What Am I Doing Here?

Just about every day, I ask myself the question, "What am I doing here?" As much as I love my life here, that question never seems to go away. I identify myself as Nigerian even though I am half Nigerian. I was raised in Nigeria, went to school in Nigeria, and lived most of my life in Nigeria. Living in Nigeria was tough but I look back with mostly fond memories. Absence does make the heart grow fonder because life wasn't always all that great. However, I look back with some kind of nostalgia. Whenever I prepare to go back to Nigeria, it is with great joy and excitement. The thought of being with family and friends, eating our local delicacies and hanging out at the newest spots is what gets me excited.

Getting there, I often find, is another story. As I reflect on my last three visits back home, two out of the three were clouded with tears of frustration. On one of those visits, I had promised my boss that I would check email since I was planning to be out of the office for a whopping two weeks. I took my laptop with me and prepared to have a working holiday. Not once was I able to connect to the internet on my laptop. I had to go to a cybercafe to check any email. Checking work email and doing anything work-related was a no no because it was a breeding ground for Yahoo Yahoo boys and I didn't want to compromise such sensitive information. In fact, I remember once checking my account balance on line and using my body to cover the computer. I knew it wasn't a great idea but I needed to do a quick check on things. I was prepared to face the consequences and am happy to report that nothing went wrong there.

Power or lackthereof, was a huge source of frustration. My family had a generator that was kept on during the day but turned off at night. Even though some might say we are lucky to have a 'gen', I describe that experience as a nightmare. The noise emanating from it was so loud, it was difficult to think. Also, the fact that no matter what we tried, the house stayed suffocatingly hot is another issue. Most homes in Nigeria are built with this solid concrete that does nothing for our environment. Building technology doesn't seem to have evolved. People still use the same techniques they have been using for decades. Actually, I take that back. I understand that the colonial homes were kept cool because of the way they were built. I also remember my grandparents' home in Surulere being cool and it had that craftman feel. I digress but that heat was a mother. I am as tough as they come but one day, after being trapped in what seemed like an iron fortress, I just broke down and cried out of frustration. Iron fortress is not an exaggeration, all windows have some kind of iron bars to protect criminals from gaining access. Security, of course, is another matter altogether. I went to Nigeria ready to party with friends and family but was constantly reminded of how dangerous it is to go out at night. In fact, the few times we went out, I remember praying that we got wherever we were going and back safely.

Even after such reminders of the not so smooth and easy Nigeria, I want to go back. It sounds romanticized to people here but I feel compelled to do something. In fact, I can imagine people laughing at some ideas that I have for community building and giving back. The last time I was in Nigeria, I visited the Motherless Babies Home in Lekki - one of the nicer neighborhoods in Lagos. It was unbelievable that people in the community were not taking care of their kids. As far as I am concerned, those kids belong to the Lekki community as well. I was told by one of the matrons that they see a lot of activity around Christmas. That is when people are the most generous and remember the poor in society. That is the same way here in the US. People feel compelled to give back around the holidays and that's about it. Anyway, I remember being shocked at the state of things at the Motherless Babies Home. Prior to getting there, I'd stopped at some supermarket in Lekki to pick up groceries/provisions for the kids. I wasn't sure what they might like but I bought the things that I liked as a kid - milo, milk, jam, biscuits, bread, butter, custard, oatmeal, juices, etc. and some that I really don't like - Golden Morn. All the while thinking, I don't know what they are feeding this kids but if this is a treat for them, so be it. I remember being shocked at the peeling paint, the stench, and the kids. I picked up what seemed like a little girl and saying "Aren't you a cute little girl?" and the matron tells me that's a little boy. In a pink dress! Wow. Apparently, they didn't have enough little boy's clothes. The biggest shocker for me was a room where they had mentally ill children. One boy probably aged eight or nine was in a cot, banging his head against it- on and on and on and on. Continuously. Obviously, he was mentally challenged but to sequester him like that felt cruel. Before I go on any further, I'd like to say that I found the ladies there amazing. There were two of them in there that day taking care of maybe sixty children? I didn't have much money on me but I gave them all that I had just for them. How could I not, they are truly angels to take care of the kids with smiles on their faces. While I was there, they had a visitor who apparently comes regularly to take some of the kids out. Her accent was Australian or possibly South African and we chitchatted about the kids and she left with one of them. She'd apparently taken a liking to this little dreadlocked boy whom she changed and dressed before they took off for the weekend. I stayed behind and watched tv with the kids. It was unbelievable how they all seemed to be clamoring for my attention. They either wanted to sit on my lap or wanted me to carry them.

Long story short. Those are some of the reasons I want to go back home. My life would be more meaningful if I could do more for the kids in our communities. I know it is challenging, I know my judgement may be cloudy but that's my first home. I miss it and if can do a little bit to help, I would be over the moon.