Introduction to NOLLYWOOD!

Last night I attended my first film premiere for a new Nigerian film "Mister & Mrs". The invitation came via a colleague, in a stylish black envelope with strict instructions "admit one only". Two lines jumped out - 1) Red carpet starts at 5pm and (RED CARPET?????aaaaaaaagh!!!!) 2) Dress code: "Be glamorous, be bold!".... Not exactly helpful. What to wear? My mind flashed to the recent pics Id seen of the Harry Potter cast in London, wearing Chanel, D&G...where on earth was I going to find something like that in Lagos? None of my colleagues were any help in suggesting what I should wear, one even told me to "Just wear what you wear to work"...of course alarm bells should have started ringing at this point, but I was too distracted by the thought of the paparazzi snapping away pics of me on the RED CARPET.

So it was on a rainy Sunday afternoon that I set out in a LBD, killer heels and clutch firmly in hand. Si and I drove out, in search of the bright lights and movie stars. The streets were eerily quiet, and it took us some time to locate the "Colonade Hotel", which was a rather disappointing mouldy green building located at the far end of a small alley and car park. On entering the main entrance, we were quickly ushered aside, and told to use the back door for the premiere. Back door? Where were the paparazzi? Where was the red carpet?

At the back door, we got into the lift with a couple of girls dressed like they had just been out clubbing at "car wash". I was beginning to regret the LBD. The lift doors opened on the third floor onto a red carpet, of sorts. A bright red long doormat(crumpled I might add) was flanked by 2 rather precariously positioned roller banners advertising coffee and toothpaste. (What happened to the "be glamorous!"?). The banners were complemented by the purple organza drapes complete with LED Christmas lights cascaded from the ceiling.  Now don't get me wrong, I love a freebie as much as the next and so I was grateful for the complementary wine, coffee, snacks and goodie bags. Its just that when you think premiere, you don't necessarily think HP Laptop projecting onto a white pull up screen.

And so it was that Si and I watched our first Nollywood film. Would I recommend it....hmmm, no, Im not really a Nollywood convert. Similar to Bollywood, these films go on for hours, but like everything else here, nobody really knows just how long its going to go on for.And so, with no end in sight at what felt like the 3 hr mark, Si and I decided to leave. Little did we know that the paparazzi and TV crews that I had so looked forward to earlier would be waiting outside. And so its no surprise that our TV Ident will never be aired after we bumbled through it and that I was cut out of the photo that appeared in the press the next day.  At least my husband is famous!!

Cross Stitch Anyone?

So Im back after the longest ever visa run. Stupidly I thought that it would be easy to leave, obtain another visa and come back...3 weeks later I was still sitting in London, longing for Lagos. Yes its true, I think Ive got a soft spot for the city, perhaps because of my new found friends from the British Women's Club. I met the BWC Ladies at their monthly meeting at the Kingfisher Club - a hidden gem of a place with swimming pool, tennis courts, poolside bar...but did the BWC lounge about, enjoying the facilities? Hell no, us ladies got down to serious business.
The meeting started with tea and biscuits, with around 30 ladies forming an orderly queue by the tea urn. I took the time to survey the room. Its fair to say most ladies were on the mature side, (a few on the larger side), and a few were sporting the much loved long skirt/ Jesus sandal combo. I did a double take, swearing Id spotted Pauline Quirk amongst the crowd. I introduced myself to the lady in front of me in the line, a warm lady called Pat, who immediately invited me to craft morning at her house (every Thursday). The ladies, I understood were working on a mammoth cross stitch table cloth, which would be auctioned at the next charity bazaar. I scarcley had time to convey my enthusiasm, as we were asked to take our seats at one of the many coffee tables arranged around the room. The meeting was called to order, with the Club President welcoming us all to the meeting, and asking us newcomers if we had filled out a membership form. I looked down at the paper which had been handed to me as Id entered the club. It seemed pretty straightforward...name, address...interests...I scanned down the tickboxes. What to select? Bridge? Embroidery? Reading? (Sadly no "drinking" box listed)...so settled with the "Arts & Crafts" option.
Looking up, I saw that announcements had started. A tall, rather elegant lady stood up and announced that a few second hand clothes were still available for sale, proceeds going to the local hospital. I glanced over at the ensemble of Laura Ashley inspired clothes she had brought, draped over the back of the chairs. Mum would have been in her element. Next, a spectacled lady stood up to showcase her shoe bags which she had hand embroidered, and was selling for a bargain price. What does one even do with shoe bags? A lady on the next table then stood up to tell us about her handpainted watercolour postcards, and finally, just when I thought I had stumbled into an episode of "Flog it!", Pat, my friend from the coffee queue announced that she needed fabric donations for the women's African quilt, which the craft group would be starting work on from the following week. Sadly, as Im working full time, I wont be able to join Pat's group. But Ill be honest, I am tempted (If anyone remembers my attempt at a sock monkey, youll agree, I do rather have a talent for sewing). Would it be really sad for me to use my holiday to attend the group once a week? Most probably...but Im going to do it anyway!

Worn Out

The euphoria has definitely ended. This place is seriously wearing me down.  Every little things seems to take forever, and take so much energy. Making a simple phone call to my London office from my desk for example involves me getting a form from the secretary, obtaining 2 signatures to approve me using the phone, IT coming to unlock the phone, and then finally 1/2 a day later I can make the call. Getting a notepad for work took 1 week…a similar drill, although this time someone had to physically go to a shop to buy the notepad for me (work don't stock them because they will go walkies). And don't even get me started on the coffee machine. Coffee regularly runs out by 11 am - and is not replaced in time for my afternoon energy dip…why? because people bring their large thermos' to the machine (no joke) and pilfer about 6 cups at a time! God forbid I need the loo after 4pm, no loo roll is replaced after this time, just incase us employees decide to take it home with us. IM GOING BONKERS!!!

Security Alert!

No expense spared on the high tech security on our front door.

Its very hard to know whether its dangerous to live here or not. On our first night in our short term accommodation, I was horrified (rather than comforted) by the long iron bars lying next to the front door, which we heave into place every night to barricade ourselves in. Our local Chinese restaurant is taking the "barricading" to an extreme - the Chinese manager told us that he had been in Lagos for over a year and a half and had NEVER, thats right, NEVER left the building. He had only heard about the outside streets and places of interest from his restaurant goers. The guy hadn't even visited the local chinese market! But on last Sunday morning, I watched intently, as a little old Indian lady came out of the opposite house in our compound, and returned - alive - an hour later. So, I figured it was safe for me and Si to venture out of our walled house and into our compound streets. So we deeted ourselves up to the max, stuffed the necessary $60 dollars safety money into our pockets, and left the security of our house gates. It was like entering a new world - we encountered so many others taking a walk: Chinese, Brits, Nigerians...felt a bit sheepish for staying holed up for so long. Since then we have been out walking every evening...haven't yet built up the confidence to walk with sunglasses or a watch...but little steps right? 


So, with our new found freedom, yesterday Si and I decided to walk over to the next compound to have lunch with a colleague from Si's work. We encountered no problems crossing our compound, walking along the road, and into the next compound, all of which took about 15mins. Pleased with ourselves, we rang the doorbell. Our hosts were HORRIFIED when they opened the door. Granted, we were more crumpled and sweaty than I had envisaged, and I was sporting a full afro after the 80% humidity had worked its magic. Our hosts couldn't believe we had walked, and refused to let us go home on our own at the end of lunch - they sent us home in their car with their driver. I didn't see what the big deal was, but thought I would heed their caution on a market visit with a Nigerian colleague this afternoon. I dressed down - jeans, t-shirt, trainers. I removed my watch, earrings and stuffed my phone, money and keys in my pocket, not daring to take a handbag. My colleague on the other hand, picked me up in a "pimp my ride" Honda Civic - complete with twin DVD screens in the passenger seats. He flashed a fancy watch, bling ring and new blackberry. We drove down to the Marina open market - a series of alleys connecting slap dash shops with corrugated iron awnings, got out the car, and walked. Was I hassled? Not a bit. I occasionally got a sideward glance, or a "hello English!" but nothing more. In fact, would you believe a shop owner came out to give me a bottle of coke when I was looking hot and bothered outside their stall, and wouldn't accept a penny in return for it. Just maybe the world has the wrong impression about Nigeria and its security issues. Well lets friggin hope so. 

To tip or not to tip?

So Im back after a really long wait for a visa in the UK. And strangely coming back was rather exciting. As my friend Anne, working for VSO in Zambia, reliably informs me though, the euphoria will be short lived, and reality will drag me back down to earth. Until then, Im happily living my Nigerian dream. This includes: pretending to drink tap water which has been respectfully offered to me, so that my work colleagues dont get offended. Trying local delicacies at the canteen which I really rather wouldnt, and having to make the convincing "oh! Thats delicious" face. And possibly the worst so far; calculating any tipping/ bribing needs for the day, stuffing the notes into various pockets, and hoping for the best when the time comes to pay out. 


As a Brit, its not in my nature to tip, and my Indian genes ensure that I dont pay out a penny more than I absolutely have to. So as you can imagine, Im not very good when it comes to "dashing" the locals. I think I might actually be offending them. A case in point: last month we went around the Lagos National Museum. At the end of the tour, I thought it only right to tip our guide, so pulled out a wodge of cash (about a fiver) to thank him. His eyes widened, and he flatly refused to accept, and so I rather ashamedly had to put the cash back in my pocket, and slunk back to our car. I then spent the next day feeling rather sheepish and analysing what I could have done to offend him. Was it too much? Had I given the money with the wrong hand? (right is dirty, left is clean). No idea. So Ive resolved to master the art of tipping. And to get me off to a good start, I even prepared my tip money on the plane over to Lagos. So I was ready, when the local policeman gave me the look after describing to me how he had managed to get us VIP treatment by securing a parking space so close to the terminal building. (The role he played in securing any parking was dubious. In fact we had shared an hour long wait by the side of the road with the mosquitoes and the fragrant gas fumes).  I pulled out my money, and pushed it into his hand, smiling as I shook. Unfortunately my smile was short lived, as the policemans smile turned to hysterical high pitched laughter. "Is that it?!!" he exclaimed, laughing so everyone could hear. I bundled myself into the car as quickly as I could. I wanted to die I was so embarrassed. Simon calculated that I had given him 10p. Perhaps a bit stingy.


So last night when we were waved down by the police at 3am in the morning, coming back from a new friends house, I watched intently as our driver calmly slowed down at the police barricade, offered his hand, in what looked like a movement to hand the policeman some money, shook hands with no money involved, and sped off. So I have learnt my first lesson: leave the tipping to someone else.

Lost in translation

According to the Bradt Nigeria guide "English is the official language of Nigeria". English is also the official language of England, and my mother tongue...so why cant anyone understand me? And more disturbingly, I cant understand anyone else.

This comprehension gap has become very apparent over the last week, with disastrous consequences. It has led to us being driven (and then having to go round) the National Museum, when in fact we wanted to go to the Kingfisher club - a social sports club and bar. It has led to the current explosion of cucumbers in our fridge - I asked for 1, and got 1 kilo. And sadly, yesterday, it led to me handing out birthday presents in front of a crowd of 50 people I didnt know, and who quite frankly, didnt have a scooby who I was!

The event took place at my new office. The secretary grabbed me around 3pm and asked me if I wanted to go downstairs for some "fun"...naturally I accepted the offer, and followed her down to the canteen area - a huge rectangular out building with bright orange chairs and tables. I was greeted by 2 massive birthday cakes, and enough cameras to put Big Brother to shame. Immediately I was welcomed into a group hug with a bunch of people I didnt know, and posed for 5 minutes in front of the cakes for photos. The cakes were iced with "Happy Birthday Celebrants of November" and "Happy Birthday Celebrants of December".

After about 20 mins of general milling about, the meeting was called to order by a short, spectacled man in a red T-Shirt, who stood in front of a huge "Happy Birthday!" poster. All the birthday "celebrants" were called to the first 2 rows of the hall. I snuck to the back, but was called to my feet immediately to join in the group prayer. What followed next was an hour of dares, singing and "testimonials". We heard one celebrant's "testimonial" about his trip to London during the Volcanic Ash cloud, and how with God's Grace he managed to get to the meeting on time - this particular story was greeted with "Amens!" and "Hallelujahs!". The atmosphere was like that of an evangelical church, complete with gospel singers. I felt grounded by genuine thanks given for small things by the people in that hall. And so it was at that moment that I smiled to myself, and thought about how Im going to love working in Nigeria, with such warm hearted, enthusiastic people.

My thoughts were interrupted abruptly as a lady tapped me on the shoulder from the row behind. She whispered something, which I couldnt decipher (as usual), and so I just nodded and smiled. The next thing I knew, I was being introduced as a "Special Guest" and being called to the front to give out birthday presents!!! What made the whole experience worse, was that, like in all award ceremonies, a photographer was there to ensure he captured the moment of me handing out each gift on film.God only knows where those pictures will be posted. I can only imagine that when they are, everyones going to be asking who the foreign girl in the photo is!

The Colonel has saved me

This week I braved the outside world to visit 3 of Lagos' shopping centres. The first: "City Mall"
looked especially promising from the outside - a striking 2 storey white faced building, complete with classical roman pillars and armed guards patrolling the car park. It took me 40 minutes to cover the 2km distance with the help of our skilled driver Raman aka "The Mumbler" (we cant understand a word he says...and Ill be honest, I don't think he can understand us either). So When we finally arrived at City Mall, I was almost salivating with shopper excitement. Naturally, I asked Raman to pick me up in an hour, I figured I had his number just in case I needed longer...I walked in through those glass doors with a swing in my step, so you can imagine my horror when I was greeted by a number of empty glass store fronts, a couple of very tired looking homeware stores, and a pharmacy advertising herbal Viagra. It became clear very quickly that I was in fact the only shopper in the mall.

After pretending to be interested in the latest lampshades in Nigeria's answer to Homebase, I decided to give up the charade and call the driver, but as I headed towards the exit, a red facade caught my eye...could it be? Yes!! Slowly the Colonel's face came into view along with those three mesmerising letters that every student dreams of "KFC"...I brushed aside any concerns about hygiene, and tucked in to a finger licking good chicken burger (not quite a zinger, but Im not complaining). Im not even going to reveal the price...suffice to say its more expensive than London...and thankfully, I did not pay for it later in the bathroom...

My second mall trip took a whole day to get to (or what seemed like it) - out in the Lekki peninsula, on the island adjacent to Lagos Island (yes, Lagos is on an Island). The Palms Mall appeared like an oasis in the desert (literally, as it is surrounded by dusty construction work, and is linked to the main road by a sandy track which brought Snoop Doggy Dogg to mind), but once we got into the car park, I could have been at Bloomingdales.
Inside I found a teeming mall thronged by Nigerians, expats and Nandos!! And guess what? It really did taste like Nandos!

My final Mall experience was to "Silverbird" Mall - a surprising little Mall in Victoria Island.
It had lots of tacky plastic necklace/ fake sunglasses/ fake hair type shops, a clothing shop, with
Mango Jeans selling for the bargain price of £80, and a 5 screen cinema! Hubbie and I decided to have our cinema debut by seeing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, and my ears are still ringing! The volume was cranked up so high to cover the screaming kids, rustling sweet packets and telephone calls (the guy next to Si concluded a 30min business deal) - but to be honest it didn't spoil the film- in fact I think I could get used to all the hub bub, because despite all of these distractions, the audience added an atmosphere that you would never get in London. When Ron tried to kiss Hermione, the guy next to me gave a deep, thigh slapping laugh. When Harry found his parent's grave, the audience collectively sighed ( "So sad!" a lady tutted). It actually felt like Id bonded with my fellow cinema goers during the film. Needless to say the communal love was all negated by the crush that ensued for the exit when it was time to leave.