Nigeria Journal: People and Students

As my trip winds down into its final two weeks, I’ve been reflecting a lot on the people I’ve met and the children I’ve seen on a day-to-day basis. There have been many, and for the most part, I haven’t been able to get too close to really any adults. The kids, however, have been a different story. I know most of their names and their passions and tendencies:

*I know that Emmanuel in third grade reads only at a first grade level. He’s never read a book in his life. Last week, I sat with him in the library and together we read a children’s book about Clifford the big red dog. It took quite a while, and whenever I would slightly rush him, he would look at me and say, “I want to read all of the words. Uncle Jeremy, you must wait for me.” He was motivated to do it. I relished the time with him. He wore a sense of accomplishment across his face as we walked back to class.

*There is Sumto, a ten year old, who loves to read and hangs all over my arms when I walk into her classroom. She is very bright and wants to answer all the questions first. Most children here speak Pidgin English, so when they want to answer, instead of screaming “Me, Me, ME!” they scream “I, I, I!” I don’t dare correct it.

*There is Chelsea who was named after Hillary and Bill’s daughter (I don’t get that one), and Oliver who feigns good behavior, but deep down is a mischievous prankster. There is sensitive Daniel, who is a natural artist, and Justice, his confidant and occasional enemy. And the little nursery and kindergarten students are so numerous I’m unable to keep their names straight. But they all know me, of course. When I walk into their room in the morning, twenty of them rush at me and climb all over my arms and legs. I pick many of them up (sometimes two at a time) and attempt to walk to my classroom. It’s quite a sight for many of the teachers, but for me, the kids’ consistent love and affection has been one of the best experiences of being in Nigeria. I’ll never forget it.

As I stated earlier, many of the adult staff are very friendly, but I’m not too close with them. We keep to ourselves and are very cordial, but our conversations rarely go further than general comments regarding the previous evening, food, and weather. Ironically, the staff member who I am closest to is the only one who can’t speak English. And I’m honest when I say that. His name is Emeke. He is about 5’1” and weights (maybe) 110 pounds. He is a sinewy, wiry man of about 30 years old. He is completely illiterate and stutters quite a bit. But he is so fun and easy to be around. He always greets me with a deep guttural (and emphatic) “NDEWO.” I always respond to him, “NDEWO EMMMMMEEEEKEE! Kedu?” And every single time Emeke answers me with “Adama, Uncle Jeremy. Adama.” (I am good. I am good.)

He is our door man. Every single compound in Nigeria has security personnel. They live on the property in their own quarters and are in charge of answering the door and investigating whether arriving visitors are safe to enter. I could tell that Emeke was not from Owerri, because he carries himself like a village man, with his strong arms and propensity to carry large items on his head. He is always working and is very industrious. I think a few of the staff around here look down on him because of his lack of education and small physical stature, but they shouldn't let his outward appearance fool them. He is incredibly intelligent and very resourceful.

Just this past Sunday, during another tropical deluge, I was able to ask my friend Uche to translate for me. FINALLY, I thought, I’m going to be able to ask Emeke all the questions I’ve been wanting to propose to him since I arrived here nearly four weeks ago. And the conversation that ensued was tragic and interesting. As I suspected, Emeke was educated only up to the elementary school level. His father passed away when he was very young. He was forced to work at home. He comes from a large family of ten. There are five girls and three boys still around. All of the girls in his family are married and his two other brothers, supposedly, are estranged from him and his mother. He is the only person who supports his mother. She is a village farmer with no income. Emeke makes only about $50-60 a month, and of that, he sends half back to his village for his mother and sisters. Just when I thought the story was going to end there, I found out that not only does he support his impoverished family, but he has recently built for them a five-bedroom house! All of his sisters and his elderly mother live there. Emeke made money selling diesel gasoline on the black market in the capital city of Abudja. Instead of saving it for himself and investing it in starting his own small business, he took all of his earnings and used them to build a nice home for his family. Believing him to be a hapless, uneducated man, would be an awful misreading of his character. All of us should learn from the industriousness and generosity he has exhibited in life, even through all of the obstacles.

Almost every Friday I walk down to the local corner store and buy him a beer. He really enjoys the time drinking and sitting with me. We don’t talk. We just sit. I guess it’s my way of telling him I appreciate him and his story. I’ve been so blessed in life. He makes me realize and appreciate it more.