Nigerian Graduation

I’ve been negligent in writing for the past few days. I honestly just haven’t had the energy. After I got sick on Tuesday, I didn’t feel 100 % for the entire week. I still don’t.  A small part of me is worried that I might have contracted Hepatitis A. It is very common here in Nigeria and the vaccination which I have is over 6 years old. I knew that I should have gotten a booster shot before I left, but I was overwhelmed with work and trip preparations. I’m not too concerned, as I’m feeling better already and Hepatitis A, although in rare cases fatal , usually resolves on its own in about a week.
And with my old vaccination, I should be fine. If my eyes start turning yellow I’ll know for sure.  

The last few days have been quite challenging. For one, I’m preparing to leave. Upon arriving in Pittsburgh on the 31^st of July, Jamie and I are going to jaunt over the Allegheny Mountains to be in the wedding of our friends Paul Heller and Kelleyanne Smith in Harrisburg. I look forward to the party that will follow, but I’m leery about jumping too quickly back into my American life. There needs to be proper time for reflection after a trip of this magnitude. Also, this past week has made me starkly aware of the privilege I have over a majority of Nigerians. Even though I do not make a lot of money in the United States, I still make enough to pay for rent, go to the doctor for preventive care, and have access to proper dental care. I never have to beg or ask for money and with savings and tight budget management (Thanks, JAMIE!), food is always  available. A few of my Nigerian friends have come up to me asking what I will leave them when I am gone. I usually try to avoid this conversation because I suspect (no, wait, I know) they want a monetary gift. Instead, I’ve chosen to leave them with some physical items: sunglasses, a shirt, a raincoat, and some sports equipment. I have begun to realize that many Nigerians live month-to-month on their paychecks. It leads to stressful situations where money and the procurement of it is always at the forefront of everyone’s minds. It is at these instances where my white skin weighs upon me like a chain of gold, dragging on the ground, throwing diamonds on the road. Everyone comes behind me waiting for their handout, for their answer out of poverty. Too bad I’m not the answer.

Yesterday was the school graduation. It was a fantastic celebration. Parents and friends of the school were invited to attend. The staff cooked all of the food. It took many days and weeks of preparation. They bought bundles of wood and set up makeshift fire pits in the sand courtyard, where they placed or hung huge cauldrons. In those massive iron pots they cooked rice, fried chicken, and prepared the spice. Gender roles in regards to work are pretty strong in Nigeria, so all of those cooking were women. I decided to join in and help. I worked shucking and mashing all the garlic. They were surprised to hear that Americans eat and are familiar with garlic. This made me chuckle. “Wow, Uncle Jeremy, you know how to peel the garlic!” “I like the way you work!”  Much of what people “know” about the world or other cultures is usually received from experience and having an open-mind. It’s not that they were “dumb” or totally willfully “ignorant” about what we Americans eat, it’s just they never had the chance to ask or speak with an American about the topic. It was a fun moment of mutual experience, which in Africa is not all that common. Anyways, the food was fantastic. The rice was spicy and smoky, while the chicken was greasy but light. Everything was tinged with garlic, as I had it all over my fingers. And it was not a bad thing in my book.  I was enthralled watching the teachers stir the huge vats of boiling peanut oil. They were throwing everything in it: meat, onions, tomatoes, rice. It was great. At one point, the roiling oil almost tipped out of the cauldron. Everyone screamed and scattered. And at that moment, I realized this would NEVER be allowed in the United States. Could you imagine the horrific grease burns!?

The food was fresh. The vegetables were purchased at the market that day and the chicken was slaughtered the prior evening for the occasion. For a celebration of this magnitude, we Americans would have purchased a veggie tray or some plasticy sandwiches. Everything would be served on plastic plates and we would all eat with flimsily plastic knives. And while the work and clean-up would be much less, a human aspect would be lost. Watching the staff labor over preparing the feast for the families and students, I got the sense that it was a true labor of love--a job that when finished, they all could be proud of. As we Americans continue to sacrifice our lives on the altar of convenience and speed, we are losing bit-by-bit the visceral feeling that comes with spending a lot of energy to show appreciation. I guess it’s the difference between receiving a hand-written letter versus an email.

The graduation ceremony itself, naturally, ran two hours behind (African time!). Parents sat patiently as the DJs fixed their equipment. The microphones were ragged, dented and kept shorting out. Nevertheless, the show carried on. Students gave speeches, and wrote plays. They kept changing in and out of costumes. It was a variety show. The older grades were involved in most of the action. They planned as a group a series of dances, which were choreographed alongside hip-hop and cheesy worship songs. The parents, whenever there was a performance that they enjoyed, would go up and throw Naira at the feet of the children. I’m unsure as to what happened with all the money, because some of the dances and acting bits received quite a bit of attention. The most popular event, by far, was the Igbo traditional dance/drumming that the kids organized. All the girls game dressed out in a two piece outfit of a skirt and a top. Their bellies were showing. The color was a dark red and burnt yellow, which contrasted beautifully with their brown complexions. They were adorned in traditional red Igbo beads, both around their necks and wrapped on their head/forehead. The boys drummed. As they drummed the girls would begin moving their legs and bodies in unison, in a choreographed manner. The dance did not look difficult. It looked almost like a two-step waltz that went back and forth. They rarely moved from positions, except to go one step forward and then back. Upon the conclusion of the dance, they all got in a circle and grooved their way out of the courtyard with rhythmic steps that matched the beat of the drums.

The graduation celebration was the emotional conclusion of my time here in Nigeria. Although many of the students didn’t realize it, they would not be seeing me again. A few did. They asked to take pictures and wondered whether I would ever come back one day. I told them that I was unsure. The staff said their good-byes. They all expressed their joy at my “openness” to their culture and my willingness to try all their foods and engage in the lifestyle of Nigeria. At times it was difficult for me. I had to go out of my comfort zone essentially every single time I went into public space.  And I put myself into some rather interesting culinary situations.

The night ended on a rather sour note, as both Tara and I realized that we got robbed. At some point after the conclusion of the festivities, between 6:30 and 8:00pm, an unknown person (we suspect someone on staff) went into both of our rooms and stole an I-pad, money, and my internet modem. Dr. Korieh is very upset about the situation, but there is very little we can do. Unfortunately, it gives the school a bad reputation, leaving a bitter tinge in my mouth. When coming to a place, I never want to assume the worst in people. I always try to view the positive attributes of someone. And I surely don’t want to treat strangers like criminals. But maybe I got burned here? Ugh…