AfroBeat, Empower Women, Enslave Men.

Tonight I attended an African Dance lesson hosted by Yeni Kuti , the first child and daughter of late Afro beat king, Fela Kuti.  What an experience!  I was apprehensive at first, as my dance skills are not exactly honed and my sense of rhythm a little off beat.  However, I was pleasantly surprised when the afrobeats started pumping and our fifty one year old teacher and her amazing assistant started dancing.  

What followed was rather unusual.  It seems that to master Afro Beat Dance you must be able to move your hips in the correct way.  You have to move your pelvis back and forth without moving the rest of your body too much e.g. legs, chest, shoulders and also popping your butt backwards more than forwards.  This acts like a sort of catapult for your bum and makes it 'jiggle'!  Ha.  We had to master this before moving on.  Clearly the more junk in your trunk, the easier it was to make the moves.

We were all given chairs and we had to straddle them (yes you read correctly), we practised like that for a while.  I was suitably prudish and embarrased in my typically Scottish style but soon got over my giggles and had a go.  I was crap at that so I had to get on all fours to get the movement right before moving on!  You can imagine what it looked like and the laughs I got.  By the end of the lesson I still hadn't got the move but I had made some new friends and laughed more than I have for a while.  

Yeni's philosophy on Afro Beat dance was the most interesting part of the night.  She stopped us all while we were practising our gyrations to tell us that this type of dance was all about empowering women and encouraging our sensuality.  She went on to tell us that if we could master this 'movement' our men would never stray and they would be 'enslaved' forever.  Well, I'm not too sure I'm in full agreement but hey, who am I to judge.

I will most certainly attend next week and we have all been invited to 'The Shrine' with Yeni in a few weeks to celebrate her brothers birthday and to see the real dancers do their thang.  Maybe I'll be able to channel some of the rhythm and master the moves. 

Please Ma.

Okay, so I have a driver and I am his ‘Madam’ – his words, not mine.  He is smart, speaks excellent English, has a wife and two kids who live an hour and a half away from where I live and he drives ‘my’ car so he can’t take it home.  He seems to know everybody and he is very protective of me.  While working he stays in ‘boy’s quarters’ which are in the same accommodation complex as my place but are slightly less  . . . . . . spacious, shall we say.  He is on call pretty much 24/7.

I think my relationship with Mr Ojo has been the single most difficult thing to get used to while living in Nigeria.  I simply cannot deal with having someone do things for me; it completely goes against the grain, both in terms of me being ‘boss’ and somehow losing my own independence.

I fought against it at first and tried to do things my way.  Obviously this resulted in disaster.  For example, there was the day I wanted to WALK to the shops and very sternly told Ojo to stay at home.  He translated that into "kerb crawl at two miles an hour behind me as I walk to the shop".  As you can imagine this drew quite a lot of unwanted attention so I gave up.  

There was the time we got stopped by the local police for no apparent reason and I decided to do all the talking and tell them off for wasting my time.  That is until I realised the officer was holding a large rusty rifle and smelled like a whisky factory.  Again, I quickly shut up and let Ojo deal with him.   

Then there was the time I insisted I didn’t need a lift home after a night out.  After all it was going to be a late one and my new friends were going to get me home.  I insisted that he shouldn't wait around for me.  Later, I had to apologise profusely for waking Ojo up when at 4am my friends were still partying and I desperately wanted to go home.  After talking to some taxi drivers I decided I would be better off sleeping on the street than entering their cars.  Ojo was with me in about three minutes flat so I presumed he ad been hiding around the corner.

Finally there is the time I insisted on visiting a local market on my own.  ‘You can just drop me off’ I had said, full of reassurance but within minutes of Ojo stopping the car it was surrounded by about twenty five ‘agents’ trying to persuade me to come to their bosses shop first.  I had to take Ojo with me with my tail between my legs.

I have officially given up and appreciate having Ojo around.  Now when he says ‘Please Ma, listen’ - I always do.

A Life Less Ordinary.

I was in Heathrow airport, last August, when I encountered the first step out of my comfort zone.  I didn’t expect it.  After all I am not prejudiced, not particularly affected by stereotypes and, in fact, take steps to ensure I surround myself with a wide variety of people.  I had no idea that being the only white person in a departure lounge of Nigerian folks would make me feel awkward, intimidated and sweaty of palms.  Do not mistake this for fear in any way.  I simply felt different, like I could very easily make a fool of myself.  All of a sudden I felt silly in what I was wearing, my hair wasn’t cool and the newspaper I was carrying was irrelevant.  I felt that if someone had spoken to me I might have forgotten my own name in a panic to seem normal, un-phased, that I was used to getting flights in and out of Nigeria!!  How odd!  I think coming from Scotland doesn’t help.  Thinking about different cultures and ethnic backgrounds, African is probably the least represented in Scotland.  I realised, then and there, that I didn’t know any black people at all.  My family didn’t know any black people and in reality, despite the fact I was just about to embark on a few years living in Africa I knew absolutely nothing about the Nigerian culture, lifestyle, language, likes or dislikes.  Naïve . . . . Yes I was. 

I’ve been living in Lagos for eight months now.  It has changed me already.  I live a nice life but I have certainly left the comfort of ‘home’ at home.  I rarely feel bored and weeks and months fly by.  I still feel that awkward, odd feeling in many situations here but I’m adjusting.  I’m on a steep learning curve, I’m exhausted at the end of most days and I put that down to my mind being on constant overdrive.  I’m on the countdown to summer now (I’ll spend most of July and August in Scotland) but I have officially signed up for a second year in Nigeria.  I’ll try to share my experiences, thoughts, feelings and philosophies through my blog from now on.  Enjoy!

Lying In Bed . . . . . . .

Lying in bed in Edinburgh feels nice for a while.  It’s cosy and the oversized duvet wrapped around me a few times keeps the cold morning air away.  Flicking on the TV and watching The Wright Stuff is fun especially when someone has a ridiculous opinion on an important current issue in the news.  I can shout at the telly.  Hearing other people potter about in other areas of the house is comforting.  Reading the paper and having a cup of tea brought to me is something I adore.  Darkness for as long as possible with the aid of black out blinds meaning I can sleep until noon if it pleases me.  Alone, with a good book for hours. . . . . . . restlessness always creeps in though.  Slowly but before I know it I have to get up, have to tidy the kitchen, have to finish that bit of work, have to wonder what I’m missing.  Should I drop in on my grandfather to check he is alright?  Should I call my friend who has been trying to get a hold of me for a week or so?  I should really call my bank and sort out my overdraft, I should apply for jobs, I should empty the bin, I should change my hair, I should go shopping to look better this week at work, I should get my teeth whitened, I should go to the gym, I should start my new health regime, I really should get round to changing everything about my life and why the feck am I lying in bed?  I should be ashamed of myself, lazy bitch.

Lying in bed in Ikoyi is nice.  I am cool because of the AC, I can hear its soft humming and the movement of the fans.  I switch it off and feel the warmth spread over me pretty quickly, it’s lovely.  The brightness of the sun blares through the curtains but not enough to light the room.  I have no TV so I’m left with my thoughts.  I remember the night before, the good times, the laughs and the new people filling me up with new ideas, opinions and snapshots of philosophies I admire.  No rush to get up but the smell of sausages and bacon and warm bread is wafting in my window.  It’s coming from next door where my breakfast is being cooked.  I rise, no need to get out of my pyjamas, no need to wash my face or brush my teeth.  No one cares what I look like.  They just want my company.  I eat, drink and chat about anything I want to.  I have no wish to change my life, my only thoughts are on the swimming pool and how hot the sun is outside.  I don’t need to whiten my teeth anymore, I don’t need to check people are ok without me, I shouldn’t go to the gym or pay any bill because that would ruin this glorious day.  I shouldn’t change a thing and I might even go back to bed when the sun goes down and I won’t be ashamed of myself.