#amaraYa

adventurous outdoorsy soul. possess the pen of a ready writer. impacting lives through storytelling.

adjusting to life as an immigrant.

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“Your children have never seen you naked? How is that possible? I saw the wheels spinning behind Lucy’s eyes as she blinked astoundingly at Soraya. Two worlds were colliding here.

“Yes. This is the first time they would share bathroom with me. What business does my children have in my room when each person’s room is ensuite?

A few blank faces met other comprehending ones around the room.

“Each of your kids had their own room? Lucy asked again

And few of us nodded like the question was thrown at us while a black woman sitting beside her remarked “well that is a normal thing for us”

We were at a Wellbeing group for women run weekly by a Charity. I began attending although sporadically, after a referral when I was newly diagnosed of the Cancer.

Priceless. What this group has become in this new journey of mine. This space is a buffer for your sanity. A gathering of women from different walks of life talking over chai and coffee. This journey of cancer has redefined therapy for me. I am still redefining the word – cathartic.

In this space, language is not a barrier. Between; translation apps, gestures and someone else from your community with a better grasp of English, we understood ourselves.

Soraya is a Persian. The first time we met I had been impressed by her command of the English language. An inkling of her privileged background.

“Yes, we have a big house. And servants. My house is always full. Parties, laughter, we cook fresh food. But here, some people look at you like you are a beggar and do not know anything”. Her voice cracked as she wiped at her eyes

One of the women beside her rubbed her back.

“See my pictures”

Brandishing her phone; she circulated pictures of another life. One I grasped from where I sat. I had acquired enough social intelligence growing up in northern Nigeria to know what it means for a Muslim woman to share facilites with her teenage sons.

“Here. Said a volunteer pushing a cup of tea towards Soraya.

“Ladies, we can take a break if you want” Lucy announced. I felt sorry for her. She seemed totally out of her depth dealing with women across cultures.

We agreed to continue.

Asya, an Afghan and a first-time mother of a two month old baby, began speaking tentatively. Her baby was in the arms of another woman.

“I still find it very hard here. My husband says I will get used to it but when?”

“When I came here to the UK, I was ……… she searched her mental files for the word. As she grappled with her basic English, Soraya intervened. They both spoke Farsi.

“shocked”

“Yes. Shocked.

“Small houses. No parties. No markets. No people come to your house”

“As new wife, you alone and my husband go to work.”

All my life, lot of people inside house and outside. Children playing everywhere. Here, it is quiet like everyone run away.

“When I was pregnant, no mother, no grandmother to help. My baby take long to come and then they cut me to bring baby out. In hospital, they give me cold food.

Her voice quaked as she tried to compose herself. Some women nodded.

“Only me with baby until my husband come back from work.” Sometimes we don’t know what to do. sometimes I call my mother on phone”

“Do you not have help from other women in your community?” Lucy enquired

“Not same. They come and go. Nobody to stay with you and care for you and baby”

Her pain pierced me. It was one most BAME immigrants related to. For everything she described, an image flashed across my mind.

Nonetheless, the ironic use of the word ‘community’ abroad constantly amused me.

Even the people who felt inundated by community and craved their spaces back home, now cry out for community.

The other day, a Nigerian man had remarked how he missed the cacophony of the streets. Another missed waking up to see your neighbours setting up canopies knowing that your entire day was already lost to the noise of their party.

Yet, another missed the ‘disturbance’ from the church beside his house. How he disliked going home from work because of them but now willing to have them pitch their tent right back beside him.

Everyone now missed and craved ‘community’ including their mothers-in-law.

Listening to Asya share her story, my mind popped up an image. The countless times I had spent wishing a knock on the would be my mother showing up for duty.

error of commission

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“My home is hot right now as my wife has served me an ultimatum”. he cradled his coffee cup and leaned back into his seat

We all turned towards him.

“Why is that?” Alan one of the coordinators, an elderly man with kind eyes asked.

“She insists my friend has to leave” Ovie replied with a rueful smile.

“Your friend?” Alan prodded

I bit down at the smile tugging on my lips. I did not want anyone to miscontrue the smile. I was smiling because in front of me was an African male caught in a conundrum. Pressed enough yet weighing his masculinity vs vulnerability. I knew what it meant for him to even broach this topic here.

“Yes. My friend has been staying with us for about a month now” Ovie replied

“His wife sent him out of the house and he had no place to go so I offered”

The room was pin-drop silent.

This is one of the things I like about this group. Anyone vulnerable enough to share was allowed to pace themselves.

“They had some challenges which escalated. It led to him leaving the house”

“Must have been serious” stated Asya, an Afghan woman also a member of the team

“what type of issues?” another man sitting across enquired

“He has been job hunting since they came in for about 9 months now. He refused to do the Care job insisting it is beneath him. Also at home he does not help out with the chores or child care”

His wife, a nurse, is the primary provider. When she is at work, he finds it hard to cope with the kids. He pushes her to send the kids to her friends who can look after them while she is at work

“So what does he do then if he is not working?”

“He stays home and sleeps. Some days he buys a day ticket then gets on the bus and simply keeps going round the city. Other times, Parks, beach and City Centre”

“The load became so much for his wife. A few of us even had to come in and intervene yet he refuses to work claiming he is looking for a befitting job”

“He was a big boy back home. Had a very good job and business. That business was sustaining them for sometime though since they came in until it stopped”

“So how did this man end up in your house?”

“He is my childhood friend. Moreso, when we newly arrived, they housed my family – the four of us. It was not convenient yet they sheltered us for about two months”

“And now you are repaying his kindness?”

” Or enabling his poor choices?”

“The thing is I understand him. He is a proud person and even back home, he did not get involved in running the home. He had the money and paid for everything” Ovie waved his hand

“His anger stems from the fact that he feels disrespected by the wife. As his girlfriend, he put her through the University where she studied nursing. He did everything for her including helping her to secure this job before they came over. He made her life so comfortable with all the domestic help she wanted back then and she has not really paid any bills before now”

“Are you for your friend or your wife?”

“What about the inconvenience to your family?”

“What inconvenience? asked Amin a Pakistani “They can all live in peace”.

“Why does your wife want him out then?” Alan raised his hands, taking charge of the meeting as many people began to speak at once

“She claims he is a bad influence. And she resents the fact that he is willing to move out of his home. He does this instead of bending to the realities of this new environment. Besides, it is affecting her friendship with his wife”. Ovie admitted like he was begging us to help

“We are seeing lots of these issues recently. We have also heard that it is a cultural shock of …… and as Alan spoke, my mind drifted. I thought about all the unsavoury stories of struggle coming out of the ethnic minorities group all around.

Immigrant Parenthood: a man’s world

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“You saw how clueless I was when my baby began crying. The women here had to step in and take over. If I was back in Nigeria I would never take a baby out of the house on my own.  said a frazzled ‘deji as he started contributing to the discussion”

The Nigerian in me sensed his panic earlier when his baby began fretting. He kept rocking the buggy to lull the crying child without any success. A British woman tentatively intervened. This caused other women to chip in. Much as I wanted to help, Chemo was being a bitch and getting to that meeting already had me wiped. My need to help my community also to getting out of the house was why I got here.

We were at another of those sessions where the topic was ‘Issues that new arrivals face’. He was one of the volunteers from various communities who had turned up for this meeting. Faces around the table included a range of ethnic minorities alongside the British organisers

“Back home, you would not even get involved in child care because of community. My mom, her mom, sisters, aunties, and even paid domestic help with child care. And I speak for most of our men” he continued while I and the other ethnic minorities nodded

“As doctors, both of us can afford a nanny and a Housekeeper for this baby. But, this is what we get for moving away from the comforts of our homeland. We did this in search of a better life for our children.” This was their first child and his wife had recently resumed after her 9-months’ maternity Leave.

“I understand and that is why I asked to I carry your baby. Although I am British, my husband is Vietnamese. We lived in Vietnam for years. So, I know the culture.” Sharon, the woman who first reached out, smiled. She paced the room while still rocking the quiet baby. That explained a lot for me.

“And it does not end only at childcare but also housework”. ‘deji continued. “These are things an average man, especially one with a good job, would not do back home. But here, you either help out and run the home or there would be trouble because your wife alone can’t cope”

“Of course, she is also struggling. Back home, some of our women, especially those making money, do not even get involved in daily house chores. They simply pay to get it done.” Again, another round of nods as some of the British people looked on in amazement.

“As I looked on at this great divide in the room, I was glad I dragged myself to this meeting. It was a beneficial one to both parties. Your job revolves around #DEI. How can you engage successfully with someone you know nothing about their way of life?

How about the immigrant who has been repeatedly cautioned to be wary of their hosts because of XYZ and ABC? Was it not after all the empowering knowledge of lived experiences? It made Sharon reach out to help a young black father struggling with his distressed baby. Others like her looked on because they did not know which lines to cross.

The aim of these sessions is simple; build a bridge so we draw close enough. Ditch your binoculars, step across across the divide and view the scenery with the other person’s lenses.

The Mental Toll of Relocation: A Child’s Struggle and Emotional Impact

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“My young son shat on himself because someone was in the toilet and he could no longer hold it in” I quipped in a low voice laced with pain as I recalled that incident.

I saw curious surprise on some of the faces in the room. It was a session where the topic was how to help new arrivals integrate into the community. The large divide in the room was so wide. Some of the attendants has never had any interaction with a black person outside of the office. And seemed clueless on anything to do with the BAME community.

“He was filled with so much shame as he stood by the doorway and did not know how to tell me.  It turned out he was trying very hard to contain the remaining poop in his system pending when the bathroom opened up. The stool was loose anyway so I simply made him do it on the floor in the garden, then thereafter washed out the cemented floor with water myself”

This was weeks after we moved out of the hotel into a shared house. I guessed his system was likely in shock of the transition because he had not done Number 2 for a while now. That is usually his system’s response to any unfamiliar environment – shut down from doing Number 2.”

“I know what it took to manage our emotions afterwards. Yes, our emotions. He was sober throughout the day and I realised it was a combination of various emotions – top of which was shame and probably not knowing how I would react”

“Here was a child who had lived a comfortable life so far. Always had his own bathroom and toilet ensuite. Although, we constantly had people live with us, at least he knew it was his own home”.

“Now, he was the one moving into a stranger’s house in a foreign land. Sharing space and facilities alongside sharing a room with his ma. A room smaller than the one he left behind back home. Kid was constantly being reminded to ‘keep it down’ as a simple thing like descending the staircase was termed noisy. .

“In addition to that, it was the onset of winter. Consider that for a child who had transited from the hot weather of Nigeria. See it as plucking you out from the oven and plopping you straight into the freezer with no time to adapt to the room temperature”.

“Anyone here being to Nigeria or the tropics?” I asked the room.

A woman had been to Ghana.

“So you get the idea a bit” I said to the room

“I simply had to sit him down and talk through it. Apologised to him for putting him in such a situation while assuaging him that it was not his fault and it would get better”

“Nevertheless, the only emotion I felt was anger. I was angry with the man in the bathroom. A laid-back man whose attitude carried through even in the way he talked. That man would get into the bathroom and lounge there like it was his living room. A bathroom shared by four people!”

“Several times, we have had to knock on that door while he was in there. I mean we were all in this relocation thing together and putting ourselves through this temporary inconvenience. Emotional intelligence required him to not go into a bathroom which also contained the only toilet in the house and start having a party there”.

“It took quite some effort on my part to calm down and not have a word with him. I knew my circle of control was myself and my son. I had to manage our reactions and that was what I did”

Afterwards, both whites and the #BAME people would come up to thank me for having the gumption to broach that enlightening subject in such a setting. If only I knew the tap I had turned on. More stories coming………

of travels and worldviews

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I shuffled wearily into the hall and sat on the first sofa by the door. Camp was taking its toll on me.

The seat closest to the door was vacant and I made a beeline for it. A middle-aged female sat there. I plopped myself beside her. And as it happens, we eventually got talking.

She drove in to camp from the Netherlands with her mother.

“Netherlands?” That far? I thought #Newwineunited was only for people here in the UK”

“No. People come from all over”

“So where are you originally from?”

“Nigeria” I smiled wearily

” I hear it is beautiful” she observed

“Yes. I grimaced

“Are you alright?” she asked and I responded with a nod. “Just tired”

She told me her name. I cannot recall it.

“my name is amara” I replied

“Awww, what does it mean? and where is it from? “

“Grace” It is an Igbo name from the South-East of Nigeria.

“My daughter is Amana” she offered.

“Amana?” That is not English. Where is it from?”

“Hebrew. It means faithful”

“Interesting. It is also an Arabic and Hausa word” I mentioned

“Hausa is a language in northern Nigeria mostly populated by Muslims. So the etymology of their language is mainly Arabic same as Swahili.

“Really? what does it mean?” she was curious

“It means loyal, trust. It actually denotes something deeper like commitment. When you hand something over to someone and believe them accountable to keep that thing safe. Like Imani [faith]”

“Also used for betrayers as ka ci amana [you have eaten amana]. To hold someone accountable; na ba ka amana [I am giving you amana] and so on. As I described it; right then, it hit me that all my life I had associated the word figuratively like a tangible whereas it is also an intangible, I now realised.

“Wow, thank you amara. I had no idea the name was that widespread. I only knew it was a Hebrew name. So how come you know so much about languages?”

“I moved around a lot as a kid which equipped me”. I sighed in gratitude for my life’s trajectory which I always take for granted.

Navigating Anger and Faith: A Candid Conversation on Suffering and God’s Goodness – 2

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…..missed Part 1? here

getting stronger” his plaintive tone cut into me

At some point in the conversation; Ruth stood up to get more coffees and after much insistence from both of them, I agreed to a Cappuccino.

Although it had begun to rain on a day with a sunny forecast, my stomach roiled at the thought of another coffee. I have already had a latte and a mocha within an hour of arriving at camp. What I craved now was some steaming food. Yet, my Social Intelligence prevailed.

“My grouse is from the fact that God can disallow this from happening yet he chooses not to. I mean look at the Holy Spirit and his exploits, have you seen him move and seen the things he can do? he remarked resignedly

“I totally get you”. I replied. Like I said earlier; I moved from anger to gratitude as I realised that if he had let me die, he would have still been God. When my friends lost their 25-year old daughter recently, the first thing I felt was

“That should have been me and it is so not fair. I mean I had cancer. This girl was barely in the hospital before she died! I had some kind of guilt not knowing how to relate to them. I still have a mental picture of my friend coming down to Portsmouth to see me during Chemo. They attended the graduation up North and she came all the way to see me and even spent the night. Yet, here I am and her daughter who recently graduated is gone. What can we say then to these things?”

“My mentor says peace comes from acceptance, not knowledge” he remarked

“True that” I concurred

“All I know is that God can tackle our questions and feelings. He clearly gave us a front row seat to see how it played out when his heroes cried out – Elijah, Jonah, Jeremiah & even the Job they throw in our faces, also did cry out.

“Even Paul who was given a heads-up during conversion about his impending sufferings still cried out. God did not rebuke but offered him grace. And I amara relate to him from a place of sonship instead of slavery. All these God-handlers who are laundering his image for him are doing more harm than good. If I cannot keep it real with my father, how then can I minister to someone else who is confused and comes to me? We cannot all be like David who picked up himself after crying and moved on”

This was the only point that Ruth chipped in jocularly with “by the way did you notice they were all men crying?”

“Oh, David had his vulnerable moments too. A whole lot all through the Psalms. Maybe that was what earned him the man after God’s own heart” Peter opined

We chatted some more and thanking them for my coffee; I stood up then with a wry smile noted “by the way you are in the prayer team” pointing to his purple wristband worn by those who pray for others

“He has been trying to hide it” His wife reached over to pull his sleeves lower

“I am” he grinned. “But I still got my questions”

Navigating Anger and Faith: A Candid Conversation on Suffering and God’s Goodness

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The man who sat across from me stood up and nodded his goodbye. Ruth, the woman beside me, went back into her book. Earlier when I walked over, she had offered a warm smile and we had started talking. Found out she was another Brit who had lived in Nigeria. She was here with her husband and their former church family and they drove over from Cardiff to Shepton Mallet .

Burrowing further into the warm sofa, I retreated into my cocoon. My phone was back at the tent and there was nothing to do but soak in this stillness.

Soon enough he walked over carrying a bowl of food with coffee and she did the introductions. Peter was his name. Then we got talking.

“Amara, can I ask?” he shifted closer to me

I arched an eyebrow at him and saw his wife smiling.

“You spoke about how you moved through the spectrum in your cancer journey from anger to gratitude and now at ease with God. Do you still get angry at him?

I smiled.

“Sometimes. Even yesterday I was”.

“Well, I am currently very angry with God. Not for myself but I am lamenting over the pain and sufferings all around. I am 62 and probably should not be saying this but that is right where I am now”

I threw back my head and guffawed enough to draw some glances

“Why are you laughing?” he asked

“Do you remember those guys I was with at that table when I left you earlier? I looked at his wife. She nodded. “we talked about lamentations and how to respond to trials. So I find it funny that twice in one evening, I am meeting two different sets of people at a Christian event talking about lamentations”

“What did you guys talk about?” the husband inquired of me

I gave him a summary.

“Well, I am also there right now and I refuse to be shamed with the picture of Job. I have been talking to a pastor mentor of mine and this morning we still had this conversation. He tells me it is okay to be vulnerable and mad at God that he can handle it”

“Precisely my point!” I pumped the air I like your mentor already

“I must start by saying he is a good God, he does not do bad things yet he allows it and that is my grouse with him” Peter remarked.

“We just lost a friend of ours. She was 57 and she died of …..he stalled a bit and looked at me apologetically…I smiled because I somehow seemed to know what was coming…”cancer”

I nodded

“She was a believer. Had so much faith and trust. We all had these prayers going on for her and yet God called her home. We just buried her

“Another friend, a pastor, lost his 17-year old son recently to cancer. He was a jolly kid who loved the Lord and people. We all hoped he was going to make it. Right now, his father is losing it. He does not want to hear anything about God while his mother’s faith is ……….. Part 2

Embracing Vulnerability: Reimagining the Relationship with God in Trials – 2

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Did you miss Part 1? Here.

 

……that God left us examples of people who cried out as they struggled;

  • Elijah
    Jonah
    Jeremiah

“All these men despaired enough to voice their grievances. Yet God stooped down to engage and assuage each one”

“Why did he not get angry enough to shush them up and make them be big boys and deal with it themselves? 

He sent Elijah food. Built Jonah a shade from the scorching sun. If the manufacturer of a product realises how tiring it can get for his creatures and their need for support during trials who are we to ask them to suck it up?”

I looked around the table as all 8 pairs of eyes glued on me

“I throw tantrums because I am a child and he is my father. That is the basis of our relationship. I am not his hired help who would tiptoe stoically around him and then go back and complain to others. If I have an issue with his parenting style, then he has to hear how I feel”

“That is an interesting angle” Bill replied with a tinge of a smile curving his lips while Phil slumped back and picked up his coffee cup

“Yes. If you are my father then based on our relationship, I should be able to get away with some privileges. If I ask questions of you or challenge your decisions, you are not going to disfather me, are you?”

“Nonetheless, while you can take that from me at home, if your staff at the office who happens to be my age mate throws a similar tantrum, would you respond to her like to me?”

I saw comprehending nods

“I am tired of Christians shutting up others over how to relate to God. It is like someone coming into your house and critiquing your parenting style. I mean, out there on the streets some stranger might take that liberty but not when you come into my house would you dare”

“That is exactly what we do when we tell others how to respond to God during their trials. I’m not sure which god is in contention here, but my father-God is a big boy who can handle his daughter’s tantrums. He does not require his staff to tell him or his daughter how to relate to each other”

“I also think we stifle vulnerability in the church and make people become robots. How can those who are without or new arrivals even relate if we keep telling them that this kingdom is ruled by a dictator?

“Is he not?”

“He may be an autocrat but not a despot”

“Even despots still put up with their children and I think parents always have a thing for that child with the rebellious streak who stands up to them” The professor smiled as we all stood.  

Embracing Vulnerability: Reimagining the Relationship with God in Trials

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Public Relations =  the stealth art of making something/someone appear presentably acceptable to the eyes of others. [amara nnaji 2024]

 It was the evening of the first day of #newwineunited24.   A  Christian camping festival in England held weekly every summer.   2024 has attracted 14k worshippers of all ages across the Globe.

My church family arrived early and all hands came together to unpack and pitch our tents. With nothing else to do than watch other campers set up,   my feet went exploring.  This was my first time at the Shepton Mallet campground and I like knowing my environment.

 

My eyes saw the Food court then my legs followed.  After settling for a Greek Gyro, I went into the centre housing the bookshop and another  charity I recognised from last year where a Cafe had also been set up.  The coffee queue was lengthening.

Food in hand, I nestled into a sofa by the corner which had two others sitting around.  I was enjoying the quiet.

Then I saw them walk to a table with their coffee cups.  My people.

I went to join them and eventually, the conversation steered.

“Lamentations” Bill said tentatively.  We all turned towards his voice. Bill had driven into camp after we set up and was unpacking his tent before I stepped out

“I want to know the place of Lamentations in the Bible. How do you respond to God or react when you are stuck deep down in mire” he spread his hands 

“How do you mean? Phil sat up straighter.  He was the oldest of us chronologically and I have come to know that he was also knowledgeable in the faith

“I am in this Christian group where someone posted his rage at God about all he has been going through. Then another  responded with James 1:2. which says count it all joy”

“I am pretty confused myself because I am currently going through one of the worst periods of my life and I am torn between being real and telling God how I feel and chinning up,  he elaborated

At that instant, my admiration for Bill soared.  Here was this man’s man being as vulnerable as a child

“I think everyone goes through stuff.   However, my issue with some people is stopping to pitch camp and throw a party while going through the valley of the shadow of death” Phil remonstrated

“So does that mean we have no recourse to talk to God? I am against such belief and tired of having people guilt trip me for wanting to express myself”

“I do not have much to say on this theology especially as I am new in my faith walk” said Gem the professor who only recently reconnected with her faith 

Chewing my Gyro, I bit a smile into the insides of my cheek.

“You must keep your rebel thoughts to yourself amara and not pollute others” I chided me.  Aware of how unconventional some of my own beliefs are, I limit expression to certain circles only. Although plodding through the terrain of cancer has made me care more about using my voice than assuaging people’s emotions.

“Well, look at Job. He was a perfect example for us and I think we all know that irrespective of whatever, God is good” Phil remarked again. 

And that was when I stopped chewing my cheeks. Enough of Church people and this ‘Job perfect picture’.  Here was a male in his 50s, man enough to discard his male pride cloak and reach out for help.  I was not going to simply sit down and allow another person spring the boys don’t cry crap.  Besides, the issue here was not God’s goodness.

“I am not a Job person”. I piped in

All eyes turned to me.

“I used to be a Job-follower.  Moreso, I grew up among Muslims so I know about fatalism, stoicism and all that crap about not crying out while being flogged”

“Nevertheless, I am super grateful that …….part 2

 

the fallacy of absolutes

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“The way coffee is consumed here is the same way we take soft drinks back home”   I pointed to a Coffee Shop as we walked through the Promenade.  “Except of course that Nigerians consume more than the other countries”

“Not true. The other countries consume more alcohol than us”.  Ruqqy replied.  We were walking from the Weekly Women’s Wellbeing session organised for vulnerable women by one of the Charities

“Which African country can you name that consumes more than us?”  I asked since population-wise, we are Africa’s biggest market.   Some countries could pass for one densely populated state in Nigeria.

“Togo people drink a lot of Alcohol” she responded

“Do you mean Pito? [a local beverage] I wanted to know.

“No, real Alcohol.   Their men are lazy and do not work.  They only stay outside and drink”  she surmised

“Did you live in Togo?”

“No.  Only saw them from the car as we drove past”

“So you have been to Togo?  I enquired

“I saw them drinking when we were driving past Lome to Abidjan. And the driver said that is how they drink from morning to night. That their men are lazy and start drinking from morning”

“Well, I have been to Togo regularly over the years.  I travelled the

A sign along the roads of Lome reminding citizens of the ECOWAS mandate.

ECOWAS corridor++ a lot and recall seeing the men through all the markets. 

Truthfully, one thing which struck me about them is that despite having such an expansive coastline, you only see the crowd at nights, not in the daytime. Unlike we and our Area boys who live on the beach”

“Moreover, if the men are lazy drunks then they are probably like some of us.  I recalled living in the Plateau as a teenager and their infamous Burukutu*+ parlours.  Within Nigeria, we still have tribes known for the indolence of their men who opt for alcohol over gainful labour”

A heap of coconuts at a streetside in Lome.

“We consume more than them because in addition to the carbonated and other local drinks we all make, they sell fresh coconuts which we do not” I argued

I saw them all through Benin, Ghana and even far-away Senegal.   Although there were hawkers with carbonated drinks like we have across Nigeria.”

“So how possible is it that they drink more than us?  I know they sell alcohol at garages like we do.  At least I saw them at Hilla-Kondji and at Seme*** I can not recall the Lagos Park at +*Aflao. 

At the Lome seaside.

What I recall of the Aflao border is that it is the neatest border among them all.  A big feat for a border which has the grand Marche Assigame** beside it   No hawkers around and it had this big Melcom superstore close by. 

And as Ruqqy confidently made those absolute statements, it struck me how we often are deceived by other people’s absolutes.

Here was someone with a second-hand report from a driver who most probably drives into the country; sits in his taxi and sleeps off until it is his turn to load for the return trip.  Yet, was passing down the statement like an absolute formed from experience.   However as we chatted,  vivid images tumbled across my head:

Visuals of the various time I had spent with the locals in the interiors.  

The male traders I encountered at the Asigame and Assiyeye+- markets.  The Nigerian traders up at dawn to start selling at the second-hand Assiyeye known as Biafran market. The Berber-Arabs with their shops all around town, and the Francophone-Hausa speakers I repeatedly sought help with when my rudimentary French failed me.

I saw myself strolling along the sun-kissed beaches where business only resumes After-hours.  And no cluster of men idling around

These clusters of men have all been grouped as ‘lazy’ by one driver whose circle of interaction is a subset of men drinking at the park.

And another person borrowed that narrative and ran with it cross-Atlantic. 

Now, can you imagine I was someone else without the lived experience of Togo?

Strolling through the Ghanian town of Aflao

How do you think her assertion could have shaped my views?  When next you are tempted to repeat unverified information about someone else as an absolute – pause and think of the damage you could inflict.

Notes:

  1. ++Ecowas Corridor is the stretch from Lagos to Abidjan.  Member countries have a treaty allowing for free movement of Peoples and Trade.  Which unfortunately is frustrated by most government agencies along that route. 
  2. *Burukutu is a staple drink of the Plateau people in Nigeria’s Middle Belt.  Brewed with fermented sorghum.
  3. ***Hilla-Kondji is the border between Benin and Togo. The only people-oriented border on that route where you can cross seamlessly. 
  4. ***Seme is the border in Lagos between Nigeria and Benin.  The most notorious on that route.  The notoriety and disorderliness of the Nigerian agencies ended up corrupting their Beninoise counterparts across the road.
  5. Aflao: border town between Togo and Ghana.  The next unfriendly border after Seme. From my experience, the Francophone borders are more humane than the Anglophones.
  6. +- Asigame is Togo’s largest international market in Lome. Similar to the Dantokpa market of Cotonou  while Assiyeye is another of their large market with a section where second-hand fashion items are resold thriftly. Majorly by Nigerian residents.  It attracts bulk buyers from Nigeria and elsewhere.