ktravula – a travelogue!

the Nigerian Ghoul in an American Forest

Browsing ktravula – a travelogue! blog archives for August, 2009.

10 Reasons Why Cougar Village Is NOT A Village

IMG_0609#1. It doesn’t have mosquitoes.

#2. Almost everyone here has a car, and there are adequate traffic signs on its perfectly tarred, perfectly networked roads. There are traffic lights where necessary, and the signs tell the cars when to stop and where not to. It has an efficient transport system – nice large buses free for students and all other residents – that arrives on schedule.

#3. Everyone who lives there is educated, at least beyond four years of University education. Does that count?

#4. Cougar Village has a standard post office. Every apartment has a mailbox into which letters are safely delivered. All is part of the bill.

#5. It’s an expensive place to live in, one that gives good service for the money paid.

#6. It has regular police patrols.

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#7. It has wireless internet access, and electric power supply 24/7. This is notwithstanding that one time exception. There is an active telephone and data jacks in every room, and GSM service actually works there. Let’s just say it has all the basic utilities necessary for a sane, civilized survival.

(NB: I heard the word “generator” yesterday for the first time in three weeks – from my Nigerian friend on the internet, and it sounded strange to the ears. Pardon me Nigeria for forgetting what that word, and others like “conductor”, “danfo”, “LASTMA” and “PHCN/NEPA”, means.)

#8. It has a laundry service which you have to pay for, of course.

#9. It has wide recreation centres that include basketball, tennis and sand volleyball courts.

#10. I live there, duh!

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10 Reasons Why Cougar Village Is A Village

Cougar Village#1. It has a lake.

#2. It is peaceful, quiet and romantic, and many people who live there would rather ride their bikes, or walk, than ride in their cars. One could hear the bird chirps and the frogs’ mating calls during long walks beside the lake.

#3. My flatmate, in addition to not knowing who Halle Berry is, also has never heard of the song/phenomenon “We Are the World.” Does this count?

#4. It has plenty deers, plenty geese, plenty cats and squirrels. It used to have two live cougars, but since one died and the other was donated to an animal centre, it doesn’t anymore.

#5. It is removed from school, and even far removed from downtown Edwardsville.

#6. It doesn’t have a public drinking bar.

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#7. It has had a power outage at least once this month, which lasted for more than 12 hours.

#8. Almost everyone knows someone who knows someone that everyone knows. It only has 62 buildings – in which are 496 apartments. Each apartment has an average of three residents, so you know how many we are. We can’t form a local council in Nigeria even if we try.

#9. The buses that go there do so only on schedule – 15 minutes interval.

#10. It is called a Village, duh!

Watch out for 10 Reasons Why Cougar Village Is NOT A Village.

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Cold!

Cold is a far greater threat to survival than it appears. It decreases your ability to think and weakens your will to do anything except to get warm. Cold is an insidious enemy; as it numbs the mind and body, it subdues the will to survive. Cold makes it very easy to forget your ultimate goal–to survive. – http://www.firstaidneeds.com/survivalch15pg38
It is seventeen degrees celcius here in Edwardsville, and my room mate has the fan on. Like him, I’m not wearing a shirt as I lay on the bed only because somehow, I am still able to cope with this weather. In his own case, it is because he feels hot. “Are you kidding me? You feel hot in this temperature?” I asked in part amazement and part dread. “No,” he responded, “this is not cold at all. Cold begins in November.”
I’ve had this conversation a lot of times since I arrived here, and all of them usually ends with a warning that I should be both mentally and physically prepared to endure three gruelling months of subzero cold,  I mean below zero degrees! My physical preparation must have to do with fleshening up by eating as much fat foods as possible. The second is buying all appropriate clothings. Just today, I bought a thick woolen jacket at a strip mall in town. They didn’t have any gloves, hats, mufflers and boots for me or I would have bought those too. In any case, I still have a few more weeks more before it becomes impossible to go out in a simple jeans and t-shirt. With fattening up, I seem to have little problem, thanks to cheese burgers and cheese pizzas. But then, the conversations eventually gets scarier when people start to describe what it is really like to be in a temperature at freezing point.
I am a warm-blooded animal and I have never lived in anywhere below 12degrees, and that is why it gets scary. Maybe I’ll just pack my bags and flee to Ibadan when it gets to a point when hot coffee and aboniki rub fail to lift my spirit and I can’t take it anymore. I think about it for a while and then change my mind. Maybe it’s not so bad. And then I look into the freezer and think about what it must be like to sleep in one of those. I am optimistic, but I still don’t know what I’ll do when December comes, then Janary, and the coldest one of them, February.

Cold is a far greater threat to survival than it appears. It decreases your ability to think and weakens your will to do anything except to get warm. Cold is an insidious enemy; as it numbs the mind and body, it subdues the will to survive. Cold makes it very easy to forget your ultimate goal–to survive. - http://www.firstaidneeds.com/survivalch15pg38

It is seventeen degrees celcius here in Edwardsville, and my room mate has the fan on. Like him, I’m also not wearing a shirt as I lay on the bed, but only because somehow I am still able to cope with this weather. In his own case, it is because he feels hot. “Are you kidding me? You feel hot in this temperature?” I asked in part amazement and part dread. “No,” he responded, “this is not cold at all. Cold begins in November.”

I’ve had this conversation a lot of times since I arrived here, and all of them usually ends with a warning that I should be both mentally and physically prepared to endure three gruelling months of subzero cold,  I mean below zero degrees! My physical preparation must have to do with fleshening up by eating as much fat foods as possible. The second is buying all appropriate clothings. Just today, I bought a thick woolen jacket at a strip mall in town. They didn’t have any gloves, hats, mufflers and boots for me or I would have bought those too. In any case, I still have a few more weeks more before it becomes impossible to go out in a simple jeans and t-shirt. With fattening up, I seem to have little problem, thanks to cheese burgers and cheese pizzas. But then, the conversations eventually gets scarier when people start to describe what it is really like to be in a temperature at freezing point.

I am a warm-blooded animal and I have never lived in anywhere below 12degrees, and that is why it gets scary. Maybe I’ll just pack my bags and flee to Ibadan when it gets to a point when hot coffee and aboniki rub fail to lift my spirit and I can’t take it anymore. I think about it for a while and then change my mind. Maybe it’s not so bad. And then I look into the freezer and think about what it must be like to sleep in one of those. I am optimistic, but I still don’t know what I’ll do when December comes, then January, and the coldest one of them, February. Whatever shall I do? How would I survive?

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I Remember Providence

Lt. Gov Hon Elizabeth Roberts

Today, I remember the day we were taken to downtown Providence by the Brown University staff and students in order to meet with the Lt. Governor, Hon Elizabeth Roberts. It was August the 14th 2009, and it was a mild culture shock to many of us to discover that the Lt. Governor – another name for Deputy Governor –  was a woman. In my case, it was not such a big deal, especially since I come from a country that could boast of having given women a chance to become almost everything they wanted to be (and then almost always craftily taken that chance back from them. Some people in Nigeria today no doubt might find similarity in that with the many instances of American political landscape when they try to compare the case of Governor Sara Palin of Alaska with Nigeria’s Representative Patriciah Etteh, even though the circumstances of their exit are actually not much alike.) In any case, the Lt. Governor recognized the shock many might feel about her position when she mentioned in her address her solidarity with, and support for women who come from such repressive countries.

Yea/Nay: A Legislator's SeatI remember Providence again today because I remember home. We do not have as much a problem with gender in Nigeria today as we do with tranparency, order and discipline. I remembered walking through the legislative chambers of the Rhode Island Senators, and noticing that instead of the antiquated show of hands or a rabble-rousing ayes and nays when voting on a point, the Senators there all had a monitor and little coloured bottons on their seats which they press, corresponding with their choice of vote. In just a few seconds, as soon as everyone has cast their votes by pressing either “aye”, “nay” or “abstain”, all the votes are tallied and shown on a large electronic board, and each person’s vote shown clearly against their name. In the Nigerian Legislative houses today, it is usually a long tortuous session (sometimes involving fisticuffs) to decide whether the “ayes” or the “nays” have it, all in spite of the fact that every Friday evening, the whole country tunes in to watch the “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire” game show where the simple technology of electronic voting and collation is shown to be not such a big deal. Talk about priorities.

A Student Government Assembly

I thought of Providence, and I thought of home when, while walking through the SIUE campus today, I saw an assembly of student legislators conducting a house meeting in an open court, all decently dressed, composed and articulate. There was no one on their feet with a folded sleeve, a bandana, or a fist raised yelling somewhat like this:

Greatest Articulate SIUE Students!!! Today’s tortuous issues must be germanely and systematically articulated to send thunderous atomic vibrations all around the precincts of this University domicile, that the Vice Chancellor is a thief and must be violently removed to show our disgust with his diabolical shenanigans etc… Aluta Continua…!!!

Everyone here was seated and decorous around the table as they made their point to the representative of the University who listened with attention. You must give America’s University this: everybody is given their deserved and equal respect. These among other things is where the country derives its unequalled greatness: order, discipline and mutual respect. We might want to learn from that.

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A Short Foodlist of Ps

To P or not to P, that is the question.

Before my sister Laitan asked me yesterday, in an email, what food I’ve been eating since I got here, I had been meaning to write another post on the different food items I have encountered, most of which are flour-based, and my despair in finding most of the African foods I’m already used to. Some weeks ago in Providence, Rhode Island, we were invited to an international night of American cuisines and here were my thoughts on the food we ate then. Then a few days ago, I read a post/piece on Loomnie’s blog about the problem of finding African food to buy in Europe, and felt sufficiently motivated. Here now is a short list of American food and food items starting with “P” that I have had since I got here. Enjoy.

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  • Pawpaw
  • Poultry eggs/Poached egg
  • Pasta
  • Pizza/Pie
  • Pepperoni
  • Pancakes/Pretzels/Pringles
  • Peanuts
  • Peanut Buttercups
  • Potato Chips
  • Potato Salad
  • Pineapple juice
  • Pumpkin seeds

If you are reading this in Nigeria, do not ask me about “Puff-puff”, “Palm wine”, “Pounded yam”, “Pito” or “Paraga”. Do not ask about “Pọnmọ” either. They do not yet exist in my Edwardsville radar of P-foods. But one of these days, when I return from my next trip to St. Louis to visit an African food shop, I should be able to tell you more from what I would have newly discovered. I have now just come off the phone with my host/adopted family who have invited me for a Picnic on Saturday. They’ve asked me to come very hungry because the whole neighbourhood would be cooking, not just for me, but for everyone. And just when I thought I had my P-list exhausted, she dropped the info that there would also be a feat of whole roasted Pig. What I have not told her is that I’m not so much of a Pork fan, and this might be where I draw a line on my P-experiments in gastronomy. Until then, I will keep enjoying my pastries, with potato salad and pepperoni sauce.

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Is "Oyinbo" A Derogatory Word?

While teaching my second Yoruba class on Wednesday, I had mentioned the word “Oyinbo” to my students in passing, within a conversation, when I didn’t intend to, and when the topic of discussion at the moment could have proceeded a bit smoothier had I not committed the second unforgivable error of subsequently attempting to explain its usage in Nigeria. I have had cause to think about the word usage for quite a while now and I have mostly questioned its use, so I might have been a little too enthusiastic in responding when the questioner took cue from my explanation on a totally different matter and asked whether when I said that children called foreigners “Oyinbo” in my country, I meant that they used the word to make jest of them. In any case, I reasoned, it was just a matter of time before one Nigerian teacher in an American class somewhere drops the unlucky word into a class conversation and sparks an unending racial debate, so I jumped in and tried my best to explain. The choice such an unlucky professor might face would be easier if he would just ignore the gentle tug of his own academic conscience and not pause for a moment to explain to his whole class the meaning, connotation and usage of the word “Oyinbo”. Most sane instructors would go for the first option mainly perhaps because it is a less complicated one that saves a lot of sweat and time. However, a totally naive and perhaps optimistic young teacher might actually take a stupid chance and proceeded nevertheless, never being fully aware of the possible end result of his thankless venture.

Now, let’s examine the word, “Oyinbo”, which is supposed to refer to “(a) White Person/Caucasian/Non Black-African”. The etymology has never been agreed on, and even though a famous scholar once wrote that it is derived from “Oyin + bo” which roughly means “(Someone) peeled by the honeybee,” the word still doesn’t make much sense on its own. The word is used today both in urban, rural, and in educated circles to refer to the foreigner, most especially those with fairer skin colour (African Americans included). Those excluded from the authentic list of Oyinbos and are often called into the list mostly in jest are the really fairskinned Africans, and the Albinos. Every other person with European/Caucasian blood in them are Oyinbos, and they are called by that name both in public and in private, which brings a huge question on whether the users of the word ever mean it as a derogatory expression. The answer of course would be a NO. However, I personally have never considered it a compliment of any sort when while walking with a white/caucasian person (even within a campus environment), passers-by most of whom are complete and unwelcome strangers yell “Oyinbo!” while pointing and giggling excitely at the now totally embarrassed stranger. Most of all these cases are a confirmed result of illiteracy, mental retardation or some sadomasochistic instinct on the part of the yeller to make a public nuisance of both themselves and their foreign target. Of course! But this fact doesn’t remove from the despicableness of the act, or make the word in that instance less derogatory-like. “So, when used in a civil, polite conversation, Oyinbo is mainly a harmless term of reference, but it is insulting only when it is yelled out loud, especially by a(n unaquainted, unfriendly) stranger.” How does one explain all of this easily in a class of an elementary course on language and culture without raising red flags and unnecessarily preconditioning the mind of impressionable students to a hostile, negative cultural experience? That was my dilemma on that beautiful Wednesday afternoon.

I resolved the situation in favour of common sense, and the concise explanation I gave before moving to the next topic was a “No please, that’s not a derogative word. It is a fun word of endearment used by the Yoruba to refer to those they perceive differently because of their skin colour.” But I left the class a little worried that I myself do not totally agree with that description for its lack of depth and breath to capture all that the word “oyinbo” entails, and for the way that definition might be wrongly construed as a racist/derogatory tag. Fact is, the image that flashed across my mind when I think about it is that of a cacophonous horde of dirty little stray children chanting “Oyinbo pepper” after a foreign pedestrian on a public Lagos park, and totally enjoying the embarrassment on the face of that now despairing foreigner who curses under her breath, wonders what went wrong with this world, and wishes she had not taken up the invitation to come visit Nigeria. Yorubaland.

What do you think?

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I Lead An Interesting Life

This post was previously planned to be titled “What’s in a Dress?”, to explain the wonder I feel when I sit down in the lobby or the campus square in something so ordinary as my green adire outfit, and about four different students from Nigeria find their way one after the other from within the campus throng just to introduce themselves to me as Nigerian students. When asked the obviously needless question about how they came to pick me out of such a large bustling of students and scholars, the look at me and wonder back how I don’t already see the uniqueness of my appearance that stands me out. I have changed the title only because I have now fitted the regular occurences of those interesting things into a pattern of things that I can’t always be able to explain. Just whenever I start worrying towards the end of the day that something interesting might not happen to me, they always did, and I accept them with open arms.

The way of dressing and appearance, as I have now found out to my amazement, is actually a more serious endeavour than just mere fashion. They make a statement, and it is a part of losing one’s identity when one no longer finds it necessary to dress in the way of one’s people no matter where one is. Well, let me say that this is just my opinion.

Going, going...!

On the night of welcoming us here to campus, at the party hosted by the International Hospitality Programme, I had engaged a senior Indian student in a discussion about the beauty of long Indian hair when I saw and complimented a beautiful Indian student who had just walked past. He scoffed my compliment and told me in a half-conspiratorial tone that “If you ask her, you’d most likely find out that she’s a first-year student. And that’s why she still looks Indian. By next year, she’d have become more Americanized, and she’d have cut off all that hair which now reaches down to her waist. You’ll see.” It sounded funny so I pretended to laugh it off, but thinking seriously about the charge. Could this be true? Indeed, all the older Indian students I know here have short hair. Could he be telling the truth? A few minutes later when the programme started, I got another chance to meet the lady in question and I asked her what her major was and her level as well. It was a wonder to learn that indeed she was a first-year student, and was just arriving in the United States. I asked her if she would ever think of cutting her hair off, and she said “no, never.” Sai however thinks that her response to me was just a standard response, the same kind I’m likely to get from all fresh students from India. It was just a matter of time before they all become Americanized.

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Now how do Americans look? I really have no clear idea either, but I can tell you for sure that they don’t look a lot like I did today when I rode to school in an Adire attire. What’s in a dress/appearance anyway? A saying in my native Yoruba language can after all be loosely translated as: “A tree adorned in the most beautiful attire is not thus ennobled.”

Now as I was leaving my linguistics class taught by Kristine Hilderbrandt this evening, all stressed up and almost wishing that the requirement of my Fulbright programme didn’t include a necessarily class attendance for some Masters courses here in the University, but on the other hand also grateful for the rare opportunity, I was wondering whether there was anything else interesting that would happen to me before the end of the day, when I was accosted by this coursemate of mine from the same class I was just leaving. He’s an American graduate student who has been grouped with me in the first class assignment. He was animated, and looked a little overexcited. To be fair to him, he was just looking to make a conversation, but I wasn’t. I’d had enough work for the day and all I wanted to do was just go home and rest. As I zipped my bag and waited for him to say something smart, he shifted a little and stuttered out the words that first stunned, later amused, but absolutely tested my patience for just a little while before goading me homewards.

“Oh Cola, so how/when/where did you learn to speak in English?” He asked.

I never saw that one coming! But what can I say? I do lead an interesting life!

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Discovering Scott Joplin

The African American pianist and composer whose tune is being played by this Youtube artist lived between 1868 and 1917, many of those years spent in St. Louis, Missouri. His name is Scott Joplin who in 1976 Joplin was posthumously awarded the Pulitzer Prize for “special contribution to American music” among many other honours. Many people all over the world have heard this tune one way or another without knowing who the original composer was. I never even knew he was African American. He was such a talented artist who learnt to play at a neighbour’s house when his mother did housecleaning.

St. Louis has long been associated with great ragtime, jazz and blues music. Early rock and roll singer/guitarist Chuck Berry is a native St. Louisan and continues to perform there several times a year. Soul music artists Ike Turner and Tina Turner and jazz innovator Miles Davis began their careers in nearby East St. Louis, Illinois. St. Louis is also home to the world-renowned Saint Louis Symphony Orchestra which was founded in 1880 and is the second oldest orchestra in the nation. The orchestra has received six Grammy Awards and fifty-six nominations.

Miles Dewey Davis III (May 26, 1926 – September 28, 1991) was an American jazz trumpeter, bandleader, and composer. Widely considered one of the most influential musicians of the 20th century. He was born in Alton, Illinois, but spent the better part of his creative life in St. Louis.

There is such a rich cultural heritage of Jazz, Blues and Poetry in this area of the United States, without a doubt.

(Bio information from Wikipedia)

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