Worker Bee

To work in Lagos you have to be of very strong faith in either a higher power or a bottle of gin. Functionality is optimum when you learn the cardinal rules:

1) Never expect a professional to be able to provide the level of service he claims he can give you
2) A deadline is about as effective as the 2.5 billion naira on-ramp to Falomo Bridge
3) The more money you pay upfront exponentially decides how fast the understanding of your deliverables will diminish.

I spend all day, EVERY day, trying to decipher management techniques that work with different types of people; screaming at them or pleading with them, maybe even threatening or actual physical violence. (There's the C.V. of a baseball bat on my desk, just in case).

After being 3 weeks late on a deadline, I journeyed to the office of one of my vendors to actually sit with him to make sure he was doing work.  Physically blocking him from leaving his desk, I spent 6 hours monitoring a project that had, at a prior instance, been referred to as being "cleaned up."  Resigned to another day of sitting on his head,as the sun was setting I ask what time we are meeting in his office the next day. My vendor then tells me that he is not working tomorrow;  tomorrow is a day that he exclusively spends with Eileen. Considering I'd never met his wife or any of his 5 children, I asked who Eileen was and to which he said "she's one of my girlfriends."

*yoga inspired deep breathing exercises*

Needless to say, I've been really stressed out lately.  I've been hoping for a while that when one of my work vendor's says "I will deliver it today" he doesn't actually mean " I will switch off my phone and ignore your emails because my time is more valuable than yours." Today, after my second cup of calming tea and my third distressed phone call to explain to someone that sending me the same design twice does not constitute a re-design, I  have decided to take my blood pressure.

A POSITIVE I.D.

My sister, lets call her “M.S.” is one of those people that can actually do math and draw a straight line without a ruler, you know, the show-offy types. She’s normally the person who walks in 45 mins after you started building your chest of drawers with the German instructions, coupled with a translation app that got a one star recommendation on iTunes  and shows you that the english directions are on the back and you actually bought a dog house by mistake. She's the together one.

Though Lagos and I have been long time lovers, my sister and Lagos have only ever been good friends. They are happy to see each other and go out for drinks but then gidi says something slick and they remember why they don’t actually hang out as often as they think they should.

On her last visit, she bought some boli, bole roast plantain and asked I.D. our house “help”, to please buy her 3 bottles of cold water. The following exchange ensues after I.D.’s 35 minute journey to the store:

ID: Aunty, they don’t have small bottles of cold water, should I still buy or buy the big one? The big one is cold

MS: Buy the big one and bring it back

(25 minutes later)

ID: Aunty, take

MS: This is one small bottle of warm water…

ID: The big one wasn’t cold

MS: If you were going to buy warm water, when didn’t you just buy them on the first trip?

ID: *blank stare*

MS: Just go and buy two more small bottles of water

(15 minutes later)

ID: Aunty, this is it

MS: *sigh* this is 2 bottles of Fanta and a can of Maltina

ID: yes, aunty

MS: what did I ask you to buy?

ID: Water, Aunty

MS: *long pause* where’s my change?

ID: Aunty, they didn’t have change

MS: *long pause* whatever

(ID lurks for 3 minutes)

MS: What’s the problem?

ID: Aunty, you go drink that malt? I want taste am because e cold well well…  

In my sister’s quest for rationality, Lagos provides no succour. There are always people who defy the very science that holds human kind together as a biological grouping and everytime she visits, she creates new ideas that she’s convinced will help the evolution of the Nigerian mind…until she gets to the airport where there are nine newly arrived flights but only one baggage carousel and people see no problem with unloading bags with tons of toilet paper and toothpaste from “the overseas”.  

One and the Same

Attending events in Lagos is like a full time job, between birthdays, funerals, thanksgivings and helping people remember their deceased from 15 generations before, any self respecting Lagosian knows, a party isn’t a party until you and a thousand of your closest friends are wearing the same material aka “aso ebi”

(I actually don’t know where to buy ankara material from as I just wait until there’s an event I have no intention of attending)

If anyone knows my dad he’s one of the most generous people on the planet, like he can give away the shoes that you’re wearing and follow up with the question “you didn’t still want those did you?” He feels like he has a civic responsibility to the entire human race and trust me, dude takes it seriously. So, his “dashing” of leftover  aso ebi material to anyone he deems wanting, is as expected as a yellow girl with too much brazillian hair and pink blush at a Dbanj concert.  

On a fateful Friday, I had a meeting and woke up with just enough time to get dressed and out of the house. Laid out my newest ankara dress, took a shower, did my regular “getting dressed” dance in the mirror and headed out of the house, coffee mug in one hand and granola bar in the the other. I walked to and sat in the car, consumed by my phone when the driver gets in and we head out. My driver at the time was one of those ones that you brush off with a “the devil you know” shrug and do a novena everytime you get in the car; a typical Lagos Islander who voluntarily asked people to call him “Squadron” (yes, after the liquor).

 I get to my appointment and get out of the car and as I’m walking into the building, my driver gets out of the car  to help me carry bags in and reveals that he is wearing the EXACT same material as I am.  The look of absolutely mischevious glee on his face and the look of genuine horror on mine were of the same magnitude. The situation was out of my hands, I either sweat and struggle my way up the stairs with too many bags or he has to come with me.

I have no shame in saying this, I strapped those bags to my body and carried them up 4 flights of stairs. A little hard work and sweat I can deal with but allowing my chemically imbalanced driver revel in telling the receptionist the story about how we are both part of a Yinka Ayefele back-up band on the weekends is another thing entirely. 

The Ressurection

So I know that I've become one of the quintessential bloggers who forgets all about their blog but no be like that na...lol.You see, what had happened was, my love and I were separated for a while wn, but I am back now and shall try to be in full effect *dancing to Bobby Brown's every little step I take*


As I've tried to get back into the Lagos groove, I've decided that one of the best things about being able to say i"m gidi-grown is because I had a great many, very fantastic and inherently "Lagos" experiences in my childhood and that's one of the reasons i'm so fly (you know its true).

For example, I went to one of those primary schools in Lagos that most people know. I never understand the relevance of the question as you are now grown-up people at a grown-up social function, drinking Hennessy on someone else's tab, air kissing and pretending to not notice people you went to school with (don't front like you don't do it) and it always seems to crop up "what school did you go to?" Its like a multiple-choice exam and there are about 5 acceptable answers with and option of "none of the above."

Anyways, I went to one of those schools and I remember having my 6th birthday "party" and there's nothing better than being able to show up to class with a huge Barbie Birthday cake (life size barbie included)and rub it in everyone's face that you're the HBIC and they better not cross you if they want a piece.

SN: Let me explain how excited that cake made me, it made me do dances that you couldn't get me to do now even after 3 shots of tequila and a wine chaser, so...yeah, i was mad excited. 

So, my cake and I were dropped off at school with specific instructions to bring back a certain amount of it and the day went as expected, readin, writin, being held up my kids from a different class talking about they need a cake hook-up...regular stuff. Time came to cut the cake, people sang, clapped and then the absolute smallest pieces of cake are shared to my classmates and just as my brain is like "this does not compute" (and I swear it happened exactly like this and in slow motion), my teacher hacked off half of my remaining cake, wrapped it in foil and put it in her purse then looked me dead in my face like "and what are you going to do about it". As i was metaphorically taking off my earrings and getting out my vaseline, this woman took my barbie doll, licked the icing and cake of her legs and put my doll in the same purse,she was definitely looking to catch a fade...( I was 6, what powers did i have besides to cry uncontrollably and incessantly ask the question "but why?")

What's the point of this story? I'm glad you asked...

There are people all over this great city who pull stunts everyday only supported by the very revered notion of "yeah, i did it, what are you going to do about it?" From self-appointed managers to the security guards at the bank that stress you into leaving your silver pen at the door but let you hold your colt .45 above your head as the metal detector won't "notice". It seems like everyone is just waiting to hold their authority over you and make you say "uncle" and it is one of the most singe-handedly frustrating things anyone has to deal with.

I have no solutions to this problem,besides common courtesy and collective human respect(let's be real,that's not going to happen) ; I will say this, I hope that my old teacher is still teaching when I have kids and they start school because...that b*tch owes me a Barbie.

That’s how Nigerians behave

My father and I were on our way to visit an aunt when we got into one of those quintessential Lagos face-offs at a 4-way stop. No one wants to let anyone else go and the people who decide they want to be mature and take the high road regretted it instantly as allowing any space means that some other genius can poke his car’s nose (or wheeled contraption) into it. After about 45 minutes of swearing for people and their ancestors we wiggled out of the situation with my father still fuming uncontrollably. As I tried to calm him down he utters that inevitable sentence “that’s how Nigerians behave!”
I hate that statement, being a blind patriot and nationalist aside, I hate that people use it as though they are not part of the qualifier that they have just grouped the people in. Tell someone about how you almost got robbed “That’s how Nigeria is” or about how you got into an argument at the bank because you were frustrated and just wanted to go home- “is it not Nigeria?” It doesn’t matter the offence; no one wants to hear both sides of the story. The conclusion is standard- you were right and everything that went wrong was Nigeria’s fault hence “that’s how Nigerians behave.”
So I thought about letting the statement go, my father is stuck in his ways but then I re-think because hey! This man is going to impart wisdom on my children and I don’t want him telling my children that Nigerians behave any certain way. So I go on a rant of how this statement alone creates an inferiority complex in our people and why the people that use it remove themselves from the problem so they don’t feel a responsibility to fix it. As I found my stride in my argument about to reach a denouement that could only be perfected by the national anthem I heard my father snore quietly in the front seat. I tap him in disbelief “Daddy, are you sleeping?! He smiled and said “Sorry sweetie, what did you say?!”
“Don’t worry- that’s how Nigerians behave...”

The seige

My house has been under seige. Our movements have been monitored and we have had to keep a watchful eye in order not to piss off our captor. You see, there is a mouse in the house. That's right...a mouse and it has been there for about four days or at least that's as long as i've known it was there. I've nicknamed him the captain as he cannot be taken down; Poisoned bread apparently doesn't work, sticky paper seems to be be his friend and humans are just entities that he has to deal with on a daily basis. He has eaten parts of my saltine crackers, a snickers bar, I think some plantain chips and a bit of my shoelace.He actually resides in the kitchen between the cooker and rack where we keep the plantains but he vacations in my closet within the shoes from time to time.

Four days ago at about 2am, I was watching television and I heard it...that all too familiar rustle from a corner in my room. I stood on my bed and scanned the room and there he was, all of the size of a big pencil eraser (you know the one that was half white and half black but the black part never worked). He didn't scurry or run, he walked, actually, he meandered across the floor towards the wall that was close to my bed. That was all I needed to see to flee into my father's room in a distressed state. He promptly told me to "Go deal with it" so I woke up the housekeeper instead.

Our housekeeper is about 40 years old and is used to these distressed calls from me. After he cleared the sleep from his eyes he walked somberly behind me probably remembering the happy times in his life before I came to be in it. After baricading himself in my room and making a series of loud "mouse-catching" sounds he emerges and says he has baricaded the mouse in my closet (where I keep my lotion and deodorant) and so I should probably not open it until the morning when he will be in a better position to catch it. Though distraught, I am comforted by the fact that it is at least quarantined and I go to bed and have dreams of mice running through my hair.

I spent most of the next day ashy, musty and outside of the house ( which apparently translated to our housekeeper to leave the animal in my closet). I get home at about midnight to find that I still cannot open my closet. Soon, its 2am and i'm on the phone with a friend and I see the captain through the corner of my eye. He squeezes himself out of the closet, scurries accross the floor and squeezes himself under the door into the hallway. After the shock has worn off I tell my friend that i will call her back I contemplate screaming for my father but decide against it as he will probably feel a serious urge to throw something at me (It's ramaddan so I wouldn't want to test him).

The next morning, as i was getting dressed for work i decided to get something from the kitchen and who else is there but the captain- having a morning stroll around the plantain rack probably on his way to get his morning newspaper. He sees me and makes a cartoon like dash behind the cooker. That was the last I saw of the captain. I hear tell that three days later he was found dead with no possible traces or cause of death; most just said natural causes.

Sometimes I sit in my room with the window open and when a breeze blows through and I hear a little rustle I always sit back and sigh and wonder if Tom from Tom and Jerry was really the bad guy after all.

Where is your handset?

I have an aunt that I visit so often that I have her gateman’s phone number. So a few nights ago, I decided to pay her a quick visit. The generator was on so there was no point knocking on the gate, I could have been screaming bloody murder and no one would have heard me. Naturally, I called the gateman but the phone told me, very politely, that his phone was switched off. I called a few more times, for good measure, and then decided to leave. Just as the car was turning around, I see the gateman running down the street waving his arms frantically for me to stop. He gets to the car and apologises profusely, “I called you now, your phone is off” He smiles and says “my battery don die, you for call me on my GLO, but sometimes network no dey”
I like the fact that everyone in Lagos has a cell phone actually scratch that I LOVE the fact that everyone in Lagos has a cell phone. You can get in touch with anybody, anywhere without even leaving your house. This is a particularly calming thought for me because I remember people who would make pilgrimages from places like Ikorodu, dress their children in matching ankara and come to visit my parents at the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning just to be sure that we were at home when they got there.
The savvy Lagosian patron has a plethora of choices for phones but it seems that all stakeholders at the Nokia corporation have each put at least two children through university with their revenue from Lagosians alone. As with everything else in Lagos there are rules and I believe I have mastered the top ten:

1. In order to solidify your big boy status you must have at least 3 phones and one of them has to be a blackberry
2. You must and I repeat, must have enough money on your phone at all times to be able to flash (in case of emergency)
3. If someone does not answer the phone the first time you call them, call them incessantly and on their different phone lines. I mean, no one minds getting 30 missed calls just because you wanted to say hi
4. It is always ok to call someone in the middle of the night because it’s free
5. The best way to show that you care about someone is to send them credits but this might backfire if the person doesn’t use them to call you
6. You can always get out of trouble by saying “you called me? When? It must have been network problems...my phone didn’t ring”
7. Text messages are a legitimate way to invite your closest friends and family to an event
8. When you are making a phone call volume control is non-existent
9. Your phone’s obnoxiously loud D’Banj ringtone should never be silenced( even at the movie theatre)
10. The people who are the most succinct when they call you will become Wole Soyinka narratives when you call them

To this end I implore, for my next birthday I don’t want to go out to dinner or for you to send me flowers just show up at my door with nothing but a bouquet of MTN recharge cards and a smile.