Final Days in Nigeria

Just the other day I thought to myself, “Gee! Isn’t it grand that I feel healthy after all the food that I have (at times) unwisely eaten!?” I celebrated my body’s victory over bacteria pathogens a little too soon. This morning I woke up and felt like my arms and legs were made of jelly. My head was pounding. I couldn’t breathe. And upon standing up, I was dizzy beyond belief. I freaked out for a second, thinking that I might have just contracted some wicked form of malaria that is resistant to my vaccination. Attempting to shake off my malaise, I made a large pot of oatmeal and drank two mugs
of green tea. I stood on the balcony of the school to let the morning breeze brush against my face. I thought this remedy was working, until I felt the familiar stomach cramps and the sudden urge to let the insides flow. Nigerians call it “running stomach.” I call it diarrhea. I had it again. On the second-to-last day I would see the kids, I spent the entire time lying down on my bed trying to ignore the symptoms, which was essentially impossible. I was shaky, dizzy, and weak.

This entire week the staff have prepared for our big graduation party on Friday. Out of the 12 teachers that are here, 11 of them are women. For the past few days, they’ve been going to the market (and spending hours there) purchasing the needed goods to cook for a large congregation of families. Children have been coming to school, even though they are not really supposed to be. There are no lessons planned, so essentially the day descends into absolute chaos, with children running around the building screaming. Many of them are eventually forced to go outside and play in our compound, which they end up doing. For me, I’ve taken this time to get to know some of the staff who I didn’t have the pleasure working with. It’s been a lot of fun. One of the days I organized a teaching seminar where I gave them some tips on classroom management and discipline.

Today all of the female staff were outside cooking HUGE vats of chicken over a wooden fire. They literally built a small fire pit in the center of our sandy yard, threw a bunch of chicken “pieces” into it, lit the logs on fire, and just chilled around the cooking kettle. They stirred it occasionally. But for the most part, they all just talked and drank copious amounts of pop (sprite being the popular choice!). Due to my physical state, I was unable to join them, so instead I longingly watched them cook and lounge from the comfort (or discomfort) of my own hot room. Most of them didn’t know what was wrong with me, but eventually word got around that I had food poisoning, so they all came by to wish me well. And when I did get up the energy, I eventually went outside to help them carry the logs and chicken inside the building. They all smiled and laughed, saying “The men here can work, huh!?”