ktravula – a travelogue!

Browsing the archives for the Soliloquy category.

With Love From Lambert

Dear Blog,

What does one do while sitting idly in an airport cafeteria on a Wednesday morning while waiting for a flight that may or may not be cancelled due to weather conditions? Look around and observe everything that moves and those that don’t.

The cafeteria has a banner just above the bar that says “Carpe Cuervo. Seize the day and the night.” It also has four television sets, each showing different programmes. CNN goes back and forth between The War President Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize, Afghanistan and the terrible snow storms that has got so many flights delayed and many cancelled all through the country this morning. ESPN is on the NBA games, and occasionally the channel flickers to the Tiger Woods story.

The food is horrible, and I’ve returned 3/4 of it uneaten. It’s nothing that I recognize, and I should have obeyed my inner voice never to make an order on the advice of the waitress… The lemonade is good though, and I get a free refill while Fela Kuti sings Follow Follow into my ears. Oh yea, there is also this book that I just bought: The Men Who Stare At Goats by Jon Ronson. It has been made into a movie featuring George Clooney and Kevin Spacey among others. Well, I haven’t seen the movie, but nothing says that I can’t read the book first. The woman at the cashier when I bought the book said I could return it anytime within 90 days and get half the money back. I’ve told her that I have no such intention, yet she gave me the coupon nevertheless. It was so cold out today. You should see how many layers of clothing I’m wearing, yet suffering from occasional invasion from the random wind that blows in my direction even here where I sit in the corner of an indoor cafe.

But wait a minute. If a president who has just sent more soldiers into the war front in a foreign country goes to collect the Nobel Prize for Peace in Oslo tomorrow, what does that make him? A Nobel Peace Prize War President? Would his Nobel Speech be written by the same person who wrote his West Point address that signified the intention to send 30,000 more soldiers into Afghanistan? If so, would he make apologies? If not, would the Nobel Speech distant the man from the policies of his government?

Well, I should probably shut up at this point. It’s ten o’ clock and I’ve got some reading to do, and some people watching.

See ya.

Ten Random Questions

10. Will it be too cold in Washington DC next week for me to enjoy the sites that I want to see there?

9. Who is the president of Nigeria now? And does it matter in the scheme of the country’s present political arrangement that there’s no one really in charge at the moment while the nation awaits the news on the president’s health? Does it stop the quotidian activities of the agents of state from going on or have citizens realized that their lives are really not controlled by whomever occupies the government houses?

8. Do I sound too angry in some of my blog entries?

7. Has someone in the entourage of Nigeria’s president been reading my blog from Saudi Arabia as Google Analytics has pointed out? Because I would really be flattered. Who else could be reading from Saudi Arabia? Could it be the president himself, to while away the time?

6. Does snow and fog affect the visibility of airplane take-offs and landings?

5. Will I still be able to make blog posts in the Winter when at this moment of just minus six celcius my fingers are already freezing up? If I don’t make new posts for more than a week, will I ever be forgiven by my now dedicated audience?

4. What other impressions does the reader of this blog get after reading a few posts, other than the fact that I’m a curious and often impulsive questioner and prankster – no, I mean quiet and quite unassuming but often probing fella?

3. Who really are those guys who read without leaving comments? 😀

2. How many of my fellow FLTAs now scattered all over the country are looking forward to seeing me at the DC conference? How many of them have forgotten my name, or even what I look like? How many of them are enjoying their teaching and learning experience as I am? How many of the ladies have already accepted marriage or relationship proposals from their American hosts? And how many of the men have made such proposals and have been brutally turned down? 😀

1. Am I really, really making my country – and/or the Fulbright Organization – proud at the moment? What does that even mean?

At The Barber’s Shop

I will be the first to admit that the cliché of the “Barber’s Shop” experience topped my list of reasons to go and get a haircut yesterday downtown Edwardsville. You see, I’m one of those less-than-hairy folks who, even in the farther side of twenties, still has a shrub for beard, and even less – just a few strands of hair – for moustache. It has at least saved me the expense of large combs and shaving sticks, and I’ve delighted in being almost perpetually clean-shaven. In the case of this travel, it has so far saved me the ordeal of a regular haircut, and my three month-old head of hair still looked like one cut just a few weeks ago.

But I got self-conscious and started asking everyone if they thought that my hair was too long, and due for a cut. And they all said “yes”, yet I stalled, first because I wouldn’t stop trying to convert $20 into Naira and telling myself that it was too expensive, and second because I had considered it a strenuous chore to have to ride go the distance just to get a haircut which I didn’t think that I needed. In any case, my curiosity about the American Barber’s Shop, which had gained fame from movie portrayals finally goaded me on Friday towards CUT-N-UP, an African-American barber’s shop a little distance from campus.

The barber spotted me as a tourist just five minutes into my haircut. I would not stop taking pictures so he asked: “How long are you here for?” and I laughed. Then we got talking about other things. Where he’s from: East St. Louis. What else does he do: Dee-Jaying and record producing. He has been in the hair cutting business for seventeen years, and he has a son who is sixteen. Being from East St. Louis – one of the poorest neighbourhoods in Illinois, he told me of how he decided so early in life that he would not depend too much on his school high school certificate, but put his skills into use. Living in Edwardsville for the past seventeen years has taught him the benefits of self-employment. He goes back to East St. Louis occasionally, he says, to visit his folks, but can’t think of settling back there because of the overall feeling of hopelessness and laziness that pervades the environment: his words. This is not the first time I’m hearing of the gruesomeness of living conditions in that area of Illinois called East St. Louis. My secondary supervisor, Professor Afolayan goes to the neighbourhoods at least once a month to give talks to young residents about the advantages of education and zeal. I’ve now registered my intention to visit the place and see for myself. But the images are not flattering. And if any of the words I’ve heard are anything to go by, it’s not a place to go to alone, or at night – just like some parts of Nigeria where, like East St. Louis, creativity however manages to emerge once in a while.

There’s not much else to report about the ambience of the barber’s shop besides mirrors, posters, signs (one says: “if you don’t want a messed-up haircut, DON’T MOVE”), a cable channel showing the NBA games, comfortable chairs and magazines to read. Oh, they didn’t collect electronic payment, and the barber engaged me in a conversation throughout – just like in the movies. The difference was that, in this case, he’s far younger than most movie-made barber figures, and he had a Bluetooth headset on which he also talked to another person, all in a language very appropriate for the domain. My main problem now is that I now wish that I had left my bushy hair the way it was before. True, a few people have told me that I look much better now that the almost jungle is gone. Problem is, they are Americans who are already used to cold air licking their heads at this time of the freezing season. Me not, and I now have to go around with this soft fleece winter cap everywhere I go. I will survive, I think. I hope.

The Blood Bank

As soon as we passed by the Red Cross blood donation point at the SIUe quadrangle today, Chris and I, and managed to steer our conversation to donation of blood, I knew that I had come to another ktravula moment in the life of this journey. You see, I am conscious of all the dimensions of my Nigerianness, and about a year ago, just after I published my short story Behind the Door, I had had a conversation with an American friend who told me that she had been denied the chance to donate blood in America – for life – just because she ticked “yes” on a pre-donation questionaire that asked whether she has had “sexual contact” with anyone who was from or who had lived in Nigeria and some other sub-saharan African countries between 1977 to date. I didn’t believe it even after she sent me the online questionnaire, so I googled it up myself, and the result was indeed stunning. Nigerians, and everyone who has had sex with them were excluded from donating blood in America. (I don’t know yet if this is the same all over the world). The obvious question then is “Why?”, and it had circled my head for a while now, until that time this afternoon when I came within sight of the Red Cross truck on campus, asking students to donate blood. This website mentions requirements to donating blood in America but does not say why Nigeria is mentioned. So, you guessed it, I went right into the truck, leaving Chris outside to gape at what he said was an obvious time-wasting effort.

There was a sign-in sheet on the table. It had the name of those who are on the waiting list. On the examination table is a young woman whose blood was being taken. She had a pump in her right hand.

“Hi. Can I help you?” A young lady approached me. She wore a white lab coat.

“Yes,” I replied. “I’d like to donate blood.”

“Alright. You will have to write your name in here. The next slot opens at 1.45pm, and there are about three people before you already. Is that fine?”

“Yes, of course it is. I can always come back. But I’d like to know if there’s anything I need to read before you take my blood. Maybe instructions or anything like that.”

“Sure. Here, on the wall, is the first instruction. It’s important to read and understand it. And here is the comprehensive manual that every donor must read and comply with.”

“Can I sit and read it in lieu of going and coming back?”

“Yes, why not. Please sit over there.”

“Thank you.”

And read I did, carefully, until I got to where I am mentioned. Indeed, it’s written there in clear black ink of the excluded list. If you’re from Nigeria, If you have been to Nigeria, or had “sexual contact” with a Nigerian. Or if you have had malaria in the last three years, you CANNOT donate blood. I called her back and asked her why.

“HIV and AIDS, you know.”

“What?”

“HIV/AIDS”

“But you do know that not all Nigerians have HIV and AIDS, right?”

“I guess, but, erm, it’s what the FDA says. We just follow the law.”

“Oh my! So what you’re saying is that you have no way to know which blood is infected and which is not?”

“Like I said, it’s just the law, and we just follow it.”‘

By this time, a more mature looking woman also in a lab coat had shown interest in the conversation but maintained an aloofness that told me that she would allow the younger lady handle the situation rather than get involved. Whenever I looked in her direction expecting her to say something, she just smiled.

“I can’t believe this.” I said, as I gave back the booklet to her. “I guess I have to go now since you don’t want my blood.”

They didn’t say anything so I left, back to listen to Chris say “I told you so.” If she had said they do this because of malaria, I could have been a little more understandable. But AIDS? By population figures, there are probably more HIV infections in North America right now than in West Africa, but it is not so pandemic here because of adequate healthcare and healthy living. With the right technological advancement in medicine in the United States, this definitely did not have to be a factor for denying opportunity to a certain demographic to contribute to efforts to save lives worldwide. If I sound a little upset, it could be because I am at the incredulity of the whole matter. Maybe there are some things that people like me are not meant to understand.

I Miss Her Too

One of the hardest punches of exile for those who choose it above the shackles of hopelessness and the frustration of home must be loneliness, and perhaps a certain pull towards old sources of their romantic filling. I believe it now. The mind wanders, wondering what must it be like for them, the travellers running away from fiery dictators, while risking the lives of their families still left in the jaws of the fiery dragon. Even for those with breaking or troubled families, the pain of distance could be a sure enough catalyst for at least a kind of shared grief and shared catharsis sufficient to sustain their bond across space and time.

So besides regular phone calls, text messages and long nights in the reverie of the good old times, how else does a traveller stay in touch with the feelings of what once rocked his heart with a certain kind of joy from his distant beloved? And for those on the other side of the ocean, just what sustains that drive beyond memories, hope and pride. When does temptation overtake common sense and the flood of personal desires drive the once resolute into the throes of restless passion, reckless or relaxed experimentation?

I’m not in exile thankfully, yet my case is hardly different from those far from home on causes sometimes beyond their conscious control. I am a man, thankfully also human, which could explain why food is not the only reason why I could be missing my home tonight.

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