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