Strange Things Happen When I Leave the Country

Mel and I haven't actually talked in awhile, you know how that whole other-side-of-the-world thing can be a bit of an impediment.  Our 'conversation' has instead been through blogger posts and comments.  However, if we were to have spoken in person, I think the conversation might have gone something like this:

Mel: I am sooooooo excited!  jumping up and down and clapping I'm going to a New Kids on the Block concert!!! Actually, two of them!!!!

Me: skeptical What?  The New Kids are touring again?  Is this like the Spice Girls reunion tour?  Aren't those guys like 50 by now?

Mel: No.  It is way better!  It's the New Kids!  It's going to be stupendous!  And they're only in their mid 30s.

After the concert

Me: Hi Mel.  How was your New Kids concert?

Mel: Fabulous!  There were all these pregnant women and they were buying cute little "Step by Step" onesies.  The guys had so much energy and put on a spectacular show.  They did almost all my favorite old hits and did a bunch of new songs, too.

Me: That's cool.  Wait?  Did you say "new songs"?  What new songs?

Mel: Check out "The Block."

And so, that's what I did.  I googled "The Block" and got a bunch of entries that said "New Kids on the Block."  As well as some random websites about an Australian tv show and knitting.  Not very helpful, so I clicked the Wikipedia entry for New Kids on the Block, and there it was - released Sept. 2, 2008 The Block, the newest New Kids album.  WTV?  (that's 'what the vampire')

I don't know what shocked me more, that this album debuted at #2 (go Young Jeezy!) or that they got Ne-Yo, Akon and the Pussycat Dolls to be on it!  Any of those 3 artists right there could sell an album of cats howling if they guest-ed on it.  There's even a track produced by Timbaland!

Incidentally, the first two singles, one of them featuring Ne-Yo, were released before I left the country, and I didn't hear either of them.  But, I'm aware that I was in the Yay, and radio stations in the Yay don't exactly play the same music as the rest of the country.  Guess I'll just have to check it out when I get back.

Me: Mel, can I listen to your copy instead of buying my own?

A Drama-Filled Weekend

There was a whole lot of drama this weekend, some of it expected, some of it a surprise.

Things Fall Apart

On Saturday, I took Dara and Feyi to see a stage production of Things Fall Apart.  Dara and Feyi are six and seven and spend most of their time watching the Disney channel.  Before we left, I sat down with them and attempted to give them some background about Chinua Achebe and the story.

"How can Ibo people not know about Ibo culture?" asks the Yoruba girl who can hardly speak Yoruba and knows more about toast and milkshakes than amala and akara as I explain some of the reasons Achebe wrote the story.

Their father also tried talking to them a bit about the book and author before we left.  This is a seminal piece of literature in general, even more important here as the author is Nigerian.  He wanted his daughters to understand this.  If you didn't read Things Fall Apart in high school or college, if it's been so long that you've forgotten what it was about, pick up a copy and read it.

When I Read the Book

Before sitting down with Dara, Feyi and the computer to prep for the show, I couldn't really remember the story-line from the book.  What I did remember was that I didn't like the way it made me feel.  After seeing the production, I remember why.  The story deals with changes in an African village brought on by the influx of British colonizers and missionaries.  When I read Things Fall Apart, I was living in a village in Zambia, the only muzungu in a village heavily influenced by the nearby Catholic mission.  Let's just say my setting gave the book a very distinct feel.

The Play

Watching the play with Dara, Feyi and a friend of mine who works for the American Foreign Services (and freely admitted he was supposed to read the book in college but didn't) made me feel even stranger.  Here I am, sitting with two little African girls, watching this play written by somebody from their country, and I'm the only one in the group who's actually lived in a village.  The girls couldn't even understand the actors sometimes; they had to ask me what was said.

The play was really well done, and though much of the story was cut due to time constraints, I felt the adaptation did justice to the book.  I did feel sorry for the one light-skinned actor who had to play ever single white character.  He just kept changing wigs.

Dara and Feyi both said they enjoyed the show, although I couldn't have guessed that during it.  They were playing Miss Mary Mack, jumping, sleeping, whining "I'm hungry, I'm tired, I'm thirsty, Auntie Dara is bothering me" "Auntie Feyi won't sit still", etc.  And we were in the second row.  I didn't mind when Feyi stood; she's short.  But when Dara stood up, I had to tell her to sit so the people behind could see.

Heading Home

The girls wanted to walk home.  I had no problem with this; I'm cheap and I like walking.  The theater is about a mile from our house.  The girls did ok up until the British Council (read expensive fancy restaurant for expats and people who want to rub elbows with expats).  Our friend the foreign service man treated us to drinks: ice tea and apple juice.  (Feyi had the iced tea.)  But then, sitting high up on the patio, we were attacked by these horrible little flies.  That put Dara in such a bad mood she ran away from the table and started crying.  We left and said goodbye to Mr. Embassy-man.

Dara was so sour that I had to give her a piggyback ride just to get her to smile again.  And of course, then Feyi needed one, too.  I was alternating with them, until I saw a man selling roasted corn on the side of the road.  I love roasted corn!  I tried continuing the piggyback rides while eating my roasted corn, but it didn't work so well.  Corn wins, girls walk.  The girls didn't want any of the corn; they said it was too hard.  But the others at home quickly scooped up the rest.

The Other Drama

I thought I was going to hear a sermon when I went to church Sunday morning.  But I was wrong.  The church drama group performed a sketch instead.  Others must have known this was going to happen, because the large auditorium-sized church was full to capacity.

As we finished our hymns, I was staring at the Union Jack flying on stage.  "Why is the British flag on stage?"  I wondered.  Then, two men came out, one dressed like the Nigerian military, the other dressed like the helper boys from Things Fall Apart the day before.  They took down the British flag, to a rousing cheer from the crowd, put up the Nigerian flag and then began the national anthem.

Flashing lights, those weird electric displays like at the Tommy Bartlett show (when there was a Lake Delton), fanfare and a fog machine, and the sketch began.  It was celebrating the 48th wedding anniversary of a couple.  Nigeria turned 48 last Wednesday.  Different guests at their party asked the couple how they stayed happy so long, and then gave their deepest confessions to the crowd.   Sleeping with the registrar to get into college, internet scams, bad land deals, adultery, prostitution, murder, witchcraft, corruption, you name it, they covered it.

And none of it was shocking.  Not only is this all the regular subject matter of Nollywood films and Naija television dramas, it's the in the magazines and newspapers.  It's normal everyday stuff.  It's Naija.

OH Yeah,

And I got to watch Vandy beat Auburn on ESPN.  GO DORES!!!!

Thankful

WARNING: This post is not for mommies or other people who worry.

Last night I had the opportunity to go out with a few other expats, one guy from the American embassy and several people from Doctor's Without Borders.  They briefly mentioned a volunteer who had recently arrived in Nigeria.  His body was flown home about two weeks ago.  His program was in Port Harcourt, an area that can be quite dangerous.  But he never made it there.  His first day in the country, right here in Abuja, he was electrocuted in the shower.

On hearing the story, I remembered Peace Corps volunteers who had died or come very close to dying in Zambia.  (Besides my friends and family members in my village.)  There was a girl just the year before I arrived who died in a bicycle accident.  Another volunteer died while I was there.  The day before his graduation ceremony from training, he fell out a window several stories up.  Then, there was the volunteer who didn't take a single pill of his malaria medication.  His malaria symptoms didn't show until he was on vacation in a non-malaria zone.  Not recognizing his illness for what it was, the doctors were unable to give him the proper treatment.  I have heard many say it's a miracle he is still alive, and he will have health problems for the rest of his life.

Being in the capital, with cars and electricity and running water and internet, it's easy to forget that it's still Africa and still dangerous.   And really, no matter where we live, we can't take life for granted.

I'm glad I'm lucky enough to be here enjoying everything.  God said He'd watch over me, and He's doing it.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some adorable little girls to go play with.

The Salt of the Earth

Anyone who's eaten with me knows how much I hate salt.  I don't add it to any of my cooked food, and I avoid foods that have too much salt already, like ketchup and tv dinners.  How long have I not liked salty foods?  Forever.  When my mommy was pregnant with me, she couldn't eat ketchup, and it's one of her favorites.  There is one occasion when I will use salt, and that is cooking with tomatoes or tomato paste.

Today is Friday.  Friday is spaghetti day in the Apampa house.  So every Friday, I make some spaghetti sauce for my spaghetti.  (They eat their noodles with stew.)  Auntie Stella liked my sauce a lot last time I made it, so this time I wanted to make enough for both of us.  At the store, I tried to buy a bigger can of canned tomatoes.  But you see, the cans have like 18 different languages on them and I couldn't find the English.  But the pictures looked the same.

It wasn't until I opened the can to add the tomatoes to the browned garlic and onion that I saw I had tomato paste and not tomatoes.  No biggie, I'll just use the paste and add some water and salt.  Tomato paste needs salt, otherwise it's too acidity.

So I added the water, the thyme and the ground pepper and started to add the salt.  I was pouring the salt into my palm and then sprinkling it from my palm to the sauce in order to avoid too much salt.  Taste.  Mmmm... not too bad, just a pinch more salt.

I tipped the large salt container, but the salt isn't Morton's and it stayed clumped together at the bottom.  A little shake.  Nothing.  A little harder shake.  Catastrophe!  The cover came off the salt container.  Huge piles of salt, in my hand, on the stove, on the floor, and worst of all, in the sauce!

The maid and I tried to scoop as much of the salt out of the sauce as we could.  Taste. Ugh.  We added more water, the rest of the tomato paste, more onion, more pepper.  Taste.  uuuuhhhh.....  But I had to try to eat it; can't waste food.

Now, my tummy isn't so happy.  I think I can feel the salt corroding the inside of my esophagus.  :(

Sometimes, I just really need my mommy's cooking.

Exercising My Rights

Sorry I've been gone for a few days.  I have this wonderful knack for getting sick on holidays; which is great because I don't miss any work or school, but sucks because I don't miss any work or school.  Don't worry, it was just a lil' cold.  And as much as colds suck, I'm grateful that's all it was.  In Africa, there are a lot of worse things to get.  Trust me, I've had them.

I'd like to tell you all about Nigerian Independence Day and how it's celebrated.  But, I know nothing about it.  I spent most of the day asleep.  So, I'll have to share some other exciting news instead:

I Voted :)

And no, I will not tell you who.  I printed my Federal Write-In Absentee Ballot last week and was all set to sign it and send it off when I saw Wisconsin has an extra requirement.  The ballot has to be signed in the presence of an adult US citizen.  "Great!" I thought.  "I've met one other American here and he's in Greece right now."  So I sent out an SOS message on the Abuja expats listserve.  It worked, got plenty of responses, but it turned out I didn't need them.

Wednesday afternoon, Uncle called my room to rouse me from my sleep.  He had some friends visiting that he wanted me to meet.  A teacher from the girls' school and her husband.  Well, that teacher just so happens to be a US citizen!  Perfect.  Ballot signed on Independence Day; mailed the day after.  Here's hoping they count it.