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.

Religion in Nigeria: God vs Money

Writing about religion can be a touchy subject, but it's too all-encompassing in Nigeria to ignore. I’ll focus more on Christianity because it’s what I'm most familiar with.

Religion and National Identity

OK, so in Nigeria, there is no such thing as being an atheist. You’re either a Christian or a Muslim. You may have back-slidded or are no longer active in the religion you were brought up in, but everyone identifies with one faith or the other. When it’s time to marry you choose a Church or Mosque, and when asked what religion you are (if it isn't obvious by your name, appearance or tribe) you know which one of the two to answer.

Atheism is a Western construct born of contentment and too much leisure time to contemplate unknowable things. But many Nigerians are still trying to make ends meet and the belief in God consoles in the face of hardship. Unbelief is an expensive luxury. Yet even the wealthy fully retain their religious identity and take pride in contributing gifts to their church/mosque and publically thank God for all their wealth (no matter how ill-gotten it is). It doesn't occur to us to question if there is a God, because there’s hardly an arena from which He is absent.

From the Senate to Aso Rock, Christian and Muslim prayers are said every morning and politicians sprinkle their speeches with scripture. The country’s first lady gave a public testimony in the Presidential Villa’s chapel recently thanking God for keeping her alive through her illness, and the President is often filmed in church services. He was once pictured kneeling in front of a prominent pastor who prayed for him.

President Goodluck Jonathan kneeling in front of Pastor Adeboye who is praying for him 

The division between Church and State is both impossible and undesirable and the lines are often blurred, with pastors running for President and church ministers moonlighting as government ministers.

Religion also strongly permeates the workplace. I was shocked to learn that you had to not only state your date of birth, country of origin and marital status prominently on your CV, but your religion also. Coming from the UK where such personal details are expressly banned so as to avoid discrimination, it was alarming.

Companies have churches and mosques in their premises and Muslims take time off to pray during the day. During Ramadan (the Muslim month of fasting) last year, Nigeria’s (and the world’s) richest Black man Aliko Dangote – a Muslim – donated bags of his company’s rice, sugar and spaghetti to all the Muslims in my company. It’s normal to invite your boss to your church and have lengthy, passionate discussions about spirituality with your colleagues.

Businesses have names like ‘Grace Abounding General Store’ or  ‘God’s Favour Hairdressers’ and many vehicles have religious inscriptions on them: ‘With God Nothing is Impossible,’ ‘My God can Move Mountains.’ Religion is present at every birth, marriage and funeral, and at an open air garden I visited where people gather to drink alcohol and watch live entertainment on a stage, a group of dancers performed to popular Church songs and the MC punctuated his announcements with religious phrases as freely as if he was at the pulpit. 

Religious phrases seep into daily conversations: 

How’s work? Oh, we thank God. 

Wow, you really wrote this great article? Yes, Glory to God.  

Will you come tomorrow? Yes, by God’s Grace.

The Nigerian national football team pray together before and after every match, football fans call radio stations imploring God to help the teams they support, thank God when their team wins and consider how “God was humbling the proud” when they lose.

In Nollywood and Kannywood movies, much of the storyline is religion-centred and the credits always include variations of the phrase ‘To God be the Glory’. Musicians talk about their faith on Twitter, comedians espouse on the hilarities of religion in their acts and televangelists take over the airwaves every Sunday, with lengthy Christian and Muslim sermons broadcasted during special national events. In interviews, everyone from politicians to celebrities brim over with praise to their God.

Religion isn’t a private hobby like in the UK, where the former Prime Minister Tony Blair famously said ‘We don’t do God.’ Here God is an ever-present reality and everyone knows Him personally.

Serving Two Masters

Yet I’ve never lived in a city where the pursuit of money is an obsession. Money not only guarantees you respect, better services and dignity, it also opens doors that merit and excellence cannot. Money is king and you’re nothing without it. This fresh, hot desire for wealth clashes with the fervent Christianity in that the faithful are supposed to uphold higher virtues like joy, peace, goodness, generosity and humility, yet all everyone prays for is for more money.

Prosperity preachers are drawing millions of people (and money) to their churches with promises that God will bless their congregation, not with gifts or fruits of the spirit, but with more money, houses and cars. One prominent preacher owns four private jets and a for-profit university that most of his worshippers cannot afford, and a church I went to surprised the Pastor with the gift of a brand new Jeep, and everyone walked out of the church to gather around the car, taking pictures and praising God whilst the Pastor joyfully prayed for the donors and encouraged everyone to have faith so that theirs will come soon.

Pastor Oyedepo in one of his four Private Jets worth N4.5 billion ($30 million) 

Instead of flaunting ostentatious wealth that’s out of step with the majority of the country, aren’t Christians supposed to be spiritual and content like Jesus was and be able to identify with the poor? But how can a jet-owning, Gucci-wearing, Bahamas-holidaying, Lexus-driving ‘Man of God’ relate with a tomato-seller?

Except for special occasions, I’ve stopped going to church here. The materialism was too much for me. Sure I strive to earn more and be more, but I hate seeing the flagrant exaltation of money in the pulpit, where those that pay tithes are venerated by the Pastor, and I don’t want to listen to a sermon about ‘How to Succeed in Business’. There are business seminars for that. I came to church to feed my spirit not bolster my pocket.

However, Pastors are only giving people what they want. Everyone wants to be rich and hear that ‘This is your month of Increase.’ Then there is the transactional nature of it all: If you sow seeds of cash you reap material rewards, in effect, pay the pastor and God will pay you. As if God’s only gift to a Christian is riches. 

After all, what does it profit a man to gain the whole world but lose his soul?

The Bible says that you cannot serve both God and Money, but in Nigeria every knee bows to both.

Witches, Charms and all that Jazz

In Africa, God and his angels exist as much as the devil and his demons. The belief in spirits and witchcraft has not being totally eradicated by organised religion, and Juju or Jazz is real for Nigerian Christians and Muslims. Even the churches have deliverance services for repentant witches and hold prayers to break generational curses.

The influence and effects of dark arts is common knowledge and incidents of bewitchment and spells are spoken of as casually as discussions about the weather.

I've heard all kinds of stories from people and the media, of live animals buried in front of shops to lure customers in; people engaging in spells to close someone’s womb, win someone’s heart or kill a rival; children and adults dismembered for ‘money rituals;’ a secret room housing a human head that vomits an unending supply of money, and tribes were the dead walk themselves to their graves.

One newspaper reported on an old couple who were left terrified one night when a naked woman fell from the ceiling unto their beds, despite the room and house been locked. The woman confessed to the police that she was a witch flying to India but got lost.

What am I to do with such stories, told by otherwise sane people? I know Lucifer and his angels are real enough, but he seems really busy in Nigeria. Witchcraft disappeared from England centuries ago, and it’s like the devil relocated to Africa, or just became more adept at subterfuge in advanced societies but takes off his disguise and runs free in Nigeria.

Religion as a National Pacifier

I do think though, that religion weakens the resolve for justice. A doctor breaks the leg of a newborn whilst pulling it out of the womb carelessly, but the new parents and their relatives are against ruffling feathers and say, “Thank God the baby is healthy, we’ll leave everything else in the hands of God.” Why not sue or complain so that the incompetent medic is prevented from causing further harm to other innocent babies, and so the hospital can compensate the family for the extra medical bills? Preventable misfortunes and accidents are accepted without complaint because ‘God is in control’ and people remain passive, resigning themselves to poverty caused by governmental ineptitude. ‘Suffering and smiling’ as Fela sings.

A church in Abuja, Nigeria

That Nigerians topped an international poll as the happiest people on earth is both laudable and sad, because most don’t have a lot to smile about, but the comfort and resolve they get from God fortifies them and keeps their disposition cheerful.

If the famous sociologist Karl Marx was right and religion is the opium of the people, then Nigerians are high on their addiction, much to the satisfaction of the ruling elite. The collective national crutch that is religion quells revolution, maintains the status quo, and keeps everyone’s mind on personal advancement. Money is the answer to every prayer.

Nigeria is a country where God reigns, but it is the Almighty Naira that rules.

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.”

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!

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.

My Sad Thoughts After Fulani Gunmen Kill Hundreds

Being a member of a people, and having your identity linked to a tribe is fantastic when all is well and you are a source of curiosity and a fountain of knowledge and insight to many worldwide, as has been my experience as a rare Fulani blogger.

It is wonderful when I receive compliments, when others tell of their fine memories and experiences of my people, and when Fulanis from all around Africa contact me in a show of kinship. I am pleased when people tell me that I am the first Fulani person they have had a conversation with and that they find us fascinating. I am happy when some say that after meeting me, they are convinced that the saying that all my people's women are beautiful is true, and I am thrilled when women remark on how lovely and soft my natural hair is due to my Fulani genes.

I gladly lap up these compliments and hold my head up high, feeling privileged to be part of such a unique heritage.

So what am I to do, when news reports emerged last weekend that 100 Fulani gunmen dressed in army camouflage and bullet-proof vests descended on a number of neighbouring villages in Jos, Nigeria to massacre the unsuspecting inhabitants at dawn in co-ordinated attacks that killed hundreds?

The suspected herdsmen burnt down many houses, and in one Pastor's residence 50 corpses burnt beyond recognition were found as the victims had gathered there to hide from the invading herdsmen, who then surrounded the house and set it on fire, with some gunmen standing at the door shooting down those who tried to escape.

Then, during the mass funeral of some of the victims attended by lots of people including senators, the gunmen returned and opened fire on the mourners, killing two of the senators and many others. Everyone fled, leaving over 100 corpses unburied.

Mass burials following the gun attacks in Jos

What am I to do with the outrage, shame, anger, disbelief, pain and embarrassment I feel upon hearing these reports? Whether the perpetrators where Fulani or not, it is still widely believed, reported and repeated - by all Nigerians from Politicians making heartfelt speeches in the National Assembly of outrage imploring the President to do something about these terrorists, to street traders that shake their heads in disgust - that they were.

Even at my office, discussions inevitably turned to these atrocities and my colleagues voiced their anger and despair at the callousness of the 'Fulani Gunmen' crimes. And much to my horror (although I expected it) now and again someone would turn to me and say "Well, what do you think of your people now?" or "My dear, these are your people o!" or "Do you know why they did this?"

My answer was always "I really don't know what to say. I'm trying to keep a low profile." To which someone scoffed, stating "You keeping a low profile about your Fulaniness is like a homosexual wearing tight, loud clothing trying to keep a low profile at an anti-gay rally."

I got the point. Although no hate was directed at me, my link with the current enemy of the nation was obvious. I kept my head down and felt hot throughout the heated debate that day. I kept praying for the discussion to be over already and hoped that no one would say something along the lines of "All Fulanis are wicked!" or "I hate Fulanis." Thankfully no one did.

At another discussion of the killings with some friends, there were comments thrown around like "these Fulanis are so dangerous" and "Can you believe they can do such a thing? Over what, cows?" I just kept quiet.

Although I wouldn't call what I feel shame, it was certainly embarrassment and sadness. Fulani herdsmen have been known in the past for acts of violence against town-dwellers whose land their cattle grazed on. It was said that the herders allowed their cows to trample on and devour other people's land and crops and got into fierce arguments when challenged. It was also said that if you mistakenly kill one of their cows they would exact terrible revenge on you, and often tried to claim land that wasn't theirs.

But now the Fulanis will be known  for something exceptionally worse: mass murder. Some even call the coordinated attacks in Jos genocide, as it affected villages inhabited by a particular tribe.

Whoa.

The Fulani Gunmen were eventually linked to Boko Haram, the Islamic sect that had been terrorising much of Northern Nigeria. However, some say that the gunmen, and indeed many Boko Haram members, are not Nigerians at all but men from Niger and other surrounding African countries who were recruited into Boko Haram.

I don't know.

All I know is that if it indeed was Fulani men that did this, then they have no only sullied the reputation of a whole tribe but also added to the current instability and fear that others have of Nigeria. They are helping to make our country a no-go area and are making one of the more beautiful parts of Nigeria - Jos- a nightmare for its inhabitants, who now have to endure crippling curfews, blocked roads and military check-points everywhere. They have also created a whole load of widows and orphans.

Following these recent atrocities, I'm tempted to keep a low-profile. I never went around boasting about my heritage in the first place, but until all this blows over, I will no longer be so happy to say that I am Fulani.

My Fulani Experience In Nigeria So Far...

In England, people usually got my ethnicity wrong, were surprised when I told them the truth and I had to tell the story of my background so many times. But in Nigeria...it’s the exact same story!

The only difference is that here people sometimes guess I am Fulani thanks to their familiarity with my people and my resemblance to my kin. But the wonder still persist. Here are the top four questions I get asked the most, in no particular order:

“Are you Nigerian?”

“Which state are you from?”

“Is that a Fulani name?” (It’s not)
"Do you speak Fulfude?" (Sadly, I don't)

So even in my own country, I remain a source of fascination regarding my origin. I thought I’d fit right in, no questions needed to be asked, my membership to my tribe would be obvious and my sense of belonging would be complete. Nope.

But a good thing is that, like I said, people are obviously more familiar with Fulanis in Nigeria than in England. Many Southerners, upon finding out which town/village I come from, tell me stories of their experiences with the town either through doing their NYSC Youth Service there or through business, and tell me how nice the place is. I then tell them I've never been there but would love to go. I've also met non-Fulanis from my state which was interesting.

People also have their own stereotypes and notions of us. I’ve been told by various people that Fulanis are:

1. Very intelligent, especially when educated

2. Never forgive

3. Calm, gentle and polite

4. Shy

5. Are loyal friends

6. Are disliked by some Southerners for their violence
7. Are beautiful and graceful
8. Are a mystery

I’ve met many more Fulanis in the few months I’ve been in Abuja than I did in all my life in the UK, and they fall into three categories:

Older Rich Fulanis: Who are often very nice, informative and interested in my upbringing and background, although I do feel odd and almost apologetic about my appearance when I'm with them, in that they're used to Fulani women covered up from head to toe, and here I am in a suit/jeans/dress.

Young Fulani Ladies and Gentlemen: I've met them at parties, weddings and through friends. The wealthy Muslims are very nice, but stick together and I don't really fit in there with them. The few Christians I've met (who are often bi-ethnic: one parent Fulani and the other from another tribe) are more open, but I normally hang out with Northern, Hausa speaking Christians from a variety of tribes I'd never heard of before coming to Abuja. 

Poor Fulanis: Usually herding cattle numbering from 10 cows to 200. Sometimes the cattle would walk leisurely across the road and delay cars. I see them as I drive past and I've noticed that 80% of the time, the herders are kids no more than 16 years old, both male and female. (Below are pictures of some Fulanis living near my area, taken by a photography colleague)

A Family of Fulani women and children

 A Fulani-designed Calabash

 

 A little boy outside his hut

I once saw a little Fulani girl-herder, no more than 5 years old. She had an ashy face, over-sized slippers on her tiny feet and her clothes hung off her. She was confidently beating the cow closest to her with a long stick so it would move faster. I stared at her from the car window and she looked back at me with both the innocence of a child and the confidence of a skilled herder.

I kick myself every time I think about her for not taking a picture, but then again, somehow I'm glad I didn't because that would be rude, an invasion of her privacy. I would feel like a voyeuristic Westerner, there to gawp at and flash a camera at the poor child as she went about her business, so that she would become a commodity for others to stare at and pity. But for economics and the grace of God, that little girl could have been me.

I've also seen Fulani teenage girls; long, slender and graceful, carrying a tray of some local food or other on their heads for sale. I've also seen the men going about their business. I often make the mistake of confusing Kanuri people for Fulanis because they look very similar in appearance.

Kanuri Women

I also once saw a strange sight: two tall, slender Fulani men wearing tight, colourful, too-short trousers, colourful tops and what seemed like make-up on their faces. Their hair was long and plaited and they stood at the side of the road, totally oblivious and unself-conscious about their vibrant appearance. I was shocked! I was then told that that's how some young Fulani men dress. Hmmm....

I've never wished I spoke Fulfude more than I do now I'm in Abuja. Because here Hausa is no longer a novelty as literally everybody in Abuja speaks it, even the Yorubas and Ibos. They speak it better than me  because it's the lingua-franca here, just like Yoruba is the lingua-franca in Lagos. Of course the non-native Hausas speak it with a heavy accent, but they're fluent nonetheless. So to speak Fulfude would not only be a source of pride, but give me an edge over the Hausa speakers. 

I blame my parents. My paternal grandmother only spoke Fulfude, not even Hausa, but we didn't visit her enough and she's long gone, and my parents' generation mostly speak Hausa.

So here I am, a non-Fulfude speaking Fulani who's never been to her town or village. I must be the least Fulani Fulani in the history of Fulanidom.

I recently heard a great speech from a Nigerian elder statesman Alhaji Maitama Sule, who is a former politician revered for his inspirational oratory, eloquence and wisdom. He encouraged Nigerian politicians to become more like the Fulani herdsman, imploring them to adopt many of the characteristics of the herder. He then explained how each herder knew each of their cows by name, and when each cow is called by its name, it separates itself from the others and dutifully walks towards the herder. The cows also understand and obey instructions in Fulfude.

The herdsman sleeps out in the open with the cows, eats when they eat and rests when they rest, and if a cow is in danger, he risks his life to ensure their safety. His purpose in life is to ensure his cattle's well-being and because he would lay down his life for them, they follow him wherever he goes because they trust him and know he has their best interests at heart.

Alhaji Sule also said that in the holy books, all the great leaders and prophets were herdsmen.

The strength of the bond between the herder and his cattle was eye-opening for me, and I gained a higher level of respect for him. The cows are not just their livelihood and symbol of wealth, but also their responsibility and almost like their children.

Alhaji Sule's desire for Nigerian politicians to emulate the lowly Fulani herdsman as the epitome of servant-leadership was a vivid and compelling argument.

I was proud.