So Many Perfect Moments

Tuesday November 12, 2013

Today’s afternoon training moves outdoors under mango tree shade. A cocky rooster wanders into the triggering practice session, pecks at pseudo piles of shit and leaves a watery poop of its own. Perfect. 

Goats goad and cavort like playful kids. Pigs snort through mounds of garbage. Three barefoot boys come to watch, their legs ashen from soot. Two older boys laze on a nearby bench, entertained by the adult roll-play.  I ask if they live nearby. One has a house directly behind us, a round mud hut with thatch-roof. 

Can I see inside?

“Yes, of course ma, come come.”

It’s a fantastic Bunkie alternative.  Smooth painted walls and floor, electric outlets, queen size bed, posters and comfy cool – not too hot, not too cold, j-u-s-t perfect.

After training and a brutally honest post mortem, Lady L and MistaM take me for a trek. We pass giant pigs passed out in sand, suckling piglets at their belly. Collection upon collection of round houses where smoke wafts from communal fires. Curious children giggle and run when the camera comes out.  Dark descends on dusk while visiting with a woman brewing a batch of beer, “Brukutu.” She uses grains from a wheat that towers 16 feet or higher – known locally as guinea corn. Boils it – but only at night. Pours it into large hand-turned pots and leaves it to ferment in the cool of her round house kitchen, ready for quaffing four days later.  

Dinner is taken on Logo’s main strip, dimly lit by chop house fires. Street eatery sisters Dowaisa and Dowaisi fry yam slices and bean rolls and eggs served with a side of super spicy hot pepe and onion sauce. Mmm yum. The tab is less than 35 cents. Holy moly perfect. A different chop stand brings a chunk of tender fresh stewed catfish while another brings a plate heaped with rice and beans.

Happy bellies later, MistaM, the scarred for life Muslim from north Nigeria leads us to his home compound, the place where he and his eight siblings grew and where he and his brothers and their families live today. We pass the local mosque, meet the Imam and hear the evening call to prayer. We step into the extended family kitchen complete with giant mortar and pestle (to pound yam) alongside gorgeous rakuu style cooking and storage vessels.

Whilst we walk and talk MistaM tells of a friend who lived in Canada.

“He came back because he hit his wife and she complained to the government and he was

afraid of what they would do. Can you believe that? She disrespects him.  She provokes him. So what if he hits her? What is the problem with Canada? There are too many rules against men.”

Teeth bare down on tongue.

He briefly mentions his own wife and two daughters, hastening, “but I will try for a son.”

Why?

“Because you need a son. The girls just go off to their husband’s family when they are married. The man picks his wife, she does not pick him. But a son, he stays with you.  I pray that my wife brings me a son. It is for divorce if the wife does not bring a son.”

Ah ha, but the sperm that comes out of your body, your sperm that meets the egg in your wife’s belly is what decides if it will be a boy or a girl. It is the man, you. Not the wife. That notion brings a belly laugh (and probable silent: yeah, right).

Interesting conversation, finally tasty Nigerian food and the friendly hospitality of people who sport crisp clean whites even though they live in round, thatched roof houses made of mud - how perfect is all that?

Friday November 15 2013

I leave Logo with heavy heart. I’m finally touched.  While I fell in love instantly with India, it’s taken a while for ju ju magic to cast its spell in Nigeria.

 Culture in Logo, Benue State is different. Tiv people are hospitable, caring and real. What you see is what is. Period. Tiv culture is inland far from the sea. The slave trade did not impact these peoples like it did in what is known today as Calabar and Cross River State. And colonization came much later. Tiv culture covers a large geographic area unlike Calabar where cultures and languages change from one street corner to the next. There’s a pureness and richness here.

We visit villages some 45 minutes+ deep into rutted back roads where the children have never seen white skin. Some cry and run away in fear. Others edge closer bit by bit to take a closer stare.  Mothers place their issue upon my lap; an honour for them and their children.  One chubby little guy looks searchingly into my eyes, touches my earrings, stares more and pokes at my skin. I place my sunglasses on his face. He sits quiet. A smile forms. He lifts the glasses from his nose and peers into the sky, places them back over his eyes, lifts again back and forth a few times. Mother stands nearby and clicks her tongue softly  in delight “lulululululululu.”

Before formal triggering gets underway in this community we dance and sing; turns out to be a welcoming song to me. Older children sway and move in a traditional ballet-ish style that defies written word. Limbs contort in slow motion as bodies dip and bow to the ground. Women tongue roll in high pitch unison.”Luululululululululu,” I respond in Tiv “Nsu, nsu,” hand over heart, deep bow. “Thank you. Thank you.”

These people draw filthy murky water from a nearby creek and drink it without boiling. Come dry season there is no water to draw. The creek bed is dry. They travel great distances and use the few Naira they own to buy water from town. I question how the Global Sanitation Fund programme will succeed with hand washing hygiene messages in villages like these where water is such a precious and hard earned commodity.

When it’s time to return to Calabar, Logo local government CSLT trainees bid farewell with hugs. Many present photos taken of us together. More perfect moments among so many.

Driver Eja and I talk about trekking up a craggy small hill near the Benue cloth

weaving spot visited on previous journeys. Mr Patrick overhears our discussion and cautions against it. Ju ju stories begin.

Seemingly this hill takes the lives of those who attempt to climb it. Just recently five young men died after ascending for a night of youthful cavorting. None made it back down. They died one after the next.

 “You will see a man or a woman there and when you look again, they are gone. I do not ever like to speak of such things.  And neither should you. Do not mention it again.”

Pressed further Mr P share a fine ju ju story:

He is travelling with a good friend and his sister-in-law. During travels N25,000 goes missing. Mr P’s mother-in-law is furious and decides to out the thief. She takes them all, her daughter included, to a traditional doctor in a neighboring village.

“There are people who have very big power. This doctor is one. He lays two sticks parallel on the ground. One at a time we are told to place our hands between the sticks. Then we are asked if we stole the money.  If we tell the truth, the sticks move further apart. This medicine man asks me and the sticks move apart. Mother-in-law is asked. The same. Friend is asked. The same. When sister-in-law answers the sticks clamp together over her hand. Yes, she admits it was her who took the money.”

This deep set fear has no seat at the plastic table we gather around outdoors under a bright moon one club night at the hotel. Music blares. Bass shakes the hotel’s tin rooftop. A local police officer joins us with his AK47. Comical exchanges lead to photo ops lead to group dancing. “I like your moves” is the height of any compliment I’ve received thus far in Nigeria. It comes by way of a woman facilitator in our group and reinforced by the rest of our partying entourage. They like MY moves? Hah. Go figure.