Shelter & The City

The city of Abuja is a most unfriendly town to newcomers. Trying to find an apartment here feels a bit like looking for a four leaved clover; or trying to find that elusive pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Just when you think you’re almost there, you look up and realize you still have a long way to go.


I am sick and tired of being sick and tired of Real Estate “Agent’s” in this town, they string you along in a continuous state of hope while bleeding you dry of your hard earned cash along the way.

At the bottom of the agent’s food chain are the ‘touts’ who hang around street corners and under leafy trees that line the quiet streets of Abuja. They have no offices or complimentary cards, and more often than not, have never even come close to seeing the “fantastic” places that they promise to show you, all in a bid to lure you out to their hang outs.


Now because you long deeply for a little spot to call your home, you convince yourself that they may have something good to offer you. You pick them up, and drive round in circles as they make calls on their cell phones, then, somewhere along the way, you end up picking two or three scruffy looking characters who all claim to know the person, who knows the person, who may know the person, who once used to live three streets away from the actual agent of ‘The Place’.


You put up with their body odor and disturbing habit of shifting just a little too close for comfort because you’re hoping that maybe this time, you will be lucky.


Eventually, after wasting a good amount of your time and racking up a fortune in Taxi fees, you get to ‘The Place’. And discover it is an abandoned building surrounded by three feet high weeds, with no electricity or running water, at the end of a lonely looking Close.


The Middle level agents are those who work for registered Real Estate firms. They usually will have a means of transportation and their clients are mainly retired Civil Servants looking to make some extra income off their government acquired property. If you’re lucky, you may end up scoring a place with them. If you are really patient and are willing and able to embark upon a six month or more waiting period as they wait for a vacancy to open up from among their clients buildings. They are usually totally clueless about any properties available ‘To Let’; that are not located in one of the ubiquitous, former civil service quarters that are found on every street corner in Abuja.


Then, at the very top; are the cream of the crop agents. They refer to themselves as Quantity Surveyors or Professional Estate Managers and work for high end property developers and construction firms. They drive around in shiny SUV’s and have three cell phones, two personal assistants and a professional pen holder. They have no time for middle class, entry level, government employees searching for one bedroom apartments in the heart of town. Unless you are a young female who's willing to meet up with them after hours in a dingy motel somewhere in that part of town. They are too busy making hefty percentages off multi-million naira serviced apartment rentals, and sales of government approved, multinational construction firm built mansions in choice areas.


In the end, I am starting to believe that it takes a small miracle to end up in a semi-decent place that you can call home.


If I sound at all bitter, it is probably because I am you see. After months of being manipulated by touts, pushed around by the middle level agents, and totally ignored by the cream of the crop. I am just around ready to take radical action. Starting next week, I think I will take to the streets and begin to march around town with a placard on my chest saying “WILL WORK FOR FREE HOUSING!!”


So do not be surprised if you happen to pass by a major intersection, and you look up and see someone who looks a lot like me standing in the middle of the road. I may be trying to get the attention of passers and drivers-by who look like they may own property.

If you’d rather not come over and say hi, you have my permission to cross to the other side of the street and pretend like you don’t know me

I’ll totally understand



Cheers.

A Weekend Perspective

I had quite an interesting weekend; it all started when I snuck out of the office a little early to catch a flight. (I sincerely hope my boss never gets to read this)


I rushed home, gathered a few things and hailed a cab to the airport. Any one who knows Abuja knows that going to the Nnamdi Azikiwe Airport from town can feel like you’re travelling across state lines. So, I was pleasantly surprised to see that I had escaped the insane rush hour traffic and got there in record time. That was the best part of my journey.

Entering the Local airport, I felt like I’d stepped into a war zone. Arms and Legs flailed every where, children cried, men frowned and women sulked. It was everyman for himself as hundreds of people struggled to escape from Abuja for the weekend. Harassed airline staff struggled to keep up with the demands from their customers, a ‘Chiefy looking man’ (you know the type now) yelled “Do you know who I am?” to someone in a uniform, as airport touts ran around the place making copious amounts of money doing dodgy deals.

                                                       
Welcome to Nigerian Airports. The last time I’d been there on a Friday, I’d been among the crowd struggling desperately to secure a ticket. This time around, I’d been smarter and wiser and booked an online ticket in advance. So, I confidently walked up to the counter, checked in and collected my boarding pass. Then off I went to the waiting lounge, where I battled with a major decision for the entire hour I spent waiting to board the plane; to buy ice cream, or not to buy ice cream, that was the question. I considered the fact that I’d just recently placed myself on a healthy eating plan (that’s the hip new word for diet) and eventually common sense prevailed. I’m proud to say I acted like and adult didn’t get the ice cream. Someone please clap for me! *Insert Smiley*

An hour plus later and I have arrived in Las Gidi.

It is my cousins wedding tomorrow and I am on the Bridal Train. I need to get my beauty sleep as I have to be up early the following morning. However, as is usually the case when women get together, I end up staying up half the night first with my Aunts and then with my Mum catching up on all the latest gists and family gossip; Those Krazy Kardashian’s ain’t got nothing on my clan, trust me.

Then its 6am and I have to get up. Thankfully, we got to the church on time. I have to say it was soo much fun getting to see so many of my cousins, aunts, uncles and friends. The Bride looked gorgeous, the guests had a blast, and the food amazingly enough did not taste like rubber chicken and firewood as is usually the case with “Party Rice and Meat”. I guess the caterer didn’t have a choice; her fees cost the equivalent of a brand new car. Kai! Weddings are expensive sha.

I have to say, all in all, it was quite fun, aside from having to employ CIA like tactics to avoid the creepy looking, semi-tipsy guys who go around hitting on bridesmaids at weddings. For some weird reason, like over affectionate aunts and tacky gift bags, they seem to be a fixture at every wedding.

And when I got home and tried to go to sleep and realized I couldn’t because my little cousins wanted to show me their year book and tell me about all their friends at school, I didn’t mind at all. They are so sweet, and who knows when next I’ll get to see them.

The next morning is a blur as I am up by 5:30am and out the door half an hour later to catch my 7:30 am flight which surprisingly boards and takes off exactly on schedule. Again I tried to sleep on the plane but realized that I couldn’t, so decided that I would do so when I got home, but then ended up engaging in random gist with my flat mates. You know the type now, that kind that you walk into and intend to spend just a few minutes, and then you realize its three hours later and you still haven’t changed out of your travel clothes. After taking a short hour long nap, it was off to my friend and H.O.D baby’s’ naming ceremony. I didn’t catch the naming, but I met the reception afterwards.

The Baby is adorable and his name is Emery

Got home around 5pm and started a nap that lasted the whole of one hour till my flat mates woke me up with their screaming by 6pm. Apparently, the Big Brother finale show had started. For some odd reason I still haven’t quite figured out, I really got into all the excitement (even though I never really watched the show). Then it was off to bed and I slept.

For real this time.
Like I said, not a bad weekend at all

*Want to use this opportunity to congratulate my Cousin Nkiru and her brand new husband Femi. Hey! Maybe you guys will end up working in the same hospital and be the next McDreamy and what’s-her-name? (Her’s man’s a Doctor; she’s just completed Nursing School)


On second thoughts, as I recall all the major drama that TV couple went through, I’m thinking, then again maybe not.



Cheers

Life at a Funeral

Everyone who is my friend on Facebook, a contact on my BB Messenger, or a follower on Twitter knows all about my recent mini mid-mid life crises. I have been lamenting and moaning about what I perceived for a scary and brief moment to be the end of my youth as I’d known it.

Basically I freaked out. I guess it had something to do with the recent rash of rapid changes that I’ve gone through in the last year or two. All of a sudden, I found myself part of a totally new demographic and I was scared. No. Terrified Actually. Of what? You may wonder. The truth is, I don’t really know. I guess I worried that I wasn’t ready to face the new situations and circumstances life was about to throw my way.

Someone I perceive to be incredibly wise said something about fear. He said, that the only reason people get afraid is because they face new circumstances that they have never been in before, they are not sure what the appropriate line of action should be, so they begin to worry and feel under pressure. I think that described my situation exactly.

All my thinking about life, and aging and fear and death (I know, very morbid, forgive) led me to have a sort of mini vision of what my funeral might be like.

So I closed my eyes and visualized myself as a Spirit of sorts hovering (ok, ok, actually I was just standing) beside my gravesite as the internment service took place.

I saw my grown up children, they all looked quite sad, each of them was lost in their own thoughts, each going over a different memory of their Mommy that stood out in their minds as special; my eldest daughter remembered the day I came home from the hospital with her baby brother in my arms, smiling as I gave her a peek at her new sibling, and asking if she was excited to be a big sister. She wasn’t, and for the next one year, she’d harbored secret hopes of someone mistakenly throwing the baby out with the trash.

My son, remembering that time when he was a teenager and I found out he’d cheated on a school test. I didn’t react the way he’d expected me too, with a lot of anger yelling, instead, I’d calmly sat him down and made him prove he wasn’t a totally dummy by making him read War and Peace in the Original Russian twice, and then writing a 15,000 word essay on it. It went a long way towards making him the man he was today, since then, the closest he’d come to reading a book was going over the menu at his favorite Italian restaurant.

My last born, remembering how I’d had tears in my eyes on her wedding day, as I told her that I couldn’t believe that my baby was getting married and would soon be having babies of her own. She’d had tears in her eyes too. She couldn’t believe she’d been hoodwinked into marrying her high school boyfriend whom she’d recently found out was not actually working as an engineer in Canada. The closest thing to an engineering job he’d got was operating the mechanical false teeth cleaner at the old people’s home in Saskatchewan. In fact, he was extremely broke.

                               
Some of my oldest and dearest friends, stood together in a cluster, dabbing at their eyes, together, they’ve had to bury seven friends that year. One of my good friends, DeeDee is getting very emotional, she is 99 years old and has lost total control of her bowels, at the most inappropriate moment as the minister calls for a moment of silence, she farts loudly.

My grandchildren are standing in front of their respective parents and they are extremely bored. The Nineteen year old, thinks for a moment the grandma wasn’t so bad and it was kind of sad that they’d never get to see her again, then she remembers that she is going to the movies with her friends the next day and idly begins to go through her closet, mentally picking out an appropriately cute outfit.

The seven year old, pinches his five year old sister at regular intervals when he is sure no one is watching, she smacks his head in response, and their squabbling continues unnoticed

The fourteen year old nod’s his head in rhythm to the music he’s listening to on his Super Trendy Mp3/computer/phone/wireless satellite gadget which also makes toast bread. He is listening to Piddly Diddly, winner of the hotest rapper award for the year 2085. From time to time, he mouths the lyrics to the song, he thinks he is a gifted rapper and his social network profiles already bear his stage name; Bow Chica Wow-Wow. He just knows he's going to be a world famous rapper when he grows up

The Priest tries to round up the service, he is tired of trying to swat away flies with one hand, while reciting the same lines he has had to at a hundred other funerals. He knows all the words by heart, he also knows that no one is actually paying attention aside from the light-skinned old lady who is presently digging her nose. The other old women are all partly deaf and cannot hear a thing.

Finally, it is done with and everybody can go home.

The grown up children line up to pour sand into the grave as they pay their last respects, the grandchildren hurriedly begin to sprint towards the car park, the grave diggers move closer, it will soon be time for them to finish their job and close the grave.

The Priest is helping the old ladies slowly descend the step leading down from the grave.

The Light Skinned old lady farts again

Then there is silence



Cheers

Technologically Speaking

Technology can be a horrible thing. Just the other day, I met up with a really good friend of mine whom I hadn’t seen in ages. After the initial squeals that always follow a reunion involving mainly members of the female sex, we sat down to talk. Or at least we tried, in between looking up the Ping’s on our Blackberry’s. After about half an hour of; Uhm.., Yeeah.., Riiight..., What did you say? We decided to banish our phones to the bottom of our oversized handbags. Now able to communicate, we went on to have a fabulous time swapping stories, comparing weaves and generally hanging out.

Then recently, I was caught in a fib (not my proudest moment) when I told an Uncle that I had just entered town and so was coming to visit that weekend. Except I had been in town for about two weeks, I just hadn’t gotten around to making that call informing him of my arrival. How did he find out? Through my Facebook status from the previous week where I’d lamented about how much I missed the city of Lagos. Apparently, his niece, who lives with him and is unfortunately a ‘friend’ on Facebook, enjoys bringing him up to speed on the status updates of her Facebook pals. I’m not sure how that makes for interesting dinner table conversation between them but there you go, to each his (or in this case their) own.

I suspect I am not the only one who can hardly keep up with creating a constant, daily flow of witty, attention grabbing updates for my Facebook page, Twitter account, and Blackberry messenger. The world of Social networking sites/apps is notoriously fickle; you are only as relevant as your last interesting update. You also have to keep up a constant stream of interesting, glamorous pictures of your latest holiday to the Canary Islands, best friend’s wedding at the Burj al Arab, or office awards night/dinner party at the Hilton, in Paris.

God forbid you be found guilty of uploading picture after picture of headshots of your self, carefully cropped, to conceal the background location, which looks suspiciously like the inside of Iya Kofo’s joint behind your office.

Technology can put you under the most horrible forms of pressure. Trying to keep on top of all the gizmos and gadgets out there can put your head in a spin. These days, its not enough to walk into a store and say “id like to buy a television please”, you must be aware of all the latest that Sony et al have to offer, from Plasma, to LCD, LED and HDTV, buying an electronic equipment just isn’t what it used to be. To avoid looking like a total moron (mugu) in front of the Computer Village and Alaba boys you must be up to date on all the abbreviations. Else, you may end up being celebrated with bowls of steaming hot Pepper soup and cold beer at the close of work as ‘maga’ of the day.

The only thing that could possibly be worse than this is being viewed by your 11year old cousin as old fart because you still think the cries of Wii! amongst him and his friends signifies an impending trip to the bathroom. So, to stay relevant, you prepare for each of his visits by turning to another form of technology-the internet to read up on all the latest on gaming technology


For anyone who might begin to worry about how to avoid becoming totally obsolete just remember;

• A computer is actually really stupid, it can really only go as far as you push it

• Don’t worry that you still haven’t bought that sleek new phone that’s all the rage now. In another three months, everyone will have forgotten all about it.

• At the end of the day, its not how many virtual friends you have, it’s about how many real ones you can truly connect with.

• If all else fails, just claim to be a technophobe, it’s a totally legitimate phobia, they even have their own support groups now

Cheers

A week on the Job

So today I sat at my desk. I am now respectably employed thank you very much. In the Nigerian Civil service no less. It has been interesting the kinds or responses I've been getting from my co-workers. Now, I'm working in the same organization where I carried out my youth service, so it’s not like I'm a total newbie. But, ever since I became a staff I noticed a few subtle changes.


It started on my first week on the job as a proper bonafide staff. It was the beginning of a new month and my colleagues had just received their pay slips. "So have you gotten your slip?' asked one of my bosses with a knowing wink, "They've started giving us o". I thanked him for the info and then politely reminded him that I was just resuming official duty and so was not yet entitled to any pay. I have to admit though that it did make me feel sort of like I had been accepted fully as a member of the Gang. Then, today, another superior spent a good ten minutes at my desk ranting about the institution, and I mean really raving. She got really deep into the personal intrigues and politics and opened up to me in a way she never would have when I was just another ‘Corper’. Again, it really helped foster my sense of belonging.

A few days ago, I had to fill out a form and I have to admit it did feel a bit weird to write down Civil Servant in the Occupation category. I kept thinking, I’m a Civil Servant? Really? Of all the professions I visualized myself in when growing up, and trust me they were many, I never, ever imagined myself in the Civil Service. At various points in time, I thought I would end up a Lawyer, Pediatrician, Actress, Writer, Detective, Journalist, Race Car Driver, Celebrity Chef, you name it, I’ve dreamt it. But no, the reality is a lot less dramatic.

I’m also finding myself dealing with totally embracing the work culture. I did a few internships in my time and I got to work at some really cool places. So I know a thing or two about office sleepovers and working through the weekend. None of that ever happens at my new office. My first week there, I was online at my computer a few minutes to 5pm which is the close of our working day when I suddenly noticed that the only sound I could hear was the tap of my fingers against the keyboard. I looked up and realized that the entire office had emptied out, walking out onto the corridors, I was shocked to see the entire floor was deserted, as I stood there staring incredulously, the lights went out, the maintenance crew was telling any ‘oversabis’ like me that it was the end of the working day. As I went back in to pick up my bag I looked at the time, it was 5:05pm.

Another thing is getting used to the fact that a huge chunk of the employees at my office are in an entirely different demographic. I am often mistaken for an Intern by other staff as well as visitors. One guy told me bluntly, ‘aren’t you a little young to be a staff here?” Ha! Excuse me but I didn’t know there was an age restriction on employment.

All in all, it hasn’t been totally, horribly, hair raising, suicide contemplating-ly bad. I’m sure I’ll get used to the idea of not having a proper job description, or a clearly defined role or function. Eventually, I am assuming that I too will become a clock watching, ground nut eating, Servant of the Federal Republic of Nigeria.

Cheers.

My Recruitment Misadventure

So yesterday, I went for a job screening. Actually, it felt more like a military exercise. Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating a bit.


Anyways. Exactly fifteen hours before the scheduled test, there I am at home minding my own business, back from a very exhausting day of errands and other sorts of things, when I get an SMS on my phone. I was going to ignore it, seeing as I was so tired and all. Actually, I did. Ignore it that is, for about an hour. But you see, the ring tone for my SMS is one of those loud, annoying beeps. You know the types now; those ones that last less than a second but can wake you from a valium induced sleep. So about 3600 seconds after I first decided to ignore it, my conscience (or was it subconscious) started to tell me that maybe it was about time I took a peak at that pesky text message. So I did.

It turned out to be an invitation from a mysterious (oh alright maybe not so mysterious) firm asking me to turn up at their office the following morning on the other end of town from where I live for a written test. I'd never heard of them before, I wondered if it was a scam but a brief conversation with my mum helped me realize it wasn’t. Apparently, outsourcing HR functions is all the rage now. Or maybe it has always been, what do I really know about these things anyways.

So anyways, turns out they are oh so pleased to invite me for their little shindig. There I was, less than half a day away from a recruitment exercise with possibly my future employers and I don’t have a clue how to begin to prepare for it.

As I tried to sort out a half decent, business looking outfit, I began to go through my mental list of companies I had recently applied to. After eliminating the impossible i.e. those from which I had already received the thank you but.....letters, I decided that it just had to be the test for a multinational I had applied to the previous week. I was quite certain about it, after all, my application essays were quite impressive if I did say so myself.

Fast forward to the next morning. I am up at 6am, and it is raining. Hard. Terrible drops of freezing cold water. Anyone who knows me well, knows that I absolutely despise being cold. I'd rather be sweating than freezing any day.

I got into the car and started my journey across town hoping the rain would soon calm down. It didn't. After a few wrong turns, I finally get to the place, 30 minutes late! Except it turned out I wasn't. I was actually an hour early. My test was actually scheduled for an hour and a half after I was told to be there. Sigh. So I am ushered along with a few other early birds to a waiting room, which is actually an outdoor parking space with a roof over it. It was more of a waiting space, than a room really. We are told to sit there, only there weren’t enough seats so most people had to stand. In the cold. While the rain continued to fall all around us. Then we waited, and waited, an hour then two, almost three hours after we got there, we were finally taken inside the testing centre. Then, we were informed just before the test that those of us who passed would be asked to wait behind for another test.

Fast forward again to an hour and some later, I am taken upstairs to another room along with four other people for the second stage which we find out is a practical test. More waiting, finally it’s time; we do a computer based test. Then of course, the waiting continued. At this stage my stomach is rumbling, I had foolishly decided not to have any breakfast, it was well past the fourteenth hour of the day and I was starving.

The other candidates and I bond and start to chat; actually it is more of a DISS-cussion as we complain about the terrible way in which the tests are being conducted, and how poorly planned and executed the whole exercise is. "Well" I say "At least it’s for a good cause. It'll be worth it if we end up with a job at that multinational company". There is a dead silence. Then my new friend in the gold neck scarf says, "Didn't you hear?”

"Hear what?" I ask. It turns out this test isn't for the multibillion dollar grossing multinational I think it is. It is for a GSM company seeking temporary contract staff to carry out SIM card registration exercises’ for six months. The pay is Fifty thousand naira a month, and the job so simple and routine that a Primary Six pupil could easily perform it, with minimal supervision after an hour of training.

I immediately develop a headache, which only worsens when the test instructor comes out to inform us that we will now be taken in for two separate interviews each, one at a time.

Two and a half hours later, I am finally on my way home, and as I sat in a four hour long traffic jam, trying hard to console myself for a full day wasted I thought to myself, oh well, at least I got to wear my favorite jacket.


Cheers.

By the way, I just received word that I got the job. I intend to turn down the offer.

Cheers, for real.

Once Upon a Celebration

On the first day in October, in the year Two Thousand and Ten, at approximately 12:00 am Nigeria will be 50. Hmmm, if they say a fool at forty is a fool forever, what happens to the fool when he turns 50? Just wondering, hypothetically speaking of course.

We will in effect become the 16th out of 17 African countries to celebrate this landmark anniversary this year. This month of August will witness the largest number of countries (nine in total) celebrating the golden jubilee of their independence.

Majority of these countries have had or plan to have modest but significant events, to mark the occasion. Not Nigeria. You know how we do; from the one hundreth and fourth anniversary of his great-great-grand fathers death, to the eleventh anniversary of the year he got his first visa, nobody loves a good party like a Nigerian, who has something he thinks he should thankful for, and everything has to be done Nigerian style. This sentiment extends to our golden jubilee celebrations.

From the almost one billion naira parade, to the (ahem) one hundred million naira carpets that will be flown in from Persia on a private jet (at least I’m assuming so with that price tag) to replace the perfectly functional ones currently gracing the floors at the National Conference Centre in Abuja. Plans seem to be underway to ensure that the celebrations will be one that people will talk about for years to come. Wait. Was that the tag line on the wedding pictures of a Nigerian moguls’daughter I saw in an online entertainment/gossip blog? I simply can’t remember.

Now, let me tell you, from what I heard, it’s going to be one heck of a party. Some of Nigeria’s most well known crooks, er, I mean citizens have already been handed National honour’s as part of the advance preparations for the celebration.

There shall be Pounded Yam and Don Perignon (or Puff- Puff and Pure water depending on what section of the party you are allowed to visit). There will be music and dancing from some of the country’s best known performers, singing songs about our country’s greatest achievements. You know. All those great things we have accomplished. Such as Peace and Unity, well, except for the Niger Delta, and the North, and the Central States, oh and in the East as well, what with all the kidnappings and what not’s.

Ah yes, peace. In addition, we have one of Africa’s largest and the world’s fastest growing economies, even though I’m yet to feel its impact in my pockets. I also hear we are the world’s most populous black nation, wait; I’m not quite sure that’s an achievement. Scratch that. Let’s see, what else? Oh yes, we have some of the highest paid Public Servants in the world, let me tell you, 28 million Naira minus benefits is no joke. For those of you who don’t know, we are also one of the world’s largest importers of generator sets and toothpicks. Ah, the list is endless, we could go on and on and on, but, we shall not because you see, continuing this exercise might just be too emotional for the author of this blog. Why, I’m about to burst into tears right now, issues concerning National pride tend to leave me that way, a blubbering ball of emotion, em, I meant pride, pride of course.

So here’s to our dear country, a self appointed giant of sorts, here’s to water, and light, and schools and roads and most of all, to 6 million Naira websites, and one billion Naira celebration uniforms. (What? You thought our armed forces were just going to show up in their normal attire for special occasions? Never! We are after all a major fashion capital of the world, even though the world doesn’t know it yet)

Fellow Nigerians, as we look forward to October 1st, I wish you all a Happy 50th Anniversary. May the next 50 years be even more of a success than the last.

Cheers