My American Family

 I came to know Vickie Ostien at a Nigerian party. Vickie is from Jos, married to an American. She graduated from ABU and worked at the University of Jos. We were both happy because she was also looking for a brother.

I came to the Vickie’s seat for a brief talk. She launched into an impromptu but interesting narration of her life, the Jos page and the current chapter. I dragged a chair and flopped down. She had been here for about 20 years. Her husband too worked at the University Jos before he returned to the US. Soon, we realized that short discussion would not be enough for us. Vickie gave me her number. I returned to my seat. We would arrange a visit someday to her home.

Three weeks later we made it happen. She sent me her address. I ordered a car. The driver came and picked me up. I called Vickie to tell her I was on my way. I spoke in Hausa. The driver listened. He understood that I was an alien trying to visit a fellow from the home country. I guessed some questions formed in his mind. His body language changed and his kindness increased. He didn’t ask any question but he made sure, as his kindness, he dropped me at exactly the address. I saw him in the mirror read the address in the neighborhood until he found the house. For some drivers, once they arrive, they would stop where the phone indicates the destination.

I called Vickie to say I had arrived. The door creaked open before I finished setting off the feet from the car. We entered the house. Her husband was in the living room. They had obviously been waiting for me. I removed my shoes at the door. For a split second her husband’s face betrayed a feeling. This is not obviously an American home culture. If this caught him by surprise it also brought him the nostalgia of Nigeria. But he suddenly became at home with my action. Where I come from, it’s a respect to remove your shoes while entering into people’s personal space.

I was offered a seat. Aunty Vickie went off to bring me some tea. I was forming the right words to greet him when he caught me off guard. “Sannu Mallam. Ya ka ke?” he said.  I was not sure if I had succeeded in concealing my surprise. He introduced himself and asked my name. Professor Philip made every effort to show me he understood my culture. He told me stories of his days in Jos and mentioned some names he hoped I might have known, at times, adding, “Mtss, ba lallai ka san shi ba.” He narrated his stories of friends and white community in Jos, including the McCains, the family of Carmen McCain.

The conversation gradually veered to books. I mentioned writers from Jos. I asked if he had so far heard or read something about them. He said he could vaguely remember about seeing something on tv about one Abubakar from Jos.

Vickie, being an ABU alum herself, asked fondly about the campus life. Was the party at Zaria Hotel still happening? It was oldie. I know the place, but I had no idea about the party taking place there. I only knew about campus social events and nightlife. She understood it has been years. It is possible I might not know about these wild social events or that the students have simply stopped going there, as every generation have their fashion. Besides, my campus life had always been largely in my room or in the library, so I might not know about the party even if they are still happening.

Aunty Vickie announced it’s time for food. She had cooked tuwo. She went to the dining and set the table. I asked to visit the restroom to do some freshening up. At the dining, Victoria served the food and laid out spoons. I would use the spoon to comply with the American etiquette. American table manner does not allow eating with bare hand. In our private spaces Nigerians trample on that rule. I have been a strong believer in eating tuwo with bare hand. But I was ready to comply.

Professor Philip said he would eat with his bare hand. Vickie too said so. They prepared the ground. I thought they did that for me. For the life of me even in Nigeria I can’t understand people who manage to eat tuwo with spoon. Aunty Vickie said that if you eat tuwo with spoon 50% of the good experience is missing, which I strongly agree with.

This is it! This is the friction, the cultural war. Imagine the awkwardness if professor Philip is not conversant with the Nigerian culture!

After the food Vickie asked to pack the food for me. I said no. She asked why and I told her I didn’t have a microwave yet to warm the food. Husband and wife exchanged a knowing look and announced that they have a spare in the garage if I would like to take. 

What is more, they asked about my personal life, which is typically unAmerican. But I was already a family. They went about it in a way that suggested they wanted me to be here in the US, and when I am here in the US they’re booked as my first family. The kind of questions they asked were an assessment of possibility, an assessment to see if I am tied down with family and responsibility back home. I am free, free as a bird.  What about marriage, they asked, do I have any plan yet? Yes, I said, there are girls in Nigeria that blink in my radar.

 

Madison, WI