Friends with conviviality

Dr Iliya Amaza and I had been meaning to meet. Unfortunately, the schedule on both sides didn’t agree. So, we made a final deal for the Thanksgiving. I have only had a distant awareness of Thanksgiving. I assumed it is some religious festival. Even if it happens in Nigeria I might not know what it means. Some religious observance days connected to Christianity can come and pass without many of us knowing what that is in our part of Nigeria.

I heard of Dr Iliya through my supervisor. Being both Nigerians, she gave me his number as they had already spoken about me. We communicated sparingly. But for the Thanksgiving he came and picked me up from my house. Along with him was Mr Zakariyya Bulus, also from Borno, who came down to Wisconsin from Ohio to spend the holiday with the Iliyas.

We chatted up in the car. Light talk and sharing stuff about ourselves, inevitably, comparing life here and back there. Soon, we arrived the house at a highbrow area of the city.

Some folks were already in the house. I went to closet and removed the winter stuff. Ah, great, cool! American culture! I said hi to few folks and sat down in one corner. More people were on their way. 

 

Dr Iliya sat with me, and again we discussed a bit about stuff before he was swallowed into the activities in the house. Flurry of activities was going on in the kitchen. The hosts and the guests were working hard for the final touches.

Soon, it was time to move to the kitchen and bless the food. A circle was formed around the kitchen area where the food was laid out in an air of festive mood. Our guest Dr Iliya opened the floor. As usual, since most of us were meeting for the first time, it was only natural to begin with self-introduction.  That would help prepare a ground for acquaintanceship. You can have a handle on how to engage people for the imminent conversation.

Nigerians, Nigerian-Americans, Americans, a Canadian, Gambian and Ivorian were the guests. We served ourselves and took our seats, all the while maintaining nervous politeness. I didn’t know how it started but soon we found ourselves drawn into hearty, soulful conversation. Inevitably, the talk veered into cultural differences and comparison and the role of language in understanding the world.

Karen and I - of Ivorian heritage and me a Nigerian - for instance, could not know what is happening on the other side of Africa except in translation. We speak different colonial languages. She agreed. To buttress this point, Paddy, the lady on the table with expertise in psychology, mentioned how multilingualism helps individuals in developing an expanded vision of the world. This was discussed at some length and how lack of language constrained our ability to understand our feeling. For instance, most African cultures don’t have the language for depression. But obviously for us who can read in foreign languages could look back and mention individuals we know suffering one or two psychological ailments. We can easily identify our conditions because we know them. Post-natal depression, for example, existed but was not acknowledged in African culture. How did our mothers cope with this situation? Karen made the case that in African culture new mothers are surrounded by and have the support of family from when pregnancy is due, to about 40 days after, as is the case in my culture.

Looking back, I could see instances of my mother at her lowest, gripped in depression. She would tell me her feeling. She said she felt something dark, undefinable in her chest, feeling like bursting. I knew its name, but I would never tell her what it was. I’d pray for her, comfort her. For someone who views hospital negatively, who sees hospital as a last resort, as a house of death instead of cure, she believes that I’m inventing all these misfortunes on her where none exists. And for fever and headache, why not go to the chemist’s shop instead of hospital? As the saying goes, what you don’t know would not kill you.

The crowd thinned and the conversation became even more interesting. In the crowded conversation you have the responsibility of inclusion, of carrying everyone along and listen to them when they talk. At micro level, the conversation became more detailed, people more relaxed and willing to share.

We have got to hear experiences from Alexa and her hard water theory. A sister from Atlanta, Alexa looked to me like Faith in Imo Nigeria, whom I met at NYSC. I barely controlled the urge to walk up to her and say you looked like someone I know. And then Kesha and her husband Akila Bwala. As it turned out, Bwala graduated from ABU Zaria, my alma mater. The distance in the graduation years didn’t hinder our conversation. Esprit de corps instead. The usual suspects: Social Center, North Gate, Zinc House, Amina, and other assortment experience of college life.

Kesha and Akila aren’t just couple, they are friends, friends with conviviality. Their life is super-wonderful. God when…?

 

What struck everyone is the issue of Nigerian national language. Once the question comes up, Nigerians would look at each other. “English.” People become puzzled and make clarification. “I mean, the national language other than English.” My Brazilian friend is always amused and can’t get over this, that the Yoruba people and I can’t communicate when they visit my house. But no such a thing as national language, though. We only have regional languages with English at the center. Hausa for the North as I always explain. And that’s what united us all in the room for folks from the North. And English to every Nigerian North and South. While Iliya and the rest might be able to speak pidgin, I can’t. And million others in my North.

Even more surprising was when Dr Iliya revealed that he and his wife speak different languages. They don’t understand each other except in Hausa or English. She is from Yobe, he Maiduguri. Wonderful! It was also new thing to me. I knew it happens through my imagination but I never came across it in real.

Dr Iliya regaled us with his wealth of experience about complex American maze. Bola with her experience of being a Black doctor. Against my wish, it’s time for me to go. Hannatu, his wife - my daughter - packed food for me. She had cooked masa and zoɓo and ginger juice.

Madison, WI

 

Ps

I can’t mention everyone in the article but recognition also goes to Dr Wole family, Sambo, Alex, Victor and Merlin.

The Family House

Mr Tolu Akinwole’s is our family house. This is where we landed first on our arrival. But more so, it’s our home for the many days I spent with Michael before the due date of my apartment move-in.

The house has been our usual stop point. We’d drive to Eagle Heights in a car. The car would be parked after which we would go to school. Done with school, in the evening or in the afternoon, we would converge at Tolu’s house for the onward commute back home. Whoever arrived first must wait for the rest to come. At which point Madam Debby, Tolu’s wife, would entertain us the Nigerian way. No advance notice, no nothing, no seeking permission from her husband as I learned couple must do here before using anything that belongs to the house for the guest. The unwritten rule is your brother is your brother.

I used to think the North and Southern cultures would never connect. There’re differences of course, but living with the Tolus reminded me of my growing up in my community of extended family.

Back in Kano, there is my neighbor Habiba who plays the same role with Debby. God forbid the day that I'd not go to her home. Her room is one of the places that my idea of home is psychologically tied to. It's always food and laughter and social gossip.

Madam Debby’s role straddles that of thoughtful sister and caring mother. Once you arrive, she would begin to ask your wellbeing and jump over your neck with food. Like my mother, she would ask you for at least three times to be sure you don’t want to eat if you say no.

While some of us were understandably living somewhere, the house is not restricted to other Nigerians, and even Africans. In some cases, when the food is not ready it’s not difficult for her to rise into action and prepare one. This is the standard in Tolu’s house. I guess in those first few weeks Debby increased the size of the food she cooked to accommodate us.

Neither Debby nor her husband has shown any reluctance or annoyance for our presence. And when you’re committing an error based on cultural differentiation, Tolu is never one to speak. “Hosting” can’t fully express what the family does. It sounds distant, transactional, impersonal and the expectation of one to leave at certain point. The atmosphere drips wet with shades of care, empathy, family and community.

I like the Tolu family, the lovely atmosphere between husband and wife. Their two kids were initially reluctant to accept me. I could not speak Yoruba to easily woo them. But as the days progressed and they continue to see me, they started to come to terms with my presence.

A greater understanding would soon develop between me and Debby. She loved the jokes I told and the humor in them. We would often talk about my girlfriend. At first, I was playful as usual. I would ask her some questions about the US or a phenomenon; she would attempt to explain but I would tell her to save her answer, leave that till my wife comes “so you guys can talk.” She’d laugh out a hearty laugh.

Now, the surprising thing is that I eat more Yoruba food in three months than I ever ate in my life in Nigeria. I lived in Zaria and Kano. All my business with Southerners, Christians or Non-Northern Muslims, though mutually respectful, has never been this up-close and conducted in personal space. This is the first time I’m spending more than one hour in someone’s house that’s not Muslim, that’s not Hausa or Northerner.

I began to learn some things about the Southern culture, and Yoruba culture in particular. I often muse that the US government brought me here to learn about the US culture but end up learning Yoruba culture. Sometimes I ask Michael if there is a Fulbright office nearby to report them. Once, I attended a Yoruba party, which I had never done before. (Generally, all of these things aren’t my cup of tea. The last time I attended a party was in 2009 or thereabout). I asked Michael to give me a piece of Yoruba cultural clothing for the party. He joked that I was not Yoruba. I said I’m Yoruba by association. Often in such back and forth Michael would deny my admission. I would insist, reminding him that I once nearly married a Yoruba lady at NYSC.

I bet most of Yoruba here also have never lived this up-close with a Hausa person. On occasion, when someone is on the phone with their folk back home, they may happen to ask me to speak with their folk. Once the person at the other end learns I’m a Hausa man they’d begin to speak in Hausa, which always comes to me as a surprise.

As we live so close, some cultural gaps began to show up, which are curiously attempted to be filled by way of asking questions couched in joke and casualness. It’s awkward to talk about halal food or something but everyone understands, especially Michael who’d often say “Alaji, I would not feed you what you don’t eat” if he gives me something and notices my reluctance. Some of these cultural gaps and assumptions showed in an incident again in which a Yoruba lady saw the pictures of what were supposedly my “girlfriends.” She commented and asked if I slept with them all. I receive questions also if “anyone” so far has visited my apartment.

Premarital sex, sex outside marriage, isn’t part of the northern culture. It’s fornication, and that’s haram in Islam. Being in relationship in Hausa/Islamic culture doesn’t mean the couple can engage in sexual activities. I love my girlfriends because I love them. Being always naïve, I loved each one of them with the intention of marrying them.

There is also the question of alcohol drink. Why don’t I drink since nobody is seeing? Since no one from back home could report me, why? It’s not about being seen or not, it’s part of Islamic culture and the values one upholds. It is also because the person asking question about alcohol doesn’t know, though both are forbidden, many people would rather do sex than engage in alcoholism.

Also, a Kenyan friend asked me and the lady from Egypt why we don’t go clubbing? He said there is a Muslim lady that he meets at the club. Because, Islam. Such behavior certainly doesn’t sit well with Islamic tenets, and is incongruent to the character of a good Muslim. The answer to all of this is that there are thousands non-Muslims who don’t engage in all of that. Being Muslims doing that means choosing your personal choice, but that, above and beyond, wouldn’t make the act acceptable norm in Islam.

I wouldn’t claim a sainthood. But I can’t think of myself doing some of these things. Where we err, past or present, may our sins be forgiven!

 

Madison, WI

 

What’s happening up in the sky?

 I woke up and went to bathroom to perform ablution. I looked at my time, but when I came back something strange happened. My day starts that way, every day, with going to bathroom and looking at time.

This is a consistent routine. There is no call to prayer. When I was in Kano I would ignore the muezzin’s call and keep on with my sleep. I’d spring to my feet on the last minute. I hardly missed the prayer nonetheless. 

Prayer time

I read the Qur’an after the prayer and get to my table. First thing is open the email. New messages would start trickling in, but there are sometimes messages that I sleep on. I work, develop and edit documents while responding to emails. I am not an early eater. I work from when I jumped on the chair until 10am for breakfast, other times till 2. I don’t normally schedule classes in the morning. So, everyone would have a chance to buy time.

Once I finished classes, I catch bus and rush home. I acquired some books that I read. I feel guilty spending hundred dollars a month on books. This is not much, but if you look at the condition in Nigeria you can see what I mean, you can see what hundred dollars can buy.

My workload rests on my shoulder, staring at me every day. I need to attend the classes I audit, do the reading and respond to texts in short essays, develop materials for the classes I teach and attend to my own personal life: chatting and calling folk, shopping and cooking and napping when necessary.

The day for the useless sun

 

It was a bit difficult from the start. Not that the work is much, mine is easier compared to other colleagues. It was just I didn’t yet find the balance. The imposter syndrome stuck with me. But I slowly found my rhythm. At any rate, I’m good at what I do. Though everyone can speak and write well, especially in the English Department, chances are not many could match my stamina and love for reading. In the undergraduate classes I audit, not everyone has the clarity of thoughts for brilliant articulation. And certainly, not many are well read as to write with the same clarity, which is my area of strength.

For the personal thing, I do month-long shopping. Cook large enough food to last for days. Weekend that supposed to be for rest is spent largely attending to personal needs. The ABU experience, the breathless race against due dates come again with a great sense of déjà vu.

But it’s almost the kind of life I want, spending hours indoor without undue interference. On one occasion I spent two days indoors with my books without going anywhere as near the couch, which sits at the middle of the living room with tendency towards the door. In these two days I barely met my roommate. I went out of my room only for food and to bathroom for ablution.

People back home often have trouble understanding cooking for the whole week. Does the food not spoil? Yes, it doesn’t. There is a system for keeping your food. One minute without electricity would be disastrous in the US. Almost everything that you can think of depends on power and the internet. The weather, for instance. A lot of things are shaped and organized from the weather perspective.

Back in Nigeria I was scared by the horrible tale of cold. Warning came from several quarters. I take things lightly until the day I was at one of the university’s centers. A writing blinks from a screen for international students to note that winter can be brutal here!  

In the early days, anytime I went to bed I would shut my eyes and wait to freeze. One of the things I never thought is possible is going to bed like I do in Nigeria: going to bed with boxer shorts. Freeze, it seems, I never would.  Once indoor, you’re insulated from the outside temperature.

Houses and anywhere else that people would live or work is equipped with heating system. I am gradually seeing the context. People are always indoor because the weather is volatile and the environment hostile. They need to be conquered and subdued to a condition suitable for human habitation. There is a time that the days are shorter and colder. I was amused learning that we’d soon be there. Shorter days for a reason. Of what use the long days if snow is falling?

You would have warning signs in the sky for any change in weather conditions in Nigeria. Every season is clearly demarcated. But here, you can have anything in one day. It might rain. A second later the sun is up smiling at you. A minute later it would be cold or windy. All in a matter of seconds. I once went out in light clothes, trusting the sun in the sky. The chilly wind hit me. I tried to brave it. The sun was so ineffective I had to go back home and wear heavy clothes.

Things are so sudden and pronounced, or maybe because they are closely tracked and publicized. In Nigeria, you certainly don’t take official announcements seriously. The time shift was announced at the Juma’at mosque. Zuhr prayer would be at11:45am, Asr 2:19 and maghrib by 4:45pm. My first thought was a doubt and shrug. Let’s wait: let’s wait and see if the sun would go down at 4:45pm.

I was even joking on WhatsApp that we would pray Asr with the sun up. As we progressed into the day, at 3pm the sky was golden, evidence of immanent twilight. The sky was already dark at 4:45. No wonder I had trouble understanding my student once telling me our appointment was 5 at night. Five at night? Is that what you call night? I now understand.

Earlier that day, in the morning, I came back from bathroom and found the clock in my phones adjusted itself one hour behind. It was a psychic rupture I struggled to process. Things like that are distant phenomena to us. No wonder people here are keen in what’s happening up in the sky.

 

Madison, WI