I actually try to tame my usage of the ha’s and o’s on the tip of my tongue even though it does get the better of me sometimes.
It’s the Nigerianness in me. Even if I live to be 120 years and maybe a resident in Nunavut, I am sure that ha, o and hey, will feature in my writing as well as speech.
Back home, we exclaim a lot especially when we speak in pidgin language. Our sentences are emphasized with o, a, ha and hey! It’s literally impossible for us to do without our high-pitched punctuated exclamations. Haba! That simply takes away the flavour in the expression.
How can I tell you the depth of my askance or surprise if I don’t say ha? 😉
For instance, we use ha to express things such as:
Ha! Indeed, Really?
Ha! You don’t say.
Ha! Wonderful
Ha ba! What is it?
Now I am speaking pidgin in my head as I write and in conclusion, ‘make I finish quick, quick waka comot for hia. E get place wey I won go buy market – let me finish quickly and go out. I need to go shopping somewhere.’
‘The honest work of yesterday has lost its social status, its social esteem’ Peter Drucker
Though he’s employed to clean, I think it’s rude for people to finish eating at a fast-food public area, get up and go their merry way, while leaving their litter behind. Meanwhile, the trash can is just behind them
I don’t think that it will take a minute to put these things away and to teach children to clear up after themselves. I can understand getting up and leaving used plates behind in a proper dining, fine restaurant since a waiter/waitress attends to guests and will possibly earn a tip.
The fascination that other places and people’s culture holds for me, has turned me somewhat into an Oliver Twist, suffering from the ‘I want some more’ syndrome. When La Duchesse Derat sent out this week’s prompt for TGBOL as Dream travels, I told her that she has got me started on a gallivanting affair.
Having tasted the enriching delight and knowledge that comes from visiting so many places, if I say that I dream of the opportunity to travel the World, would I come across as asking for too much? Nah! Not to me.
Yet the truth is that these dreams don’t cost anything, but brings us so much delight when we do have a beautiful day dream and build candy castles in the winds.
Realistically, I know that these are ambitious thoughts, however, if I had the wherewithal to indulge my wanderlust, I would love to visit:
Morocco
Timbuktu
San Francisco
Vancouver
Czech Republic
A tour of Europe again – I totally love Europe 🙂
Buenos Aires
Bangkok
Budapest
India
New Zealand
And the rest can come after. Ha!
‘I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list.’ Susan Sontag
Every Christmas time finds me reminiscing over beautiful memories of childhood Christmastime’s spent with my parents. Those were the naive and innocent days of my life.
As children we associated Christmas with the arrival of the sharp cold, dusty weather of Harmattan which changed the air with its peculiar smell of red clay dust.
The frenzy of Christmas preparations started a bit early with mummy taking us to the tailor for measurements of new dresses or if her pockets had extra jingles, purchases of all-ready-made to wear clothes would be the thing.
She did this early enough so that ‘Nwanyi Bacha’ our favourite family tailor would have them all ready before the frantic rush from last minute customers. Other purchases were equally made as early as possible to save a few Naira’s ahead of the hiking of price in goods. In Nigeria, we didn’t have sales back then. We had price hikes.
The purchase of several Cockerels would be done and we would spend the following weeks fattening them up with ground chicken feed, while the poor things pecked away and waited to be slaughtered, plucked and eaten with the numerous dishes that would circulate over the holidays.
The smell of vanilla and nutmeg became a constant aroma in the house. Tins and tins of Chin-chin were fried to entertain guests who would surely come calling when we got to the village and an assortment of Christmas carols played non-stop.
…But we had no White Christmas and I wanted a snowy white Christmas. The television’s had been showing foreign movies of snow and Santa sneaking down the chimney’s to drop gifts in socks.
The University children’s staff party was held and our neighbourly dark-faced Santa whom we fondly called ‘Father Christmas’ was always kitted out with a cotton wool beard, eyebrows, chalky hair and fluffy stuffing to expand his girth.
He handed out the little gifts as we lined up in neat rows to meet him and we secretly whispered knowingly to each other… ”I think it’s Chikpe’s daddy…he must have gone to North Pole to collect our gifts.”
Hedges were decorated with twinkly lights and there was so much gaiety in the air.
….But we didn’t have white Christmas.
Then the traveling to the village. It was almost always a mass exodus. Leaving the townships to the villages during festive periods was a norm.
For miles, the roads would be clogged with full vehicles snaking through the narrow winding roads of Nsukka express up to the 9th mile, where there was always a traditional log jam that lasted for hours as people drove crazily, and a road that was meant to be a two-lane road, somehow turned into a five or six or how ever many lane road.
The cheerful hawkers were happy about the jams. They did brisk business; excitedly shouting their wares on top of their voices..Bread, Bread, your fresh bread here. Groundnut, even live Chicken were hawked in the traffic.
Our Renault was always loaded down to the hilt. Bags of Rice, fattened Cockerels, tins of chin-chin, luggage, crates of soft drinks and so many things.
Getting to the village and meeting the grandparents, uncles, aunties, cousins, clans men and women were moments not to be forgotten. The older ones practically twirled you around, exclaiming, oohing and aahing over how tall you have grown, how this or that and beaming with fond smiles.
The cool village nights were filled with sounds of the power plant droning in the background, of children’s laughter and playful voices as we gathered in front of Grandpa’s frontage and enjoyed a mix of scary, ghostly folktales, riddles and jokes. The constant chirp of the Cricket and the deep croaking of the Frogs, with Fireflies that flitted past every few minutes, all made the inky darkness of the night much more mysterious.
Now and again, we would catch sight of a torch or winking lamp bobbing up and down from afar as its owner walked the dark, trodden village path and we would all shriek and run into grandpa’s house.
…But we still didn’t have any White Christmas!
Christmas dawn met everyone excited and well dressed. Somehow, Father Christmas, had managed to visit in the wee hours of the morning and left little gifts for us. It couldn’t have been easy doing those rounds across Continents and villages, but he did come and fulfilled his promises. Quite the lovely man, our Father Christmas.
The morning Harmattan’s dew would still be hanging in the crisp air, as we enjoyed hot cups of beverage and thick slices of bread, butter and eggs before trooping into the available cars to go to Church. We sometimes had to sit on each others lap or the car would make several rounds to ferry everyone to Church, since some relatives did not own cars.
The Christmas mass was always too joyous and merry to be solemn. We ardently admired our winking new trinkets, shiny shoes, dresses and oily plastered hair, which had been stretched or should I say fried out with hot sizzling stretching combs that had been heated over the stove.
Slow merry gyrating to the altar and back with new pennies for offering, our beaming brown faces followed our dazzling mothers, who were bedecked in the latest George or Hollandaise wrappers and flamboyant head gears that made them look so outstanding. The Priests in their pristine white, stood with the altar boys and the special containers of holy water were sprinkled liberally on all and sundry.
Our feast was the sharing of delicious, sumptuous food. Copious plates of Jollof or fried rice, pounded yam, cake, chin-chin, drinks, pepper-soup; we ate until our small tummies were thoroughly rounded out with food.
These things were done in stages and the icing to the cake of Christmas tidings was the outing ”to see the masquerades.” The event of seeing the masquerades is tradition at it’s finest. A treat in a first-class of its own. The vibrant and sometimes scary masquerades would give chase and the adrenaline of pumping hearts and legs as we scampered for safety were recounted over and over.
As I grew older and watched my mother go through the yearly Christmas preparation, the selfless cooking and taking big basins of warm food to the local prisons for the prisoners, the giving of food items to the less privileged around her, I came to realize that the joy of Christmas was not based on the whiteness of its snow, or the brown dust of its Harmattan, but the deep feeling of family, of joy, of sharing, of love, of charity, of peace and purpose that lay in the hearts of all those who believed.
”Merry Christmas My Dear Friends. Glad Tidings To You And Yours.”
Bending over to stoke the firewood, blowing at it with gusto and fanning the crackling flames till they lit; putting kerosene into the stove and lighting it’s wicks with an ignited single broomstick; manipulating the gas cooker to lower the heat from burning the beans or rice while I snatched a quick five minutes read in the bathroom, were my early forays in the kitchen. I was caught young!
Naturally this has gravitated towards keeping my brood and my dear Himself nourished over the years and I believe that in most homes this is usually the case – the mother automatically assumes the kitchen chef position.
I certainly know the way to his heart by keeping his tummy nicely sated with good tasting yumminess 🙂
It has been my primary responsibility over the years and I dare say that I can whip up a decent meal and efficiently too.
Since that is the case, it goes without debate that I am the best cook in my domain.
However, there are have been days that Himself develops a desire to become a culinary artist and Myself simply puts up her feet and watch’s my kitchen transform into an operation desert storm 😉
I don’t mutter a word of discouragement so that the waves of culinary want-to-do will hit more often.
I simply go ahead and enjoy eating every bite whipped up by Himself, with a deep hum of appreciation and a sink load of dirty pots and pans.
Do you enjoy whipping up some yummy stuff or is there a Himself in your life, who is a culinary artist turning your kitchen into an area hit by a thunder storm?
A friend and sister blogger invited me for the three quote challenge and I would like to share some African proverbs with you. Thank you OBA for this auspicious opportunity. I like it.
Back then in my place, our grandparents and parents told us tales or rebuked us with words laced with lots of proverbs, adages and idioms that we had no idea what they meant.
Sometimes, they will ask you to go and figure out a sensible answer for a proverb as part of your punishment, then you would perambulate from one adult to another trying to repeat the proverb and get its meaning.
These adults had a way of knowing that you had misbehaved so your journey got a little trickier and arduous but it was a lesson well taught in a lot of instances.
So I leave you with today’s proverb:
”A man doesn’t go far from where his corn is roasting.”
Now picture me going up and down asking another adult to tell me where the corn is roasting 🙂
I would like to invite 3 gentlemen bloggers in the house to give us their quotes.
We are asked to use our maps as our muse. To tell you about where we’ve come from. About where we’ve been and the places that we have not been to but would like to be and how all these ‘where’s‘ have shaped who we are through our connections with them.
Now, this is a tough choice for me, because my roaming heart has roosted in many places. Some sojourns brief and some for extended periods of time and yet it hasn’t stopped roaming.
I have fallen in love with them all. You may question ”how can she fall in love with so many things?” I will tell you that I believe in going wherever I go or doing whatever I do with all my heart.
I will tell you that falling in love with many things, makes you see the beauty of these things/places/people beyond the peripheries. If you care to say; why would you invest so much emotions into this places? My question would be, Why not?
I choose to love the places that I have lived or been to because I go there, not seeking for things to criticize about their culture or place, but seeking to understand, to know more and to appreciate more.
Thus, all the places that my feet have rested on, have one way or the other decorated my heart.
Join me for a brief and quick jaunt with the GPS of my heart and see these places through my rose-spectacle vision.
I flit like a delicate butterfly;
Over expanses of space and through cycles of time;
I perch on many lovely petals;
Inhaling intoxicating fragrance;
Sensitized by lushness and soft feels;
It draws a sigh from me;
When they say hello!
University of Nigeria Nsukka: A peaceful, sleepy enclave situated in Nsukka, which is a small town and Local Government Area in South-East Nigeria in Enugu State.
The place of my birth and where I lost my milk teeth. A home to thousands of great academics who have passed through it’s corridors and are dispersed all over the diaspora doing great exploits. From The First President of Independent Nigeria – Dr. Nnamdi Azikiwe, to Nobel Laureate – Chinua Achebe, Chimamanda Ngozi-Adichie, my humble self and so many others.
Let us wander a bit down the red earth beaten path of this charming campus of academics which my parents were part of. I am doubtful if our GPS would work, but I can follow my nose because it knows.
Lovely bungalows occupied by university staff, line the campus quarters streets, from the twining streets of Fulton Avenue to Margaret Cartwright, from Alvin Loving to Eze-Opi crescent, from Odim Street to Mbonu Ojike; just to name a few.
The bungalows are only separated by well kept Cashuarina hedges, Queen of the night flowers, Purple Hibiscus, Honeysuckle plants or Bougainvilleas. The whistle of the swaying whistling pines pierces through the air frequently. It is also a breezy and cool town.
A community where everybody knows everybody else and their business. Birthdays, marriages, deaths, successes and failures were shared alike. A place where you know that Mr. Francis the shoemakers daughter would be getting married next Saturday and a communal bus is obtained to convey neighbours for the event. A place where Mama Uju was sure to inform you when Uju has put to bed and she is off to stay for weeks of ”Omugwo” in her daughters house.
It is a town that reminds me of mango trees heavy laden with fat juicy fruits, of sweet sticky cashew fruits, of the best bananas this side of the planet, of lazy summers spent with friends, of the cold harmattan seasons when red dust curled up in the air painting us in light earthy dust and we glittered like happy urchins.
Nostalgic recollections of school days and bicycle races, of promenades and church bazaars, of picnics and the end of year parties, something was always going on and you could smell Christmas around the corner coupled with the pursuits from local masquerades.
All escapades were duly taken note of and oftentimes, an honorary auntie or uncle was willing to straighten you out even before your parents were privy to the embellished version of your hell-raising ways. Of course, this will be followed by more straightening from your parents and sufficient catechism to exorcise every rebellious spirit that might be festering in you 🙂
By the way, the Reverend is probably not just the towns priest but also a good friend of the family, so your confessions had better be sanctified enough not to make him suffer palpitations.
Enugu:
A brief detour through Enugu, the city of my undergraduate days where I discovered my nubile young self. Getting up to mischief that would definitely turn our Reverends hair white in an instant. The city where this young girls heart first knew what it meant to feel deflated. My first independent move away from daddy’s sharp eyes and mummy’s apron strings.
Lagos:
If you ask me, I will always tell you that I am first and foremost a Naija woman, secondly an Achi native (my homestead), thirdly, an Nsukka child fourthly a Lasgidi babe and lastly a citizen of the World.
Lagos my Lagos: One of the most fascinating metropolis that you will ever visit. You hardly have an idea of what to expect next minute. It is the largest city in Africa, teeming wall-to-wall with people, bumper-to-bumper with cars, noise and pollution beyond belief. Highways and flyovers are jammed with hold-ups and go-slows on top, and tin-and-cardboard shacks underneath.
It is the economic and cultural powerhouse of the country, with much thanks to an absurd wealth of oil money, it has an exploding arts and music scene that will keep your ”yansh” gyrating far past dawn at ”Owambes.”
Lagos holds a lot of good memories for me; from my working years at The French Embassy and British American Tobacco to the actual succumb to throes of love for my husband whom I met in Lagos, before he whisked me off on a whirlwind nomadic journey.
If you’re headed to Nigeria, you’ll have no choice but to jump right into the madness here.
One day, I shall talk about the stints in other places:
Of France and a romantic dalliance;
Of Switzerland and the quaint apartment on Rue de Geneve;
Of London and Liverpool and the tale of the accents mingled with near drowning episodes in Earl Grey Tea;
Of the West African States, the neighbours like brothers;
Of Amsterdam, Brussels, Strasbourg and the likes;
Of Johannesburg, Cape Town and my thoughts;
New York, New Jersey, Maryland, Baltimore, Houston, California, Austria, Venice, Kenya, Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Qatar, Sao Tome Principe, Istanbul……..the GPS of my heart is really busy.
Omugwo: The birth of a baby In Igboland and other eastern Nigerian ethnic groups means that the nursing mother and child has to be ministered unto by a very close and experienced female relation. In most cases, the person who takes care of her, is her mother. If the mother is not alive or around, her step-mother performs the functions.
Yansh: Your backside.
Lasgidi: Another name for the city of Lagos, Nigeria’s largest city.
Naija: Naija is another name for Nigeria, the patriotic name for Nigerians to show their strength and smartness.
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a cooking pot and twisted tales 