A day in the life of a stranger

 I had been living with Michael and Theophilus for some time now. Reason was I rented an apartment in the housing units owned by the university, but I had to wait for the move-in date to allow the Housing Office complete some cleaning and maintenance work.

From the start I knew we would go along, but we got to know each other better during my stay with Michael and Theophilus. They’re like-minds. The house had an intellectual aura. We read, write, teach and meet at the living room and laugh over many things. Once a week we would visit Tolu’s family and have long conversation peppered with words such as “subjectivity,” “subjecthood,” “positionality,” “multiaxial mobility,” and “deterritorialized globality,” etc.

One day to my due date, I would have to buy some essentials things for my new home - utensils and crockery and toiletries. Michael, who had been my eyes, had a schedule on the day. He would not be able to go with me. But this wouldn’t be a problem. Accent and geography were no longer issues now. I had been speaking with customer service folk on the phone. I had even called offices and booked appointment. I had been going to school and coming back by myself.

I ordered a car to take me to the shop. Some minutes later my phone vibrated to indicate the driver was in close proximity. I picked my wallet and went outside. A minute or two the car arrived, an African-American woman in her 40s at the wheel. I slid to the back seat. As if on cue the woman mentioned my name. I was surprised she got it correctly. The little issue was on the accent, which can be forgiven for someone probably meeting the name in-person for the first time. When people wanted to talk to you, they make an overture like this. I was thinking in my mind what to do with her friendly opening.

“I was surprised, how you get the name correctly,” I said.

“I saw the name on my phone,” she replied. As she learned I was going for shopping she asked if I was moving to a new home. I told her yes. With a family? No. I had just arrived from Nigeria a month ago to start a program at UW-Madison.

“Are you a student?” she wanted to know.

“No, I teach.” Her face lit up with Black pride, how happy she was to hear this. She asked my plan after the program and advised I should come back for grad school. She offered some bits about her life for me to see. She is a single mother. She has three kids. All of them went to college. Her grandson is in Harvard studying journalism. She has an MA. I was nodding approval all the way. But I was even more surprised when she revealed her age and what she planned to do. At 56 she would soon go back to college for PhD. Now I can see why I needed to go to graduate school.

She dropped me at the shop. I did my shopping and returned home.

October 6

I gathered what few things I had and headed out to the car. Michael drove me to Eagle Heights and helped me deposited the items with another Nigerian. He proceeded to school. I walked to the Housing Office and collected the keys and papers.

I came back late evening from school to start moving my things to the apartment. It’s night and the middle of the week. Fellow Nigerians were busy with their work. I started moving my things alone. Later, Ali Baba helped me with the bigger ones, a bed frame and mattress.

I was taking the bull by the horn. I came to discover so many things I needed to buy were missing. I would want to use an item, say slice an onion while cooking, only to discover that I didn’t have a knife. I shouldn’t wait to have everything I needed before I moved in.

I set up the bed and sat down on the edge feeling nostalgic. The carton containing my books in one side. Two bags containing my entire life sat on the floor in the cabinet. The problem with knowing is that it gives clarity to your situation. I was taking an excursion into a life course theory and transition, like a bride leaving everything behind and arriving at her new home. We don’t pay attention to these transitions because they happen seamlessly within cultural frame and community.

I wen to the bathroom and performed ablution and came back and prayed. A faint rap came on the door shortly after. I dismissed it, thinking it’s on another door. Then another. I walked to the door and asked who it was. No answer. Another knock. I spoke this time with a rising tinge of exasperation. To hell with whoever it was since they weren’t answering. Just as I made to leave another knock grabbed me by the hand and held me back.

The answer came this time. I opened, and lo and behold, two police officers stood at the door. They introduced themselves and why they came. They’re from the UW Police Department. Neighbors called their office to say they had seen movement in the apartment they knew to be vacant. The police called the Resident Manager (Hall Admin) who said he knew nothing about moving-in. They’re here to check what’s happening. They asked permission to come in for checking. They followed me inside. They asked to see any of my ID. I showed them my UW ID and the rent papers that I collected at the Housing Office. They took my phone number and my date of birth. They asked if I had any question. Certainly I had, but I kept them to myself.

 

Madison, WI

Africa in the Western Spaces

 Things continued to happen slowly. One of them is building community and support network, which mostly happens through private get-togethers and public festivals. Like everywhere for immigrants within the Western metropolis, there is such tradition in Madison. It’s Africa in food, music, dance and clothing. Within the community there exists, however, the jollof rice war between Nigeria and sub-Sahara of the continent, notably Ghana and Senegal. 

It was my second week. The next few days would see Africa Fest in Madison, a gathering of Africa and her friends with cultural exhibits, entertainment, dance and food.  I did not expect to see a large population of Hausa people but I hope to meet one person. I must definitely go there to meet fellow Africans, Nigerians, and particularly someone from the North.

                                                    
 

Africa is so similar that you can be forgiven for mixing one country and people with another except for the national flags at the kiosks. However, Nigerians are distinguishable by their Nigerian pidgin and accent, and their tendency for dominance. 

I saw Fulani sombrero from Gambia and Uganda and some little cultural artifacts from almost all the countries that I used to see in my grandmother’s room. What warmed my heart was the sight of a Northern Nigerian woman. From her dress I could tell she was from either Kaduna or Katsina (look closely at the background in the video). I battled the urge to walk up to her. I didn’t know how to start. An idea was cooking up in my head. I would just walk up and speak to her in Hausa to spring up a surprise on her! Being someone deeply concerned about faux pax, I gave my idea a second thought, pointed to the group of women and asked Michael about the nationality of the women. It turned out they’re from Senegal. 

L-R: Me, Tolu, Hannah, Michael, Nneoma

 

A few days later one of them named Astu hosted Senegalese dinner for the African community. Such events, like I said, are meant for veterans to welcome new comers. They’re helpful in the process of settling in new arrivals. Most of them went through similar process and wanted to pass the baton. Few people would fail to extend such gesture to someone going forward.

Discussion followed after eating as in the American culture of social event: foody first before anything else. In Nigeria, people hang around meaninglessly and pretend they don’t care. Also, in the US people are encouraged to pack away the food after events, because, as they always say, who would eat if you leave the food? Doing that in Nigeria would cause you being associated with negative social baggage. Packing away the food comes as a relief for the real and technically-made bachelors like Theophilus, because – you’re right if you’re guessing – “you don’t have to cook for some days” as he told me last night after a social event.   

I sat down with Astu and had a conversation with her. I was fascinated by the similarities between her Senegalese people and Northern Nigeria. The connection is obviously way beyond skin color. We tried to figure out. Maybe because of Islam, but more so because of Sheik Nyass, a Senegalese who is wildly popular among Nigerian Muslims. 

I told her that my friends in Nigeria travel to Senegal every year for the Sheik’s Maulud. She told me that her brother in Senegal is called Abubakar. I told her in return that my sister in Kano is her namesake. Aisha being Astu in Senegalese variety. Oh, it’s so sweet. There was a girl with Chadian descent in my neighborhood named Ashta.

I had set my mind to not to expect many Northerners here, but I was sad by not seeing anyone at the festival, which speaks about their presence not only in Madison but in most Western spaces. Many factors are at play here, including religious and cultural and something weak around good enough social hustling. But generally, people in the North majorly return home after whatever they did abroad.  

I am not overly inclined to ethnic leaning, but it will be great if I could find a family that can dress like me, cook and eat my cultural food and with whom, like everyone, I can abandon the English language and converse in my native tongue.

 

Madison, WI

 

The American Home

 For almost a week I didn’t make a call to Nigeria with no significant discomfort or awareness except for the fact my phone’s network went completely dead. Like the phone, my PC charger too wasn’t American standard. Social media replaced the need for traditional phone calling with cheaper price and improved features.

However, I needed to buy new phone and PC charger. I needed new phone for my line to continue receiving authentication code messages. Michael took me and the lady for the business of the day. He is our eyes. He took us around, speaking on our behalf as we struggled with American accent. Americans are warmth, but they aren’t considerate on accent. Michael would sometime allow us try our luck, and when we failed, he would jump in with assistance.  

Tolu, Mike and I at a restaurant

 

The bucks stop at Michael’s desk for our bewilderment. For instance, one day the power in our temporary housing unexpectedly went out. The outage brought to the fore the sudden realization of the vital role of electricity in countries like America. The wi-fi, our sole means of communication infrastructure, went dead. The toilet couldn’t work, the food in the fridge would perish. You couldn’t bathe or eat or call office to make your case.

We got up and tried to figure things out. We needed to call Michael urgently and inform him of our situation. Otherwise, we should have to wait till the next day when he would come to take us out.

We’re stuck before an idea occurred to me. The incident affected only a part of the house, the kitchen and dining area were normal. American home is wired in a way that prevents experiencing total power blackout. At least three sections of the house were connected differently so that you could always have a chance to use the power in emergency situation.

We tried to move the router to the other part of the house. But our strategy didn’t work. The lady suggested we knock at our neighbor’s door for assistance. Concerned about the individualistic America and its fervor for privacy, I was reluctant to buy into the idea. Practically speaking we had no option except if we should wait for Michael, which wasn’t a decision we were aiming for.

We walked out tentatively, knocked at the opposite unit of the condo. A piano was playing, the voice answered barely above the sound. A minute later the door opened to a tall man in his 60s.

“I am Abubakar, a Fulbright scholar from Nigeria at UW-Madison.” The lady also did the same. We’re Black and strangers who wanted to earn his respect and trust. 

We told him the problem and asked if we could please use his wi-fi to call our brother. He agreed and went back inside. Minutes later he showed up with the login details of his network. We called Michael and told him what had happened. This was a big problem which we thought we caused. But the way Michael talked so lightly washed away my fears. This is apparently a common experience in America.

Michael asked few questions and gave us directions to the main. Our neighbor went with us to the house. He opened the main, shone a torch into the box and kept playing tricks on the switches until the light came back. The American home sits on a massive, intricate power connection equivalent to portable transformer. It’s an artful work of engineering that connects the unit’s power, gas, heater, and plumbing from the larger system.

I began to fear one day accident might happen, but trust Americans, nothing would happen if you stick to the manual. 

American home, generally, is like a mini office or a colony that contains almost everything the occupant needed, from first aid kits to maintenance tools. 

 

Madison, WI

 

 

 

Na just talk I dey talk

  

The first few days were slow. I would literally just sit down on my computer or phone and chat with people. There was of course some paperwork to be completed: getting our ID card, opening a bank account, obtaining a new sim card, and physically reporting to the office to announce our presence, not that folk at the university didn’t know of our arrival.

The slowness, however, is by Nigerian standards. Things were moving according to the American imagination. I just didn't know. Most of my work in those days involved spending hours on emails. I used to wonder how things are moved via email until I joined the rhythm of American work system, and even more so galvanized by the Coronavirus pandemic that requires that you make virtual appointments for almost everything, which is why you don’t waste time at a bank or any office for any business that takes you there. The American customer service is great. You can do many things on the phone or email in a just few minutes. You wonder what kind of replica they brought to Nigeria. 

But things began to change as the days for the start of the semester rolled in, with virtual orientations and a few in-person events. There would be an event almost every other day. On a certain day I sat in front of my computer 8am to 4pm with only some interspersing short breaks. I couldn’t help thinking the conditions that allowed this. Somewhere in this world, achieving this would be a herculean task. People in this world know about NEPA issues and fuel and generator and the noise from family or neighbors or a sudden visit of a relative that would never guarantee long hours in a meeting.

 

At first, venturing around campus came with a little confusion. I grappled with the geography and figuring out the bus system and the right bus stops. There was a day I wanted to attend a meeting in one of the halls but couldn’t locate the venue. Even when the map was telling me this way, I was going the other way. However, I can be forgiven if I ignore the map and manually seek human assistance. We’re at the periphery of technology, due, largely, to incompatible physical environment, which of course makes us not give our trust and power to these technologies. Example: There was a little turbulence while flying to the US from Nigeria. Nigerians shouted and called God. When such happened on our way from Atlanta to Madison, nobody batted an eye.  

Modern technology is built upon existing conditions that the environment offers. The metro system and online stores work as they do because of street zip coding and house numbering system.

One can feel the acute difference, not just by skin color – which of course I do not give a damn and which I am so proud of – but by your confusion upon contact with a system that defined basic modernity and civilization lacking in your home-country. You look at yourself and look at others and feel bad. You send the curse to the right quarters. I understand why Diaspora Nigeria is more stringent in her criticism of leadership of the home-country. Other foreign nationals can have certain comfort. Even if they don’t send one of their own to the moon, they know their government is doing something to their people.  

At first, I thought everyone was looking at me for my confusion. A lot more people feel the same than I realized, even Americans who moved here from other states to study. The only difference is that they don’t ask question and their confusion was overshadowed by the confidence of being the “sons of the soil.” Some other nationals may have been familiar with some of these planned developments in their countries. Overall, the Americans and other aliens feel the same but rely on their phones in place of human assistance.

Over reliance on digital technology in modern American culture created and encouraged public reservedness. You don’t need to ask questions in many cases, for two things: doing so would make you appear unintelligent, unable to navigate the world of technology around you. Second, the laws here make people extremely careful. You don’t know what talking to strangers would lead you into, which created a kind of carefulness that is exceedingly polite. In Naija, if I talked to you and it leads to something even the police would side with me when I say “na just talk I dey talk!” And not the police, that is the law enforcement agent, it’s the street folks that would say, “Just go.”

But talk to Americans, they would light up, ready to help. You're right if you are guessing why…

 

Madison, WI

 

 

 

Arrival

 I joined the US-bound passengers in the boarding area, a crowded room full of bubbling chatter. I struggled to orient myself with what was happening. I offered myself and belonging for security search. Boarding would start based on seat number. Despite my being late, I was called first before most people I found there. 

I was nervous and jittery inside the plane. I was not airplane savvy. Others were behaving and navigating things with fascinating ease. As the journey began, everyone concentrated on their business. Some people focused on movies; others opened laptops to put some finishing touches on some work ahead of their arrival to the US, or send the last-minute emails to their offices. The whole thing took an aura of cosmopolitan persona.

I am not a movie guy. I rummaged through my handbag and picked out Dreams and Assorted Nightmares that I bought in Abuja. Light went off soon after the takeoff, which left me with no option than to close the book.

I switched on the display and monitored the journey. We inched our way bit by bit across the Atlantic Ocean. All the while, I was thinking of the journey of the Blacks across the Atlantic in those deplorable conditions. I glanced at the time often and thought of Nigeria. I was leaving the country at night but instead of meeting morning in the few ours that followed I went straight up into another night.

Twelve hour non-stop was the longest journey in my life. I hazard a guess in the hindsight the reason for that. It was to avoid contact with the sun for a long journey like this since there won’t be a stopover due to Coronavirus restrictions in some countries.  

We arrived Atlanta 6am, 12pm Nigerian time. We deplaned and moved to luggage claim area, then to the Immigration for checks-in. Only then did the lady I supposed to meet in Lagos see me. She had won the same scholarship to teach in the same university I was going. We planned to meet at the airport 6pm before our eventual departure.

Atlanta airport

 

She said she was really concerned when she didn’t see me at the airport. I explained to her what happened. I was surprised she placed me but she said she had seen my pictures on WhatsApp.

At the Immigration, the line would tell you how much traveling is happening in the US. Batches of travelers from all over the world continued to troop in. The checks-in was split into two sections between the US citizens on one side and aliens on another.

The Atlanta airport was disorienting site. For our next flight, we were required to go to a display and check the schedule of the flight. After that, we should go to a tunnel to catch a metro ride to another section of the airport for boarding. It was a bit difficult and confusing.

I saw the lady from Nigeria on one queue and never saw her again. I wondered why I was not there. I had probably lost my way. She later emerged at a lounge area I was sitting for our flight. I asked her where she had been and why she was on that line. She was checking in the foodstuff she traveled with at the Customs. I was traveling light, which explained why I didn’t need to join the queue. Normally, the officers ask passengers if they carry foodstuff. Nobody asked me that, and I think that happens from the size of the bag one carries.

After some two hours of waiting the flight was readied. We were called in for departure. We flashed our tickets on a display panel to authenticate out tickets and arrived Wisconsin in an hour, just like it said on our schedule.

The department had arranged a pickup for us. Upon our arrival at the luggage claim area Michael was there, who is also a Nigerian. No need to even ask a question. We transferred our luggage into the car and drove away.

Our first point of contact was the University Housing Apartments, and into the house of a fellow Nigerian. The initial anxiety was swiftly wiped away with the first contact with the Nigerian food.

It was almost three o’clock. I asked them that I wanted to pray. They showed me to a room; I performed ablution and started the salat repayment. The first time in my adult life I prayed Subhi 3pm.

We then moved to our temporary apartment provided by a staff at one of Africa program offices. We were shown our rooms and the general expectations of our living. Minutes later, we crashed into bed to deal with the jetlag.  

 

Madison, WI