Ceremonious Departure

If my arrival into Lagos airport was smooth and uneventful, my departure was anything but. On 9^th August I was on my way out of Lagos to Uganda, Zanzibar, Tanzania and Kenya for my East African Adventure. The night before, the Probyn Crew had gathered together most of the Internship group to celebrate my early departure so needless to say I was hungover. My flight was supposed to leave Lagos at 11:15AM but my car arrived at 6:45AM to pick me up! Against the judgment acquired through four years of consulting, I decided not to argue and left 5 hours early for my flight all groggy eyed. (THANK GOD)

I arrive at the airport and stand in the ticket counter line amazed at the disorder and chaos that could single-handedly be created by inefficient people. First you weigh your bag, then you join a line to scan your passport, then you lift all your bags to be inspected manually, then you go back in line to check appropriate visas and then finally you approach the ticket counter. Every step of the way, you amazingly move further behind in the line as complete strangers are now suddenly in front of you. Luckily my epic hangover meant I just sat quietly on my suitcase and followed the rules.

After getting my ticket, I finally enter the departure lounge to go through security and take a long nap. Alas, foiled again! Some man with a uniform grabs my passport, takes me into a little room and tells me I had overstayed my visa by 40 days! As an Indian citizen, who’s traveled a lot, I know enough to know that this does not bode well. Despite having a 12 month multiple entry visa into Nigeria and an internship that clearly lasts 10 weeks, someone had scribbled illegibly into my arrival stamp that I needed to leave Nigeria by June 29^th. This man starts filling out a form and I appear fairly calm until I notice his recommendation is “Refusal to Depart.” Time to panic! I start trying to call my internship administrators and he admonishes me saying that it is now all up to his Oga to approve or deny my departure. Another man enters the little room, grabs all my paper work and starts leading me to the Oga. 

Along the way we build up a nice little rapport, despite my wild hangover, and he takes a liking to me. We arrive at the departure immigration office and he hands my documents to another gentleman and asks him to please find a way to get me on my flight. At this point it’s about 9:30 AM. This man calls me to the front and asks “Are you married?” After saying no, he full on says “Will you marry me?” Now, there’s probably a max of 3 more years, I can use this exchange to my advantage so I say “If you help me get on that plane,” cute (I think it was probably cute) giggling followed. He says no problem. I’d been in Nigeria long enough to know he couldn’t make anything happen anyway.

I finally get in touch with K at the foundation who tells me that their “Protocol Guy” is on the way. It takes a good 1 hour to get to the airport from Victoria Island so my hope is starting to diminish. For the next hour all that follows is waiting, a pounding headache, and irritation. At 10:45, our man arrives, walks straight into the oga’s office, throws out names of all his buddies who happen to be the oga’s oga, vaguely refers to a bribe by telling his assistant to withdraw N50,000 from his bank account and most importantly procures my approval to leave. The same tall Nigerian who picked me up from the plane 10 weeks ago arrives, grabs my backpack and my paperwork and runs with me to the departure area. Once we get there, the new immigration officer brings up the unfortunately valid point that there’s no proof that I have been approved. So we run back to the oga’s office, who gives his verbal approval to some new officer and then run back to the departure area and through security. Of course, the tall Nigerian is with me all the way and runs me all the way to the plane. Every airport staff member I meet on the way asks if I am “Menon” and that they are holding the plane for me. I board the plane completely out of breath and pretty much everyone on board knows who I am at this point! I slink into the first seat I find and take my first deep breath! I’m really, really, really going to miss Nigeria.

 Bev and I with Mr. Incredible (M.I. who stood us up at a concert a few weeks ago) on our last night in Lagos

Nigerian Nuggets

Every Sunday afternoon, Tolu picks us up after her church and takes us to the Dustbin Estate. This place resembles any slum in any developing country in many ways. Cute, little naked kids running around barefooted and complacent adults staring innocuously. The one thing that's different is the absolute magnitude of trash! Hence the name, I guess. Instead of it just littering the sides and gutters, we were literally walking on about 4 layers of trash that had been compressed by barefooted slum-dwellers. It felt like a bouncy carpet but looked horrendous.

In the middle of all this craziness, was one safe haven. Tolu's school building for the children of Dustbin Estate. Walking in, we were greeted by our first roly-poly little Nigerian Nugget, Joe. He insisted on solemnly shaking hands with everyone which quickly descended into madness as thirty to forty 3 to 9 year olds followed suit. After the initial madness, the kids were separated into relevant age groups and we began our lessons. An hour later, my hair had been brushed by a thousand fingers, every part of me had been hugged by tiny bodies, and my hands were constantly held by at least eight other little ones. Discipline was somewhat secondary, and even a stick that I had been threatening to use didn't faze anyone. Three hours later, battered and bruised like we were emerging from battle, the group reconvened and decided to walk around the neighbourhood. Like any good slum visitors, we visited the Slum Lords. Clad in Nigerian wear, they solemnly shook our hands and told us what a good job we were doing, before going back to taking bribes or whatever they were doing.

I think a lot of the housemates were a bit traumatized by what they saw and I don't know if it's a good thing, but I guess being a Mumbaiker has desensitized me to a lot of things. Either way, the spirit of those little munchkins is undeniable and Tolu is a solid soul.

Big Pimpin'

We first went to Bottles, 3 weeks into our arrival in Lagos. Bottomless pitchers of margaritas, an open courtyard and African arts and crafts on the wall were all pretty positive factors. When Nneka, Udhedhe and I first arrived, the place was absolutely empty. Yet, to our confusion, the bar tenders told us that all the tables were reserved and that we would have to sit at the bar. Within a few hours, it became pretty clear that this place was going to get nuts. Foreigners from around the world were jam-packed into Bottles, using it as a buffer against the rest of Nigeria. My Nigerian girlfriends were none to pleased about being caught in an "Expat Bar" but the margaritas really were to die for and made it a bit difficult to leave. After engaging in some very strange conversations, we peaced out, vowing never to return.
 
Two weeks later, we were back. This time we decided to come early and leave even earlier. When Udhedhe and I got there, Priscilla had already ordered us a pitcher and told us about some old American men sitting behind us. "Sugar Daddies" she guaranteed. Looking over my shoulder at the poor jovial, tubby, old men, I almost felt bad at this blanket statement. Almost. Because within 15 minutes, they had sent a pitcher our way! What was left to do but drink it of course. We even distributed it among some new friends we made at the bar. One of these friends, Mariam, was this tall, beautiful Nigerian (semi-model (?)) who was incredibly friendly, and as is the case with Nigerians, instagram-obsessed.

Side-note on Instagram: I have followed most of the new friends I've been making in Lagos and every single person's  profile (girl or guy) is filled with selfies, photos dressed up in front of mirrors, make-up photos and the occasional funny-but-pretty selfie. Hipsters in America would be horrified! Also every photo is liked and commented on by at least 100+ people. If I uploaded one such photo, even by mistake, I would be destroyed by my friends' comments: "Think you're cool?", "Awkward", "You're so vain." But apparently, pouty faces is appreciated here.

Anyway, Mariam exchanged numbers with Priscilla and invited us out to Cafe Vanessa on the following Friday. After stopping by Seni's epic house party (which we never should have left), we headed to the Cafe. As soon as she saw me, she grabbed my hand and pulled me over to this guy sitting on the couch and said "Vie, this is my boss. He owns Cafe Vanessa, saw your photos on my Instagram and wants to meet you," and peaces out. I am so uncomfortable and also slightly convinced that Mariam is some sort of Madame. He puts his arm around me and as I awkwardly excuse myself, he says "I like girls I can lift up with one hand."After that I steer clear of him and hang out with Nneka, Priscilla and Udhedhe in another corner. To be fair, he plies us with tons of champagne and moves on to other people. A few days later, Mariam, forces my number out of Priscilla, and calls to ask / tell me that she was giving my number to her boss. Being somewhat prepared (and sober), I am really direct and rude when he calls which worked.

Today my suspicions are confirmed, as Chinny from work tells me that the local women who go to Bottles are either high-end prostitutes or madames soooooo we will never be going back. Except this coming Wednesday for one quick margarita.

Firmly off Balance

Africa is like coming home in so many ways. Lazy Sundays, home-cooked food, warm gatherings over wine in the living room and consistent raindrops blurring the city scape. So far my favourite days include visiting the Nike Art Gallery and lounging at Bogobiri. Nike, the artist and owner of the gallery, is always dressed in her own inked fabric that somehow flows in breezeless weather. (I really want her dresses!) The gallery is four storeys tall and filled with stacks upon stacks of African arts and crafts from around the continent. Every visitor seems to move through the gallery wordlessly taking in the massive and intricate installations. But for me, it's the energy of the place, which seems to have adopted that of its owner. Warm, welcoming, and enveloping, I could spend entire days lost in this place. I ended the day by painstakingly wrapping a gold Gele around my head. Definitely feels a bit like Nigeria and a lot like home.

Bogobiri is another of my favourite joints. On Thursday nights, it hosts an open mic which encourages amateur poets, rappers and singers to come up on stage and show case their talent. Unlike gaudy karaoke bars, there are true diamonds in the rough that are found here. Of course, there are also the bright and shiny well-established diamonds like Titilope Sonuga, my new found obsession. Her melodic voice and sticky words on stage caught me by surprise and somehow I found myself five months deep into her blog. As a  Nigerian born, Canada based, professional-engineer, part-time poet, Titi struggled with her racial, cultural and personal identity everyday until she returned home. Now she struggles with the daily complications and problems of life in a bustling metropolis in a developing country. She gave up a life of comfort for a life of inner acceptance. But in her own words, "When you choose to let go and just be in the flow of living, you realize there are a lot of things you would trade for your name not to sound like a question in somebody's mouth."

I was lucky to have spent what I believe were formative years, in a country where my name didn't have that gentle lilting intonation at the end, a country where I didn't have to explain my background or my language. But since I was 18, I have lived and loved in the U.S. and slowly and organically it began to feel like home. I ignored the questioning lilt of my name and began to be called Vie, I accepted the incessant questions from curious strangers and patiently explained mundane customs, and I even enjoyed the inexplicable mystery of being an Indian in the mid-west. I enjoyed the much-desired feeling of being at home in both countries. In Nigeria, surrounded by others like me, I've only just begun to realize the gravity of things I have and will continue to give up. For the first time I feel firmly off balance...

Lagos Po Po

So far I've had two experiences with the Lagos cops and each was worse than the other.

1) Nkuru, the head of HR at the company I'm interning at takes us out for lunch (more specifically she takes us to The Place (the same lunch spot)) everyday. This week as we rounded the Elegushi roundabout a guy comes from behind and crashes into us before driving off nonchalantly. Nkuru chases him down screaming Ideeoot in her awesome Nigerian accent. She finally catches up to him and we realize that he is absolutely hammered and as she screams at him she swerves into another car and crashes into them. Now there's three cars that pull off to the side of the road. The third car takes one quick look at Nkuru and the drunk driver before driving off realizing it's not worth the fight. Nkuru on the other hand is screaming bloody murder at this swaying drunk driver and within minutes the po-po arrive. Guns blazing, tobacco chewing, and belly scratching they provide no input at all. After 10 minutes of ranting and raving in the blazing heat, Nkuru drives off frustrated. The drunk driver stumbles back into his car and swerves away as well. That was the first interaction...

2) On Friday night, on our way back from Rhapsody and Cafe Vanessa, Udhedhe, Nneka, Mike and I jump into a cab to get home. Over the VI - Ikoyi bridge, a cop jumps in front of the cab, takes one look at the "foreigners" in the back seat and decides to have some fun. He starts screaming at the cab driver who is apologetic for no reason and then starts harassing Mike to get out of the car. Six other cops descend while I'm in the backseat telling Udhedhe to call her dad (who happens to be a cop in Port Harcourt) like yesterday! She's screaming at a cop on the other side of the car while telling me it isn't serious yet. A cop keeps screaming at me to get out and Udhedhe keeps screaming at me to stay in. Finally, the cop grabs my arm and yanks me out. I'm guessing it's prettayyy serious... Udhedhe continues to mouth off to the cops who turn their attention from Mike to Udhedhe's outfit. "Doz a woooman dress like theees?" "Apparently they do'" she says defiantly. Luckily they look through the cab, find nothing and let us off.

Those AK47 guns may be overkill, but it's definitely conducive to good behaviour..

Lagosian Sayings / Customs

Interesting sayings I have heard so far:

Saying: Flash Me
Meaning: Give me a missed call

Saying: Do you swallow
Meaning: Do you eat a type of Nigerian dish called swallow where you eat out of a bowl with your hands without chewing

Saying: Perm your hair
Meaning: STRAIGHTEN your hair

Saying: My wife put to bed
Meaning:  My wife gave birth

Saying: Ahhhh beg
Meaning: Excuse me

Rude questions:
 
It's rude to ask when a baby is due because of  a history of high infant mortality

It's too personal to ask how many siblings / children you have because of a history of polygamy 

Ain't no partay like a Lagos partay

The last few days have been a complete whirlwind! Friday the TEF interns attended the Lagos Business School (LBS :)) Africa Conference titled "Breeding African Lions" where speakers like Mr. Dangote and Tony Elumelu spoke of the unique challenges of entrepreneurship in Africa. Jet lag set in pretty early for all of us and every one was nodding off most of the day.

Saturday on the other hand was absolutely inspiring! We spent the day at the HH headquarters hearing from host company CEOs and motivational speakers like Adewali Ajadi. It is so crazy to be in Nigeria and hear the word Africa so much more than the word Nigeria. Countries on this continent are just so much more united and integrated than others around the world (except everyone here ignores South Africa obviously). I guess if you have a small local market, you have to think big! It's also amazing how much pride they have in their culture and practices. Wali insisted on bringing Africa to the world instead of the other way around. Why shouldn't Africans wear traditional clothes to work instead of suits in the sweltering heat and wouldn't it make sense to take afternoon siestas when people are unproductive anyway? Apparently years ago some Italian farmer decided that the weather was perfect for growing tomatoes and decided to teach Ugandan farmers to grow them. Within months he had a flourishing farm of tomatoes and within days it was trampled and eaten by a herd of rhinos. What did the locals have to say? DUH! We knew that would happen? Why do you think we didn't grow tomatoes? Good story...

Saturday night was balls to the wall insane! The 15 MBA interns decided to spend one incredible night partying it up before heading off to their respective host countries for the summer. I barely remember the night but we started at Rhapsody, drove by Liquid and ended at Sip. We were pretty insular in our interactions and didn't really meet an locals - but 15 US based MBA students tend to take over most places. I do remember that the women are beautiful but unfriendly and the men are friendly but arrogant. Ain't no partay like a Lagos partay fo sho...