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.