An explanation for the lull

So, I got better. Then a few days later, I got sick again – really sick, maybe the most ill I’ve ever been, which was scary. And it just didn’t seem to go away fully. Once I’d taken one lot of drugs, I’d still feel ill and be diagnosed with something else: one thing after another. After five weeks, I’d had enough and was more than a little worried, so I contacted VSO who agreed that I needed to go back to the UK.

And that’s where I’ve been for the past couple of months. I saw doctors, who ran tests, which showed nothing, and then diagnosed me with “post-infection fatigue”. I spent weeks not able to do any more than lie in bed or on the sofa and gradually, painfully slowly, started to feel stronger.

Malaria, typhoid and exhaustion

It's been a while since the last post. Mainly because I've been recovering from malaria and typhoid.


Last Wednesday, I woke up feeling tired, with a headache and sore throat. Assuming I was just a bit run down after my travels, I texted my colleagues to say I wasn't feeling great and spent the day in bed.


The next day I had an important work event to attend - the 'Flag-off' (= launch) event for my department's Annual Interactive Dialogue with local government - so off I went, accompanied by Simon. Typically Nigerian, the event involved a lot of pomp (brass band - they really tried; stage filled with armchairs for the great and the good; an MC who decided that, since we were white, he needed to announce to the hundreds of attendees that we were "in their midst"), a lot of waiting around (the official programme for the day showed that the first three hours after the start time were just for arrivals of various important people) and a lot of loud ballads being blasted out of huge speakers. None of this made me feel any better.


When Simon had to leave for his lift to Kafanchan (where he was overnighting for work), he forgot to leave me the internet dongle, as arranged. When I remembered this, I sat in the ceremony for half an hour, trying not to cry. That's when I realised something wasn't right and remembered that the last time I was struggling not to cry over absolutely nothing was when I had malaria. I went straight from the event to the hospital (not without being given two lunches to take away - mine and Simon's - each of which consisted of a whole roasted chicken and a litre of fruit juice!!).


I waited for two hours for my blood test results, to be told that I not only had malaria but also typhoid. I was prescribed four different types of drugs, two of which I opted to take (there seems to be a habit of over-prescribing here - multivitamins, vitamin C in many forms, regular painkillers). A short okada ride later (via the supermarket to stock up on chocolate!), I was home. And that's pretty much where I've stayed - either in bed or lying on the sofa - since then.


To be honest, apart from the headache, which became just a fuzzy head, and a bit of a sore throat, I haven't felt that sick - I didn't even have the telltale malaria fever; I've just been incredibly tired. The simplest of tasks - showering, getting dressed, even reading 20 pages of my book - have left me totally washed out.


Back at work today - still feeling a little woozy, and it's a bit of a shock to the system to be out and about again - but basically much better.


All the above, by way of an excuse for not posting.

What's the worst learning experience you can remember?

This week I’ve been attending a workshop on inclusive education. A very good workshop, I might add: one which leaves room for the possibility that there may be valid objections to inclusion, and which, when it talks about gender, actually means ‘gender’ and not ‘women’.

At the start of the week, we were asked to think back to our own childhood, and to remember a positive learning experience, either in or out of school. (For some reason, the moment that came to mind was when my Dad let go of my bike’s saddle when I was learning to ride in the park.) Once we had discussed what had made those experiences so positive, we were then asked to think back to a negative learning experience.

The best I could come up with was when a primary school teacher repeatedly failed to correct my spelling of Saturday in exercise books. Surrounded by stories of inexcusably poor teaching, of ritual humiliation, of flogging – and the worst experience I can remember from my school days is when a teacher didn’t correct the spelling of a word. Sure, there were things from my schooldays that have left their mark on me – bullies, friendship fall-outs, unrequited loves; but in terms of the actual education part, I can barely remember a difficult learning experience, and certainly nothing traumatic. Even in the lessons of the positively vile teachers (actually, The Vile Teacher), whom I loathed, I actually learnt a lot.

It was a humbling realization. I suddenly felt incredibly lucky to have had access to such a high quality – and safe – education. But more than that: I felt guilty. White Man’s Guilt. Surrounded by mainly Nigerians (and those from the wealthier end of Nigerian society), it was embarrassing that, through no effort on my own part, I had been able to have an education where the worst thing that happened was I thought the day before Sunday was spelled ‘Satday’.

A vicious circle, Part II

I have to say that a Nigerian colleague does not agree with me on the issue of per diems.

She says that the idea behind them is that no-one should be inconvenienced by something that their employer is asking them to do. Fair enough.

She says you are entitled to these per diems, because these out-of-town trips are not part of your normal job. Ok.

I point out that, realistically, we can’t think that people actually spend all of their per diems when they’re on these trips – we know that at least some of it is pocketed. She agrees – they try to cut costs so they won’t spend all of that money. But, I say, those savings go straight into the individual’s pocket – what about organisations cutting their costs? What about when that employer is the government – what about judicious use of public funds?

Of course, the highest per diems are paid to the most senior employees – so we’re back to the hierarchy issue. It is unthinkable, for example, to expect a Director – someone so high in the hierarchy – to go to Abuja for a meeting and stay anywhere less than the Hilton or the Sheraton. So therefore, his (people working at this level in Nigeria are almost exclusively male) per diem payment must be sufficient to cover that. This amounts to almost a month’s salary for a one night business trip; and seven times what many school teachers earn in a month. Now, of course, a Director will rarely stay in the Hilton when he goes to Abuja for a meeting. More often than not, he will stay with friends or family (extended families mean that most people know someone in the capital). So – in the usual absence of the need to retire the funds or provide receipts – that money is then his to do with what he chooses.

A vicious circle

In Nigeria, there is no middle class to speak of – there are those at the top who have great wealth, and there are those at the bottom who have next to nothing. Whether necessitated by this fact or caused by it, Nigerian culture is such that it is expected that those people who have money will provide for those who have little. So anyone who holds any sort of office, any sort of decently paid job, is subject to constant pleas for handouts: somebody needs money for fuel; somebody else’s daughter is getting married; etc. And even if there aren’t pleas, a Nigerian in that position would feel obliged to give anyway: that’s their culture.

Over time, the amounts that are expected from people in powerful positions have grown bigger: too big to be covered by these people’s salaries. That leaves these higher earners only a few options: refuse people’s pleas (an abhorrent idea to Nigerians); get a second job or start a small business to make more money (meaning that performance in their official job is, of course, adversely affected); or be creative with the books and get a little (or a lot) more money where you can. And so corruption sets in.

A big part of my experience of this country is the frequent requests from Nigerians to ‘dash’ (give) them things (a pair of flip-flops, my motorcycle helmet), or the question that immediately follows any sort of travel “What did you bring me?”, or the less frequent, but incredibly persistent visits from a colleague asking for money. This, of course, also comes from this culture of expecting the haves to provide for the have-nots.

The sense of pride in having earned everything you own, which I would associate with British working/middle classes, is all but non-existent here. That same pride which means that people in my own culture would often refuse charity, even from close family, is incredible to people here (to refuse to accept a handout is even more abhorrent than not giving one when it’s requested).

And this fact helps me a little to understand the per diem culture here which I find so difficult to swallow. Huge per diem payments are routinely given to employees who attend a workshop or travel out of town for a night for work – payments which far exceed any actual expenditure; payments for which no receipts or expenses claims are required; payments which workshop participants feel they are owed. With the knowledge that there is no value placed here on receiving only that which you have earned, I can start to understand that it does not seem anomalous to Nigerians that they are pocketing money for which - in my opinion - they have done nothing other than their (salaried) job.

The day the President came to town

Yesterday saw President Goodluck Jonathan's 'Flag Off' (as they say here) of his election campaign in Kaduna. 


A few days ago, we inadvertently drove back through Lafia at the exact time that he was kickstarting his campaign there. As we made our way slowly through the busy streets, every billboard we saw bearing Jonathan's face had been splattered with heavy black paint. Later, we discovered that his cavalcade had been attacked with sticks and stones. So, figuring this event may bring trouble with it, we worked from home. Only to find that the ceremony was taking place in the football stadium, only a few hundred metres from our house. Throughout the day we heard helicopters coming and going, biplanes flying overhead with election campaign banners and load shouts and cheers from the speakers and their excitable audience. 


As we listened to the chants of 'P...D...P' (the name of the president's - and in fact the country's only real - political party), I began to feel uncomfortable. The repetitive and increasingly manic nature of these chants felt more like mass hysteria: it was politics, Jim, but not as we know it. I tried to remember prime ministerial speeches in the lead up to British elections, tried to imagine a situation in which s/he would be helicoptered into a sports stadium filled with screaming fans, spend a few minutes speaking to notes written on two sheets ripped from a jotter pad (no word of a lie), and then sit back for minutes on end whilst a senior member of the party chants in unison with the crowds "CON-SER-VA-TIVE!!!!".


It was pointed out to me, that while this was anathema in British politics, it wasn't a million miles from what I've seen of US politics. Certainly, I'd seen Barack Obama in large stadia in front of throngs of screaming supporters. Presumably he travels by helicopter at times. And have I seen US political gatherings where large numbers of party members chant the party name or some slogan or another? That sounds believable. (Although, as I think about it, I'm imagining Sarah Palin or Christine O'Donnell on the receiving end, which is no less scary than a Nigerian rally, if you ask me.)


So maybe I'm just not comfortable with that style of politics (British reserve, and all) and I would have felt just as uneasy if I'd been living in a mid-town Chicago apartment during Obama's campaign trail. Or maybe, the recent history in Nigeria (and, let's face it, the constant bad press it receives, both internally and internationally) has coloured my view and led me to assume that large groups of politically excitable Nigerians are inherently dangerous. Ultimately, I think it's simply that that level of crowd hysteria - which is being fomented not even by a rousing and moving speech, but by the mindless repetition of three letters - is something we should all be a little uneasy about.

Our holiday in numbers

Just back from a ten-day holiday with Laura and Sarah, our first visitors from the UK. Frankly, I’ve been boring myself trying to give a long-winded account of what we did, where we went etc. And if it bores me, it’ll bore you. So, here’s a whistle-stop tour of our holiday in numbers…

1… holiday anthem: Waka Waka, eh-eh!

2… nights staying in cabins at Afi Drill monkey sanctuary, with mosquito meshing for walls and the sounds of the rainforest to keep you company while you sleep, eat and shower. Amazing. Although terrifying if you need the toilet in the night.

3… nights at Abebe’s Lodge at the Obudu Cattle ranch. It’s on top of a mountain, so was cold and misty, but with stunningly beautiful scenery. (And a cable car ride and waterpark with chutes, diving boards and sun loungers – like a real holiday!)

4… tour T-shirts – one each, in different colours, but with the same ‘Zuma Rock’ design on the back. God we’re cool.

5… dice thrown repeatedly in endless games of Yahtzee.

6… places visited in total: Kaduna, Zaria, Akwanga, Obudu, Afi and Abuja. It was great to show the girls our life in Nigeria, but also to visit some places that were new to us too.

7… marriage proposals received by our lovely guests (if you include the Drill monkey vigorously rubbing his thigh at Sarah).

8… hours of travelling to get back from Obudu to Abuja on our final day. We arrived back just in time to get a shower before our guests treated us to a fantastically luxurious meal at the British Council’s rooftop café, including cocktails, pizza and wine. Mmmmm…

9… (ish) okada rides taken by our fearless guests.

10… glorious days spent with the lovely Laura and Sarah – thank you!!

And countless…hours of “f*ck you, motherf*cking n*gger” rap music in cars. (*Shudder*) Thank God for Glee to take the edge off.