valued.

But Nigerians are also the most patient, most forgiving, most industrious, most animated, most greedy, most wicked, most generous, most desperate and most exasperating people I have ever met. I now have a healthy love-hate relationship with them and with the country. But I wouldn’t swap my experiences here for anything in the world.

Like my brother-in-law told me when I went back to London, “You left England a girl and returned a woman.”

The Olympics and The Bragging Games

So the biggest event to ever happen in my dear city of London is the Olympics, and I miss it completely. OK not completely, I got to watch the whole thing on TV.

I was impressed with the legends that Michael Phelps, Usain Bolt and Mo Farrah, welled up with emotion singing the British national anthem at the medal ceremonies, was disappointed with the weird and lackluster opening ceremony (the best bit was the Queen jumping out of the helicopter) kinda liked the closing ceremony, especially the Spice Girls and Oasis singing Wonderwall; and disappointed that the small African country of Gabon won a silver medal, and even Afghanistan won something yet Nigeria came home with nothing.

Anthony Obame from Gabon won a Silver medal in Taekwondo

My family were on holiday away from England during much of August so I decided to postpone my visit home until later in the year, but I still went through a mini depression wishing I was back in London to experience everything live. Many people I knew had tickets to the games or were volunteers and others told me about the electric atmosphere that was charged all around the city, and I was kicking myself that I wasn't there. 

Now I’m planning to be in Rio in four years for the 2016 Olympics. But seeing that seven years ago, when London first won the bid to host the games, I’d planned that by 2012 I’d be married with five kids, be the editor of my own lifestyle magazine, own a house in South London and watch all the track and field events live with my family, I now know that things don’t always happen as planned. I would never have imagined I’d be living and working in Abuja with new and wonderful friends and family in 2012. It’s amazing how plans and desires can change.

   

Speaking of new friends, I’ve been in Nigeria long enough now to note one major difference between how Nigerians interact compared with the British: Bragging. Whether insidious, implied or obvious, when a group of people come together in Nigeria they jostle for position; who has foreign education, who lives in or visited (or their mother/brother/uncle lives in or visited) the UK or US, who has the most expensive designer thing from abroad etc.

Now, my British friends and I would find such ‘showing off’ distasteful. The British way is to be modest and mention your achievements when necessary. I once worked in an office in London with PhD Doctors and reputable engineers, and I had no idea until I was privy to their employment records, and found out that at least five of my co-workers had many published books to their name and were somewhat celebrated in their fields. I mentioned this to them and one blushed, and I jokingly insisted on calling another one ‘Dr’ and he laughingly declined, telling me not to be so silly.

But in Nigeria, such men and women would insist on everyone addressing them as Dr so and so and would find every opportunity to ‘casually’ mention their doctorate or study abroad, and would believe they were better than their non-lettered colleagues.

I have models, editors, chattered accountants, film makers and well-traveled people amongst my group of friends, but we wouldn't dream of recounting our every accomplishment when we got together. But not so in Nigeria. Here people find reasons to continuously mention their foreign experiences, the purchase of their 'authenticly foreign' weave/iPad/washing machine/designer bag.

Not everyone does it, but too many do. I find it all unnecessary and uncouth. But I guess it’s different for me: where visiting London is considered something to shout about for them, I grew up there. Where buying a washing machine is impressive here, such appliances are standard installations in houses where I come from. And where buying a bag imported from Italy is noteworthy here, my friends and I go to Italy to buy such bags.

So I find myself retreating from such conversations. I don’t want ladies to compete with me in a game I have no intention of playing, and even if I were to play, would win anyway. And many times people lie to make their lives seem more fabulicious than it really is. It’s silly, exhausting and sad. And I find that when I casually mention something about my life in England, to them it’s like I've upped the ante and they feel challenged to offer their own fantastic story.

My friend in Ghana (we left England together at the same time) also reports of such ‘Bragging Games’ among Ghana’s high-flying young people, where some girls falsify their accents in comical ways to prove they’ve lived abroad; one girl always managed to work in stories about her time studying for her Masters in Atlanta into every conversation, and one guy spent 10 minutes displaying his various mobile phones and recounting how much each cost.  

It’s slightly worrying really. Here we are, my friend and I, trying to embrace our Africanness, recapture the culture we’d lost or forgotten and play down our ‘otherness’ in the motherland, whilst our African peers are busy trying to prove their Westernness by feverishly attaining the trappings of Western culture that we think little of in order to gain respect.

Sometimes, if you can’t beat them you join them. But not me. My inherent Fulani-shyness and adopted British reserve merge together to prevent me from all the braggadacious displays of Western-originated wealth or education, or revel in the celebrity this brings. I was never into all those status symbols and expensive fashions whilst in England anyway, and I’m not about to enter that world now.

Sure I speak of my experiences, but only when asked or when it’s genuinely relevant. To do otherwise would be vulgar.

Nigerian Politics vs British Politics

I'd heard a lot about Nigerian politics and politicians before I arrived in Abuja, and unfortunately, not much of it was praiseworthy. But now I'm here, it's not all as bad as it seems. Nigerian politicians can be very personable, generous and ingenious.

Here's an informal comparison between Politics in Nigeria with Politics in the UK.

Motives for Entering Politics
UK: To make an impact in your country or constituency; to pass a bill you have a passion for; to make your family proud; it's a feasible progression of your law/business/media career; you were inspired by another politician when you were younger; it's one of five traditional careers that the alumni at your prestigious school (Eton, Oxford, Cambridge) are groomed for or because you have a burning desire to be a notable Briton.


Nigeria: Money! There's big bucks to be made from being a politician in Nigeria. It's like winning the jackpot, all at once the nation's oil wealth becomes your own personal bank account for you to use, distribute and appropriate as you see fit. If money is not your motive, good for you, but you and me and the whole nation knows you'll 'chop' (enjoy) plenty of it anyway, so go ahead!

Public Service

UK: Politicians are held highly accountable for their service. You may email, call, text, Facebook  or visit your MP if and when you have a particular issue they are obliged to help you, and taking care of their constituency facilities, roads, libraries etc goes without saying. MPs have resigned for inefficiencies and wrongful practices, and politicians are very mindful not to get a bad reputation in the media. 

Nigeria: The voting of politicians into power is shrouded in so much raised eyebrows and kissed teeth that there's little trust in the elected officials. When a politician builds a road, sanitises an area or improves a school, he is celebrated, like Lagos Governor Babatunde Fashola, whose positive works in Lagos have garnered him great praise in Nigeria. But in the UK he would just be doing his job. 

Lagos Governor Babatunde Fashola: Nigerians sing his praises, but he's just doing his job

Extra-Curricular Businesses

UK: This is frowned upon, especially when it's very lucrative. You can raise money for charity, but huge profits for yourself is questionable. I watched an investigative documentary once that exposed the money-making practices of some politicians, whereby they were on the boards of private companies and were paid for consultancy services whilst also employed as an MP. It probably happens a lot in private, but it's not something MPs talk about or want citizens and the media to find out about.

Nigeria: I've heard of MPs receiving oil wells as their personal investments, dashing (giving) their children oil wells and securing lucrative contracts worth billions of Naira for themselves and their people. This is not so much frowned upon as expected. And the penalties and consequences for such acts are almost non-existent so that it happens openly.

Expectations

UK: You're expected to be respectable and effective, avoid scandal and leave office with your reputation intact. If you do encounter disgrace, you resign, and although you'll probably get another lucrative job, your scandal will limit your effectiveness. No-one expects money to flow from you because an MP isn't paid that much and flashing the cash is not the way the British do things.

Nigerians: You are expected to give money, cars, homes and contracts to your family, friends and kin. In fact, when you are elected or appointed, those around you rejoice because they're getting ready to enjoy your expensive gifts, and there'll be a line outside your house every morning from people coming to receive jobs and other gifts from you. In a way, the pressure from family encourages the siphoning of public funds so you'll be seen as generous and taking care of your own.

Travel to Work

UK: Taxi, Tube or private car (but don't own more than one, else you'll be judged extravagant, e.g. John Prescott, who was taunted and nicknamed 'Two Jags' for daring to own two Jaguars) I remember once waiting for the bus at Willesden Green in London and turning around to see ex-London Mayor Ken Livingstone behind me, also waiting for the bus, and current Prime Minister David Cameron used to ride a bicycle to work.

British Prime Minister David Cameron proudly cycling to work in London

Nigeria: In Abuja I've seen motorcades complete with a bullet-proof SUV-type car with tinted wondows led by two official motorcycles with their sirens on as they cleared traffic, and other cars parked on the side to allow them to pass. I thought it was the president himself but alas, it was only a senator. Politicians can have up to 12 top-of-the-range cars without anyone batting an eyelid and they always travel first class.

Houses

UK: The Expenses Scandal was a huge political expose in the UK a few years back when the media revealed that many MPs charged their various expenses - from taxi journeys to house rent - to their expenses account, which wasn't exactly illegal but scandalous nonetheless and, according to the British media, revealed the excesses MPs enjoyed at taxpayers' expense. I remember some MPs were vilified for owning houses in the country but renting flats in London charged to their expenses, and those that owned more than one house were publicly shamed for being out of touch with their not-so-wealthy constituents.

Nigeria: Multiple huge houses in wealthy areas like Maitama in Abuja are routinely built and houses in wealthy areas abroad bought by Nigerian politicians, and many also construct lavish residences in their village of origin, so that in some under-developed hamlet in deepest Nigeria a huge mansion owned by a politician will be surrounded by small, ramshackle houses of the other villagers. And many of the politicians rarely spend more than a week in many of their houses, so that they stand empty and useless most of the year.

Dressing
UK: Suits. Just suits. Everybody wears suits. Occasionally you may remove your jacket and be seen with just your shirt and tie, and you can even roll up your sleeves. You also have a selection of different coloured ties to choose from, but on the whole, just wear suits. Women may wear skirt or trouser suits.

The black and white uniformity of British Parliament

Nigeria: Depends on your religion, tribe, taste and personal quirks, so that a roomful of Nigerian politicians is a lesson in individuality. From Babanrigas and Kaftans in a variety of colours, embroidery, materials and styles depending on your tribe or tastes, with accompanying caps (matching or differently coloured, or the traditional red if you're Igbo/Delta) to a large Kaftan-style top and black wide-brimmed hat like our President Goodluck Jonathan, or military uniform/wear. You may also wear suits with different coloured bow-ties or ties. Women also have a variety of both native and western outfits to choose from, accompanied by scarves or geles.You can be as original, expressive or eccentric as you like, but always be smart.

The varying attires of Nigerian Politicians, from top to bottom: Sir Ahmadu Bello, General Ibrahim Babangida, Former President Musa Yar'Adua and current President Goodluck Jonathan

The individualism and varying cultural expressions on display at the Nigerian Senate

Religion in Public
UK: No prayer in public or acknowledgement of religion at all, unless it's during discussions of terrorism, freedom of speech or gay marriage. Ex-British Prime Minister Tony Blair's Press Secretary Alistair Campbell famously said 'We don't do God.' Although David Cameron recently declared that Britain was a Christian country, on the whole Religion and Politics rarely mix.

Nigerian: Both Christian and Muslim prayers are said before any major session in Parliament or major state event. Religion is discussed openly (although not always without tension) and it's an unwritten rule that Nigerian Presidents must alternate on religious lines, so if there's a Christian ruler now, the next ruler should be a Muslim.

Religion in Private
UK: Very private. Only the Queen's church going is documented, but Prime Ministers and other politicians are rarely pictured going to church or mosques or even talk about religion (except famous Catholic MP Ann Widdecombe)

Nigeria: President Goodluck Jonathan was recently shown on TV celebrating his birthday in church, and at one point he sat down whilst everyone else stood up and prayed for him. Other politicians are notable members of various churches and mosques and regularly talk about the importance of their faith in interviews.

Sexual Immorality/Adultery
UK: Absolutely frowned upon: a politician whose sins - whether promiscuity, theft, illegal practises, bribery or violent conduct - becomes public very quickly becomes an out-of-work politician. There was one issue of a male MP whose boyfriend was staying with him at his house, but he didn't reveal this. I can't remember the details, but he had to resign for perjury. Till today his crime is non-existent but the revelation of his secret living arrangements brought him down. When an MP is outed as an adulterer (e.g. John Profumo, who resigned when his affair with a prostitute came to light) his reputation is shot to pieces and endless jokes, innuendoes and media witch-hunts makes committing adultery something you should hide at all costs to protect your job.

John Profumo: Revelations of his affair not only ended his political career but also brought down the then Prime Minister Harold Macmillan

Nigeria: It is public knowledge that many married politicians enjoy the company of young, attractive women, and regularly frequent prominent hotels with said women. Everyone knows it goes on, and I don't think a politician has ever been reprimanded for extra-marital affairs in Nigeria. It's not that adultery is encouraged, but it is tolerated and the media doesn't really concern themselves with it.

Stealing Public Funds
UK: Absolutely discouraged and illegal, and there are firm protocols and guidelines in place to avoid this happening. The possibility of a politician taking what belongs to the public for himself and getting away with it is slim. The Prime Minister has to declare the gifts other visiting heads of state give him and what he gives them, and the gifts should have more historical/sentimental value than monetary value, e.g. an engraved pen. The exchange of money and gifts between politicians and businessmen is seen as bribery and will land said politician in prison.

Nigeria: This is not only a regular occurrence, but an accepted fact. In fact, if you don't collect huge amounts of money whilst in office, your colleagues would mock your lack of ingenuity and your family will criticise you for not being generous.

Nepotism 
UK: Extremely frowned upon, though it happens. If David Cameron's cousin or brother were to receive a political appointment, tongues would start wagging. When ex-Labour spin doctor Alistair Campbell's son was given a top job in government, the whole Labour party was accused of nepotism and a party spokesman had to deny the claims.

Nigeria: Many politicians not only employ their kith and kin to top roles, but they also bless them with lucrative contracts and business deals.

Entry into Politics
UK: The best way into politics is by attending certain top schools (Oxford, Cambridge, Eton, Harrow etc) and by knowing the right people. Money doesn't really play a major role, it's more a matter of class and education, as a commoner can't become an MP just like that. It's a mostly upper/middle class white male profession.

Nigeria: The surest path to politics is being related to or knowing someone already in politics. Education doesn't really play a big part, although a British or American degree is a bonus. A wealthy businessman/professional may also become a politician, but generally the quickest way is through recommendation (God-fatherism) and having lots of money, and someone working as a labourer today can become Governor tomorrow.

Lavish Spending
UK: Frowned upon as vulgar and uncouth. The British upper/middle class (which most politicians are) are not known for their extravagant spending, and any obvious displays of wealth is looked down on. I remember the cruel whispers and snares that accompanied the revelation that Tony Blair holidayed in a house owned by a celebrity.

Nigeria: Yep, this too is expected and tolerated. Everyone knows politicians are very wealthy, and they not only spend their money, the wear it too. The usual status symbols like houses, cars, latest technology, expensive clothes, Rolex watches and foreign holidays/education/homes/healthcare are there for everyone to see. Nigerians may complain about the extravagance of their politicians, but many don't deny that if put in their position they would also 'chop' money.  "Yes, become wealthy" they seem to say, "but at least build a road or two whilst you're up there."