This Lady Tried to Play Me!!: My Nigerian Accent 5.14.2011-5.18.2011

Guys, I'm Nigerian. If you didn't know that, you don't know me. I'm pretty sure it comes up all the time somehow. But with that being said, I'm really Nigerian-American. Second generation. I haven't spent a majority or a even a significant minority of my life in Nigeria nor do I speak Igbo fluently. BUT, what I do have is a Nigerian accent. Nigerians who do in fact have a Nigerian accent based on the fact that they grew up in Nigeria may disagree with me, but I KNOW that I have a pretty good accent that I can pass with. So, what better place to use this skill than in Ghana? Where I'm close enough that they would actually believe I'm from Nigeria [and therefore not try to play me because I'm American] but not too close that I just see Nigerians all over the place who can refute my accent.

So anyway, this accent helped perfectly when I went to braid my hair. I had planned to get my hair braided but this girl who lives nearby me agreed to go with me to avoid my paying an inflated price. However, due to some miscommunications I ended up sitting alone at a cab station waiting for the girl for thirty minutes (and having some old man hit on me and ask for my number) before I just asked a nearby shop owner where the hair place was and walking there alone. So I get to to Queen's Hair Salon and I'm sitting waiting when I remember that I don't have enough Ghana cedis and that I need to exchange some dollars. So I go to the old lady at front who was apparently the Queen Pin of this little hair shop (with literally 20 girls and women braiding hair; they had 5-6 people braiding one head!) and asked her [in my superb Nigerian accent] where I could exchange money. She told me it was kind of far but she'd have one of her girls go exchange it for me. She saw my twenty though and her look changed; she knew right then was her opportunity to PLAY. ME. So to ensure no one got smart, I told her that exchanging my twenty dollar bill should give me 30 Ghana cedis, which is true, and that's what I expected to get back. Seeing that she couldn't play me in that way, she told me fine, she'd exchange it later, that I should just give her the twenty and she'd give me my change in cedis: 1 Ghana cedi, meaning that my hair would cost me about 29 Ghana cedis. While that's cheap in America, why should I pay more if I don't have to? My friend had told me ahead of time that it should cost around 15 cedis and this lady was going to have me pay 29?! Heeckkk no. So I put a little more power into my Naija accent and told her that I'd heard a different price. She was like o was it 12 cedis? I said, yea something around there, she was like eheh ok that's the price plus the hair, I'll give you 9 cedis back. oooo! So now you suddenly have nearly 10 cedis more to give lady?! Plus at the end she gave me two more cedis back to show that she really, really was cheating me and that she'd changed her mind about mistreating a fellow African lol at least that's my interpretation of how it all went down.

Balling 5.13.2011

Today was a bit more relaxed. We started work and researched incubators a bit. I believe that tomorrow we’ll get to sit down and talk with Simon (the director of Abusua Foundation [the NGO that we’re working with]) and start brainstorming based directly off of their vision. But we got great things done today. Jack and I soon plan to do “fieldwork” and go talk to people who live in Cape Coast about how businesses are run. It should be a lot of fun. I’ve been having funny, intense dreams and apparently it’s caused by the malaria pill that I’m taking. I’ll try and keep track of them but today’s started with a bunch of random people I know playing basketball. I left the room and suddenly I’m in some sort of indoor auditorium seating area with more randoms from all throughout my life and then I walked into another gym (one of those dark ones that they always have in the Gatorade commercials with the basketball players sweating red juice and what not) and two professional basketball players were playing; one older, one younger. At first, they were playing pick up games and I was just watching and the suddenly I was playing with them and they were clearly better than me. Then suddenly AGAIN the older one was coaching me and there were twenty or more basketballs out of nowhere and he was passing them to me one after the other and there were just so many and it felt really real and I was sweating and then I woke up.

"No Sexual Deviants" 5.12.2011

So, I counted the Welcome Sign as yesterday even though, technically, I landed in Ghana on the 12th. But here’s the post for today because it has been quite the experience outside of the plane ride. First, I got off and coincidentally, my cousin, Adaeze—who is here on another trip—was standing outside the baggage claim! It was great to see a familiar face outside of the people that I came with. She’ll be in Cape Coast but I forgot to get her Ghanaian number so I’ll need to Facebook that later.

Today has been funny because I’ve been testing out how well I can blend as a Nigerian and not just American. I hit ‘em with that light accent and they know I’m not Ghanaian but I can tell they aren’t writing me off as just an American lol! Or maybe they are and they’re just being very nice about it. Anyway, I came in through the Ecowas (Western region of Africa) Nationals line with a Nigerian passport and I’ve been riding this citizenship ever since.

So yeah, how’s Ghana? It’s hot and humid but Cape Coast beaches are amazing. People are steadily trying to guilt us into buying things everwhere, which leads me to 150 Days of Summer Picture Number 2.

Please excuse my crazy look and tired eyes. My jetlag was getting the better of me and I was getting ready to go to bed anyway. But if you can’t read it, it says:
To: My Dearest Friend, Nony
From: Your Friend Kofi
That was cute but was I going to pay for that? Heeeckk no. I felt a little bad, but then we got in the car and drove away and all was well again. Otherwise, today was pretty basic. I realized for the first time in my life, I under packed. I actually didn’t pack anything almost. Mistake. On that note, gotta find some clothes tomorrow.

I'm On a Plane 5.11.2011

So I’m on the plane to Accra after an abundance of STRUGGLES. Note to self that procrastinating while traveling doesn’t work half as well as procrastinating to catch the bus that’ll take you to the train that’ll take you to the subway that’ll take you to the airport. With all that change in transportation between Penn and the airport, you really want to stick to a schedule. -_-. Point taken for next time. Long story short, I made it to the airport with an hour and fifteen until take off and the Jamaican lady at the front was purposely trying to make me sweat. “Why weren’t you here two hours before your flight? No, you can’t get on.” What?! I looked at her and I’m just like, NO. I traveled nearly 4 hours to get here (JFK from Philly), I missed my bus, had to take NJ Transit AND I forgot to checkout and return my key so from all that I was in the hole over $150 within a few hours and I was literally looking at a sign that says “All Domestic and International Flights Must Check in 60 Minutes Before Take Off”. I’ve been so kind as to leave 15 extra and I’m going on this plane if it’s the last thing I do.

Of course, all that was definitely said more timidly than it’s coming across now because that Jamaican teller was scary, I can’t lie. And I had a strange suspicion that she was wielding her power in such a way that one wrong step would send $1400 down the drain very quickly. Any who, after telling me that Ghana doesn’t accept Nigerian passports without a visa (which is false) and that my bag couldn’t go (which it did) she finally let me through and I waited forever through the security checkpoint, sprinted to the gate (thanks track!) and made it onto my 10 hour flight to Ghana. THANK THE LORD JESUS!!

To close this off, can I just say that the flight to Ghana has everyone that you wouldn’t expect on the plane? I saw an old man with a snapback and J’s on. I saw more than several white people. I saw a little Ghanaian-American boy with the sharpest line-up I’ve ever seen and with a batman backpack bigger than he was (think the cartoon bags that were big in high school a few years back if you were anywhere near Black people). I saw the hoodest dreadhead ever with his pants around his knees. I even saw a Que with his purple and gold hoodie on. Everybody was on that plane, literally. And then we landed and this is the picture that welcomed us. Akwaaba! Welcome to my blog! Haha.

Creative Writing Class Series #2

Walking down a gum-strewn sidewalk, cracked and weary, she heard a glass bottle shatter behind her. Several drunken men erupted with laughter. One of the men had thrown a bottle at her and her friend but his stupor skewed his aim. She considered how much more terrifying drunk white men were to her than drunken black men. When white men were under the influence, their actions were unconcerned. They knew little about any consequences that might come about if they were to hurt someone or damage property. Rather, they embraced their mental vacancy and encouraged others to join them in destruction. At least that’s how Anastasia saw it. And felt it, as she increased her speed and clutched her friend’s arm more firmly.

Her friend of course was also drunk. Stuck in her own merry nightmare of insanity and liquid courage. She was mumbling to herself. It was dark and it was Spring Fling and Anastasia knew that drunk black men in college were loud but they lived with the knowledge that any wrong move could take away whichever future that they could have hoped for. It was a social handicap and they were subconsciously limited, though they still got all of the reputation. White men, however, would take action. Theycould take action. They were following her now and she wished her friend would pick up her feet so she wouldn’t have to put so much effort into dragging her. It was late and Anastasia no longer felt like babysitting, no longer felt like being the “exotic” black girl in a school filled with whites. She wanted to sit in her room and read or do homework. She wanted not to be scared of the boys steadily following her.

Finally, one wish was answered as the boys lost interest and wavered around a corner to find another muse.

Creative Writing Class Series #1

I'm in a class so if I like my piece, I'll post it on here. The assignments can only be 200-300 words that's why they are so short. I don't have the actual prompt for this first one but when I find it, I'll update this post. Welllp, here it is:

I can’t say that I ever trusted her the way she would have liked. I was her daughter and she my mother biologically; that was about the extent of it. People said that we must have been close the way I used to drop everything and run if she called. I’m not sure if it was necessarily closeness, or more like what I knew was an obligation I had to my matriarch for bringing me safely into this world. She had not, after all, drank or smoked to the point of rotting my fetal brain before it ever had a chance to develop. She also had not declined to feed or cloth me at any times after she had birthed me. It was this kind of love that made me happy to stay in the house if she needed me while all my friends were out together, only for her to fall asleep minutes into a movie night. And her general concern for my well being that made me content to get her random, last minute, non-refundable plane tickets only to have her change her mind at an even later time knowing that the dollar over minimum wage that I was making per hour was not exactly high rolling and I still had bills to pay. It was my pleasure and the least that I could do now that I was in college.

“Caroline!” she’d say persistently anytime she wanted something and I looked as if I might not oblige immediately. She lit her temper and her face would contort. “You never…” and her list would begin of all the times I had slighted her, embarrassed her, and forgotten her. The list undoubtedly was short, but her tone made it crucial. So I’d forget my plans, loan her money, give her something or all around subject myself to experiences I would otherwise avoid. But at least I knew she’d sacrificed to raise me well and therefore I could sacrifice to keep her happy.

Songs of A Childhood: Words to My Mother

There's something peculiar about memory and thoughts... I've been having an intriguing snail mail correspondence with a great friend of mine from school. One of the topics that I thought about was memory, thought and how they work together. With thoughts, as soon as you think them up, you immediately begin to forget them. This is exactly what I wrote:

"I will attempt, as best as I can to type exactly as my mind thinks. There is only the slight issue that as I type, no matter how fast, I am already forgetting some of the reactions I had to the beginning of your letter. And as more time passes I will continue to forget. Not completely of course, but the details will lose focus and the memory will never be as sharp as they were in that instance."

We can talk about what kind of letter this is for us but that's beside the point lol. The idea is that there is nothing that I can think that I will remember word for word later on. Even if I try to type as I'm thinking, I'm steadily forgetting at rocket speed and the things that I end up writing are simply crafty works of a human's faulty memory. I originally wrote this post away from my computer so I didn't have the added benefit of fast typing. All that you see now is the best my memory can give me as affected by the type of person I am, how "good" my memory is, and the other memories and thoughts in my mind battling for space in the forefront. So here's a copy of what I wrote down on Sunday when I wrote this:

I give you that introduction because I'm at church now. Aside from the obvious folly of writing this instead of listening in church, I think the ending moral will end in an upstanding theme. I had to write this down because, speaking of memory, I've been burned before by the inevitably negative equation of an infinitely diminishing thought and an irreparably porous memory. I was determined today to get this down. Ironically, in this long intro-turned-prologue, I am still forgetting, so let me get right to it. [two endings to my intro? hmmm..]

Today at church a song from my childhood came up in praise and worship and triggered a vivid memory from my toddler years in California. Not only California, but Inglewood. A place I lived before I moved to Gardena, CA at about 5 years old. So you can imagine that I'm surprised at 19 years old that I'm remembering something from when I was 3 or 4. It's a nod to music's powerful ability to improve and catalyze well-preserved memories if they can be directly related to a certain song or artist. Alas, that's for another post.

So the song goes something like this:

He's bigger than all my problems, Bigger than all my fears,
My God is bigger than any mountain that I can or cannot see.
Bigger than all my questions, Bigger than anything!
My God is bigger than any mountain that I can or cannot see.

I tried to Youtube it, but all the songs were a little folksier than how Nigerians apparently sing it. Anyway, my mom used to sing this song to my siblings and I when we were younger. She'd bounce us on her knee and we laughed and giggled as her words pierced [and if you ever heard my mother sing, you know this is not just a cliche use of the word pierce, her singing is high and it pierced] every invisible fear in the small room. She was soothing and we were toddlers. So let me play again with memory: That's all I can remember. That is the simple vivid memory that came to me when my church moved to this song. I wasn't especially sad or happy at the memory at first. Just intrigued and nostalgic. But memory is never that easy. Now that I'm nineteen and not three, I'm getting a clear picture with details that are unquestionably cut out. One, because despite the clarity of toddlers, I did not and could not understand everything going on at that time. Now that the memory has come up again, I'm forced to rethink it. That song is not necessarily the most upbeat, happy-go-lucky song for children. It's soothing for me now and it was soothing for me then. But the reactions were for completely different reasons.

My mom's been through a lot and around 3 and 4 was just the beginning of a long time of struggle for her. Single mother, 3 babies, just immigrated from Nigeria and just separated from a bipolar husband. For all intents and purposes, she was alone and about to embark on a journey that she had no way of predicting its outcome. All the while she was leading three oblivious kids and hoping to God that they were always fed.

And here's where the song comes in. When I was a child, I didn't even listen to the words. I just liked that my mom sang it to me and that she seemed to be comforted by it and so I was comforted by her. But now, I realize how much is in a song. What type of memory my mom must have had attached to that song to make it a lullaby for kids in her time of struggle. How she must have had to hold on to those words and really believe that God is bigger than ever struggle. Those that she can see right in front of her and those that she can never know but are still there. Realizing that type of power in a song that once held such a basic meaning is strange for me. And I'm sure if any of you have ever had that experience, you'd find it intriguing as well.

What I do know for sure is that, realizing how my mom felt at that time begins to change a lot of old memories to try to make them make sense with my new knowledge. Life may have (thankfully) been easy for me, but there were a lot of sacrifices my mom made and a lot of times that she was not positive whether or not we would make it to the next day. I thank God that he is indeed bigger than all our troubles. Big enough to form my memories of youth in a positive light so as not to be hampered and brought down by the issues of adults. And big enough to show me that the song remains just as true now as it was back then.