A Postcard for Black Studies in the Department of English, SIUE.
Browsing the archives for the Observations category.
When I was in Kenya in 2005, I remember that one of the most recurrent observations I received from Kenyans was that Nigeria is a place filled with people who believe in witchcraft and practice it in their daily lives. We all believed in juju, they said, and none of the women I spoke to would dare to marry a Yoruba person for fear of one day having to deal with a mother-in-law that could turn them into a piece of metal at the slightest provocation. I have since discovered that this is a very prevalent perception of Nigeria, mostly obtained through our home videos that have been ranked third in the world in terms of output. Is there practice of witchcraft and a prevalent belief in it in Yoruba land today. The answer is yes. Does everyone believe in it. Erm, I would say yes to this as well, but with very few exceptions of the skeptics.
Cut to my fourth class, where I had asked my students to read a short story titled “Why Atide Is Taking To A Coin”, written by a German friend, student of Yoruba and a current PhD student at SOAS. I first read the short story in 2004 while it was still being written, and I got to contribute a few ideas to its storyline. So last week, when I asked my students to list ten things they found strange, new or memorable about the Yoruba culture from the story, and five things that they found similar to their own culture, I was trying to get them more interested in reading and discovering new things. It was also a way for me to get into their minds and see what they see when they look at me through the prism of Yoruba culture. The result amazed me. Of all the answers given to the first question, one was common to all the ten students in the class: They were surprised that a belief in witchcraft still exists/persists in some cultures of the world, particularly mine. They couldn’t understand why people ascribed occurences they couldn’t explain to the evil forces in their family, and they couldn’t understand why somebody who is Christian/Moslem would go to a Babalawo to get help with something that was bothering them.
Now, I could have easily said that it was the fault of the writer of the story for painting the Yoruba people in such a light, but when I look around Yorubaland today, I find not one but many leaders and public figures who would take their supporters or followers to shrines so as to get them to swear and take oaths of allegiance. Recently there was a case of a prominent state governor, and a lawmaker whose naked picture was taken at a shrine where he had gone to perform rituals. The fact is, belief in rituals are still as strong today in Yorubaland as it was before the British came. Whether this is a good or a bad thing is beyond my scope to say, but it took me some time of readjustment to deal with the truth, being a little lost to the effect such disclosures might have on the impressionable minds of my brilliant students, and their ability to see this somehow as a positive attribute of such a people with a complex culture and outlook on life.
Are we a modern society in Yorubaland, or are we still attached to the deep vestiges of the past? If the texts of our literature, the lines of our poems and the plots of our dramas are anything to go by, the answer might be far from what we always like to believe.
“Freedom isn’t free. Neither are refills.”
– Seen at a local coffee shop in downtown Edwardsville.
These are pictures from the weekend, taken mostly at an outdoor picnic that took place at the Cougar Lake Area, where there was line dancing, boat/kayak riding and volleyball. Enjoy.
…I drove to St. Louis.
I will save the details of the journey for my memoirs, but I can tell you that it is (one of) my most memorable experience so far in the United States, one that I will not forget in a hurry – except I lose my mind, of course. Thinking about that, no pun intended, maybe I should insure my memory. Now, the vehicle that I drove was an automatic with a very sound engine. I always preferred the shift gear vehicles, but I can’t complain when someone offers me a car to drive for free, and it turns out to be automatic. I have noticed that many cars in America are automatic, even the trucks and trailers. The passenger was female – a painter, and the road was clear because it was night. We set off at around 11pm to the Emergency Room at a certain “Barnes Jewish” Hospital, and we returned around 4am, tired and exhausted. I’ve never felt so alive, plying the many veins that make up the American road network.
Well, let me be a little less cryptic. The female passenger was my friend the artist, and she had broken her ankle earlier in the day while descending a flight of stairs. She twisted her ankle, tripped and fell on her back. I didn’t know how serious it was until she drove into campus and I saw it, all swollen and sore. It surely was an emergency. How she managed to drive to me, I had no idea. When I asked why she could not go to a nearby government hospital, she told me that the healthcare system of the US does not allow her adequate healthcare in a government hospital without having to pay more than she cold afford. A simple visit to the hospital for an x-ray scan might cost up to $1500 in bills. I couldn’t believe my ears. This piece of information only brought home the realitites of the national healthcare reform debate that has rocked American politics for a while now. In Nigeria, you could get a scan for $5 at any standard laboratory, and the government hospital will treat a patient immediately for any emergencies. And one doesn’t need a health insurance. America has the costliest healthcare system in the developed world, it seems. According to Holly Ruff, this is a country where people actually declare bankruptcy after recovering from a major illness, even when they have insurance.
“Barnes Jewish” is a charitable but well equipped hospital in St. Louis which sometimes allows its patients to pay according to their own plan, or not at all, depending on the state of their finances – according to what I hear. The foot was scanned, and the doctor found that my friend had only sprained her ankle, and would need to stay at home for a few more days. The leg was stablized, bandaged and braced, and we headed home. It was my first time of carrying my international driver’s license on me after the wine debacle, and it turned out to be a very good decision.
Healthcare is important to everyone, and no one, no one should have to die because they’re poor,, and no one should have to go broke because they fall sick. A society with as many rich citizens like America should be able to take care of it’s poor. This is not Obama’s policy. It is only common sense. The same goes for Nigeria. As I sat in the lobby waiting for Holly to emerge from the emergency room where she was being attended to, I began to think about the number of people who were rushed into the emergency room while I was there. I thought about all the sick people I know, and how much they already suffer, without worrying about having money to pay for it. I have a close family member diagnosed with cancer, and my heart goes out to her. A close friend of mine that I last saw in about 2008 in good health has now been diagnosed with a bone disease. He’s also sickle celler. One of the families here that has been very nice to me has a cancer patient in it. Patrick Swayze, the actor famous for his role in Point Break and Ghost has been announced dead after a long struggle with cancer. Just a few days ago, we had mourned the passing of Senator Edward Kennedy of the USA, and Gani Fawehinmi of Nigeria, both favourite public figures whose lives were cut short by old age, and a terminal disease. It is a world filled with sickness that we live in. We should not make it worse by restricting care and support to only the ones that can pay for it. Helping the weak and taking care of the sick may just be the most noblest act we could perform as conscious human beings, or the sanest reason of our existence.
This post is dedicated to healthcare reform, in the United States where it’s long overdue, and in my country still in need of much more infrastructural and human capital development.
…America got me mad!
I was angry and upset at the same time, and there was nobody to hear or temper my livid cry. Except Reham, of course, because she was there when it happened, but she couldn’t understand why a bottle of Californian Merlot could make a young man from Nigeria so friggn annoyed at a grocery store. To me, it felt like an usual and totally unexpected encounter, and even now when I think back at it, I still fume.
Okay, here is what happened.
It was Friday, and I had talked Reham the Egyptian into following me to town to do some shopping for fruits.
It was Friday, and I had talked Reham the Egyptian into following me to town to do some shopping for fruits and food. She obliged and we both went like two good FLTA students enjoying a beautiful city in the evening. If anything, it would give us another chance to look at downtown Edwardsville which we’d both been planning on visiting for a while now, without chance. She had just picked up a mobile phone which a relative in the US had sent to her from NY, and she had nothing else to do, like me. She equally felt the need to do a little shopping, so off we went. The bus from our “village” to Edwardsville station took only about twenty minutes, and we were sitting down at a lovely bus station/park, observing the beautiful scenery while we waited for the connecting bus to Walmart. It came on time, and we went with it. The distance from Walmart to Aldi’s is just a stone -throw. We walked the short distance, and we got there. The major difference between Aldi’s and Walmart is not only in the price of goods. It has cheaper fruits and food items on sale, for sure, but it also had some strange peculiarities that Walmart didn’t have. For example, you had to put in a quarter in the shopping carts before you could use them. And they won’t give you a shopping bag when you finish shopping. You had to buy it for yourself. All is fair so far, especially since they sell cheaper stuff than the other big stores. The problem came when I passed by a section of wines within the store, and took fancy to one lovely bottle of Californian Merlot.
No, the problem came when I wanted to pay for it.
“May I see your identification, please.” The little lady at the counter said to me nicely, and I fumbled through my pocket to locate my ID that labels me as “A Visiting Scholar.”
She looked young enough to be a first year student in a neighbouring University, or even SIUE itself.
She looked at the ID, then at me, and asked. “We need to know that you’re old enough, before we can sell you the wine.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. I looked around to see if Reham was close by to laugh with me, but she was still busy shopping, and a few more people had began to line up behind me. I looked at the cashier and asked whether she was really serious. She was. I told her I was far older than that, and then she excused herself and went to show the card to someone superior to her. Then she came back to repeat the message.
“She said that you must show proof of your age or you can’t have it. Do you have a driver’s licence please?”
“I do, but it’s not here.” I said.
“Passport?”
“Yes, but I don’t take it everywhere I go. Come on! Do I look like a 17 year old kid to you?” I asked, getting almost angry at this time, but keeping calm. I was already causing a situation, and Reham looked at me from within the store with a puzzled look that showed her wonder at what I was being interrogated about.
“You have to be 21,” the lady said, firmly.
I was livid.
“Of course, I’m 21. I was 21 many many years ago. What kind of a shop is this?”
“I’m sorry,” she said again. And she looked like she meant it. She’s a youth, and she must understand my pain without being able to offer any help. “But that’s the policy. You may go elsewhere. Maybe they’ll sell it to you. It’s the policy here not to sell to anyone without ID.”
I left dejected and much annoyed. The scene repeated itself a few minutes at Walmart, where the cashier this time was an older woman whose line was “In case of anyone younger than 40, we require a valid identification.”
It was a horrible experience, I tell you, but I have now gotten over my disappointment with my grocery stores. With plenty teenage drinking and drunk driving in America today, they can’t seem to help it. But I retain my rage for the old Nigerian football stars on television who all claim/seem to be 24 years old when their mates are almost grandfathers. They it is who have successfully persuaded the whole world that if someone looks like me, without discernable beard or moustache, he’s most likely a minor, not fit the pleasures of Dionysus. Oh, the horror of it. For here I am, a travelling Nigerian spirit now floating aimlessly in a limbo space, unable to experience the true fullness of the American bottle. Fie! Fie! Fie!