Nigerian Wedding!

This week I attended my first Nigerian wedding!! It was…….hmmm….long, very colourful, and noisy! We threw ourselves into the festivities by getting kitted out in the brides colours: Fushia Pink and Baby Blue. It turns out that in Nigerian weddings, guests are invited to be the decorations. And the bride actually sells the material to the guests should they want it.  So guests are not only dressed in the same colours, but the same fabric too. Ingenious! All thats left is to find a tailor to design and create the dress for you. Si opted for the blue, and me for the pink…but let me tell you quite a few men were wearing the pink. (They must be more mature than my husband, who flatly refused the pink).

This colour coding is actually great - you never have to worry about someone else turning up in the same outfit, and you really feel a part of the ceremony. Actually Si and I felt so welcome, with the bride's (who I work with) parents coming specially to greet us, and everyone complementing our outfits (think they were just so excited we had gone traditional).  

So heres what I learnt about Nigerian weddings:

1. If the invitation says 9am, get there at 11am. Nigerians bring a whole new meaning to the phrase "Asian Standard Time". We turned up way before the groom, other guests….or even the Pastor...

2. Always try on your outfit before the big day. Si decided he didn't have time to try his outfit on in front of the tailor. The result? A very fitted, geek chick wannabe short trouser look. This not only restricted his look, but his movement also, resulting in robot-style dancing moves, and having to be physically cut out of his outfit after the wedding.

3. Prepare for the long haul. In our rush to get to the church on time, we skipped breakfast. Big mistake. 3hrs into the service and our stomachs were rumbling so badly. 

4. Shhh! No talking in the church!! Especially when you don't understand what the Pastor is saying (even though he is speaking in English, but just really really fast). We found all eyes on us, when were caught whispering to each other. The whole congregation turned towards us and just stared. Apparently the priest had mentioned us in his sermon, and was using us as an example to the church.

5. Don't wear your LK Bennetts. Ladies….loos are located in the outbuilding across the field. Think cow shed, hole in floor, no mirror, no paper, and no running water.

6. Be ready to dance…and sing…and give money. Dancing was mandatory. The bride danced down the aisle with her father, danced with her groom during the service, and topped off the service by leading the whole congregation around the church in the Conga! Now I know what you're thinking, my idea of heaven right? Sadly no...alas, nobody told us that at the end of the Conga line were 2 large bowls in which we were supposed to deposit money.....for the couple? for the church? for the Pastors pockets….? 

Stupidly,  I had already put the little money I had brought in the white envelopes circulated earlier labelled "church fund" (I had my doubts that the church would ever see any of that money). Obviously, Si couldn't physically fit anything in his pockets, so also had no money. Nightmare! 

So at the end of the Conga line, we did what any proud Brit would do....we just shook the couples hands. Very British. Very embarrassing.

Happy new year...happy strike!

So its been a long time since I wrote, (5 months to be exact). Poor poor excuse, but I got wrapped up in living the Nigerian life. Id got used to my working week - taking in my own hot water and tea bags every morning. My weekly shopping run (Ive even found a french deli that makes baguettes!), and my Thursday night wine nights. So I was totally taken aback by the announcement of a National strike last Friday, and the prospect of spending all day, every day in doors with the husband...indefinitely...

We have just got back from our Christmas holidays in London, and unlocked the house last Wednesday. As you can imagine we had run down most of our food supplies in the run up to Christmas, so had very little left. On Friday, my colleagues told me to prepare for the strike lasting to Tuesday, possibly more, so I headed to the shops on the way home from work, picking up what I now realise was a truly pathetic bundle of food for strike circumstances. 2 bottles of wine, a pack of Thai rice, 12 tins of tuna, 2 tins of sweetcorn, 2 packs of spaghetti, 6 packs of noodles...not really the tastiest selection of food, and some pretty weird meal ingredients. So unfortunately whilst most of my work mates used last week as a sort of extension of Christmas; eating, drinking and being merry, Si and I had a sort of detox week. Well sort off, if there is such thing as an all tinned food/dried food detox diet...

Unfortunately the workers and government have not reached any agreement about the strike, so we have been told to prepare for another 5 days of strike.The Nigerian workers are protesting over removal of their fuel subsidy, which effectively doubled the price of petrol overnight. In a country where people see a 
little benefit from the billions of dollars of oil revenue the government earns, its easy to see why they are protesting. And all credit to the protesters, there has been relatively little vandalism and violence. 

So any suggestions on how we should kill another 5 days in our flat are welcome. (Deb...only clean ideas please). We have exhausted our Scrabble, Trivial pursuit and 2 man card game skills. We do still have our Risk board game...which we pull out every now and again, try to decipher the rules and then put back again. any ideas?

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.