Life Starts Clapping

We arrived to the office this morning in warm sunshine.  When the door to the gate opened, Terefa threw his arms into the air and emoted great joy in seeing us!  We shook hands the way Ethiopian men do–a handshake combined with right shoulders knocking and then holding together.  The longer you stay in this pose, the happier you are to see the other person.

Terefa held on, and kept saying, “Jim! Jim! Jim!”  And smiled bigger than the magical land that is Ethiopia.

Two and half years ago we left Addis, only a few weeks after first meeting Terefa.  He was hired as a guard for our office, commonplace for governmental and non-governmental offices in the city.  He and I had a few laughs and smiles then, our communication made challenging by language barriers. 

Still, he was one of the people I most looked forward to seeing once I was back in Ethiopia. 

After the handshake and greeting my wife, he grabbed a hold of me and gave me a big hug.  Probably weighing thirty pounds less than me, and around twenty or more years my senior, I felt as though I was being bear hugged by a man who goes to the gym several days a week.

“Jim!  Jim!  Jim!”

“How are you Terefa?”

“Good.  I’m good,” he said in English.

“You.  How are you?”

“I’m happy to see you.  Today’s a great day!”

“Yes.”

Throughout the day whenever I stepped outside, he would call my name, smile on his face and happiness emanting from it.  We’d laugh, and I’d say his name and we’d laugh some more.  What more do two people need to say between them than a smile?

The rain started as we were returning from lunch.  Terefa taught us how to say “It’s raining now” in Amharic, and we all laughed at my attempt at saying the words.  He grabbed me again and put his arms around my shoulders and smiled some more.  I knew he loved me.

               *************

I have another three weeks and some days here.  No matter how they play out, seeing Terefa and feeling his love for me is a gift I will carry with me forever.  I was surprised by how truly happy he was to see me again.  And he taught me a lesson:

To love the people that come into my life, no matter the spanse of time I am with them or how long we may be apart.

Terefa is a man of little things, but he is a man of big spirit.   He is a common man, if you will, but his generous act of welcoming me back was the work of a saint.  I feel blessed.

Hafiz has a way of expressing how I feel right now:

 

LIFE STARTS CLAPPING

Wherever

God lays His glance

Life starts

Clapping.

 

The

Myriad

Creatures grab their instruments

And join the

Song.

 

Whenever love makes itself known

Against another

Body

 

The

Jewel in the eye starts

To

 

Dance.

 

My wish for anyone reading this is that you may feel the love I felt in Terefa’s hug earlier today.

 

48 Hours in Lagos

Was here 3 years ago,

but only a night in a hotel

with no visit elsewhere

in the city on the Atlantic

 

This time around we say

that Lagos can be summed

up in three words: 

noisy, crowded and dirty

 

You might want to hear

“chaotic” or “crazy” and

that might be true if I

really knew what I was

talking about regarding

how life is lived here

 

But I am a visitor with

minimal exposure to

the daily lives of the

city’s inhabitants

 

I will say that life looks

very, very difficult

and that I am certain that

years are taken from your

life span with the more

years you live in Lagos

 

Over there, a ram sheep

stuffed in the hatchback

trunk of a 4-door car,

to be eaten later

 

A boy washes dishes in

the wastewater gutter

running by the road where

food stands sell lunch

 

A landfill in the distance

has homes built in it

from the waste of someone

else’s unneeded things

 

Okada–2 stroke

motorcycle taxis are like army

ants weaving in and out

of the traffic that never moves

 

Sweat is running down

my shins to my ankles

and onto my flip flops

making a slippery pad for

my feet that are hot too

 

Where do the people come

from each morning

Where are they going right

now and later today when

the sun goes down

 

Q-tips, belts, watches

Coke and all else comes

to your taxi window

if you’d like to buy

 

How much does a street

hawker make in a day

taxi driver says about

2000 Naira on a good day

which is about 15 bucks

 

Okada make about the same

but baba taxi driver wouldn’t

tell me how much he brings

in on an average day

 

Exhaust makes the air

take on a grey and sort

of yellow color and burns

my throat and eyes a bit

 

Police stopping cars

to check ID or maybe

to extort some money

to put in his pocket

 

15 million people

some say 18 million

human beings call

Lagos their home

 

I am grateful I don’t

live here, and so is

my colleague who cannot

wait to get back to his

home in Benin City

 

Lagos stresses him out

and he comes here only

for work, otherwise

maybe once a year, he says

 

No place on the planet

that I’ve seen is like this

place, and I think that

that is a good thing

 

The world only needs one

Lagos, where life is moving

fast and in seemingly unworkable

order except that things do get

done though perhaps much

slower and in a more challenging

manner than I can imagine

 

Lagos, Nigeria, West Africa

a geographic place where

millions of black Africans

were stolen and taken to

America to be slaves

 

That’s another thought I

had while in the taxi today

knowing that “Lagos” now

is not the place of then

but both disturb me deeply

and make me sad

 

 

 

Highlights from Abuja’s Wuse Market

I joined my colleague and a friend who wanted to buy some things at the main market in Abuja, named Wuse.  They were looking for gifts to take back home to their families.  The following are some of the sites and sounds from my 4 hours there today:

Muslim men washing their feet, arms and faces with little plastic teapots filled with water.  They were preparing for prayers.

Hausa women from northern Nigeria wearing beautiful, bright colored dresses sitting in a half-circle selling yogurt.

A blue and yellow nylon camping tent set up smack dab in the middle of the market, hoping to be bought, despite its incongruity!

Kilishi–dried beef, like jerky, that is seasoned with pepper spice, peanut sauce and ginger.  It tastes kind of like Thai peanut sauce flavored strips of beef jerky.

The colors and prints of fabric stacked to the ceiling at many shops, being sold to then be made into dresses and traditional shirts/pants for women and men. 

Being asked if I was Chinese.

Being told I was an American soldier.

Jollof rice and fried mackeral for lunch in a dank square box of a luncheonette.

Peanuts being sold from headtops seemingly around every corner.

Laughing at how tough my friend was while haggling.  He got his prices, much to the dissatisfaction of disgruntled sellers who were out-negotiated by a man with a sharper/quicker tongue.

Buying Nigerian High-Life and Congolese music CDs, and while doing so having a local guy insist he was a rapper, as in “I am like 50 cents man…what’s up G?!!!”

Having that rapper teach me how to say some Ibo words, and then having me call his friend those words, which I knew was going to be a joke, so I played along.  When I called his friend “bush meat,” everyone around got a laugh!

The feel of a hot afternoon sun on the back of my neck.

Electronics.  Shoes.  Suits.  Rugs.  Furniture.  Toys.  Everything you could possibly want or need was there, as is the case of large markets around the world.

And spending time with my friends who were going about the same thing you and I have often done:  walking around a shopping area looking for what would make nice gifts for the people we love, giving thought to each person and what item would be perfect for them.

As is often said, (but we can never hear it enough) we all are more alike than we are unalike. 

 

 

 

 

EuroCup 2008 in Abuja

Sitting here drinking a Guinness

Extra Smooth brewed in Lagos

Ingredients: Malt, Sorghum,

Maize and Hops, label says

 

Reading Brazilian Portuguese

and watching Spain v. Russia

with Abuja’s Nigerians

 

Spain’s up 2 nil, and

the locals are happy

drinking Gulder and

Star and Heineken and

Harp and the Irish ferment

 

Mosquito bit the underside

of my foot, but malarone

is in my system….

 

Correction, Spain is up

3 nil and a few people

have decided to go

elsewhere for the night

 

Oyibo’s Eating Local

Today I ate in what my colleague called the “black hood” or “southcentral L.A.” 

“What does that mean when we are in Nigeria, and the people are all black?”

“This is where the gangs are…cars are stolen here all the time…it’s not safe for you to be here…give me your camera.  You cannot carry it.”

“Ok.  Here.  Let’s eat.”

We sidestepped mud and puddles from the afternoon rain.  I saw 4-5 tarp tent-like rooftops and smoke rolling out from behind a 4 foot high cinder block wall.  We walked inside.  All eyes on me.

“Oyibo’s eating here.  With us.”

The lady cooking food says, “Why do you bring him here?  I don’t want any trouble.”  (I was told this 5 hours later!)

A friend responded, “It’s ok madam.  It’s still early.  The boys aren’t out yet.”

“Do you have beans and plantains?” 

“Ok.  You want beans and plantains?”

“Yes.”

“No meat?”

“No meat.”  She looks at me like I’m crazy.  Nigerians eat a lot of meat of some kind, which could be beef, goat, chicken, fish and whatever else.  Meat is anything that is animal.

My beans and plantains were on the cold side of lukewarm, but tasted good.  I washed it all down with a cold Coke.

As we were leaving, the lady said to not bring the Oyibo–white man–at that hour (3:30 in the afternoon) and that if we come back tomorrow, make it noon.  My friend says, “We’ll be here at 8:00 in the evening!”

“You bring him here then, and I see him, I’m shutting my door.  I don’t want no problems.”

We walked back to the car.  My friend opened the driver’s side door and then reached down towards the gas pedal.  I noticed a clamp of sorts with a Master lock on it.  He locked the pedals.

“That’s cool.  Purely Nigerian invention!”

“Yes.  You need it here.”

In the week I’ve been here, it was the first time he used it.

“But your car is a piece of junk?”  And it truly is.

“Yes, but it does not matter.  It’s the hood.”

I also learned later that no white person has ever ventured close to the market eatery area of that section of town. 

“So, why did you take me there?”

“Ah…it’s safe I guess in the day time.  And you eat anything.  It’s cheaper.”

“True.”