Tag Archives: growing up

Tell Your Truth  

I quoted Clint Smith’s comment about fear in an earlier blog and this one here is inspired by the something else he said on the same YouTube video. He is an American who lectures in the States and he says in the video that the only thing he asks of his students when they are in his class is to tell their truth and that nothing leaves the room without their permission. This got me thinking about truth and its importance. I know everybody lies sometimes and actually sometimes a lie is the kinder thing to say. However, I do think these days too many people lie willy-nilly for no good reason and it baffles me why.

My mama and I (in case you haven’t realised it yet from the number of times I mention her in every blog) are very close and I think one of the biggest reasons why that is with each other, we tell our truths. My sister and I never went through ‘teenage rebellion’. We didn’t have anything to rebel about because everything in my home was out in the open. My mama has always been truthful when asked anything directly. Of course, there are things she held back from us when we were too young to understand but as long as she thought we would understand the answers and that it would teach us something, we were told. I knew about the birds and the bees from very early on and so it was never a big deal talking about sex in our home. Because my mama is a feminist and part of her NGO work is empowering women and girls, I attended a workshop she organised in the early 90s back when HIV and AIDS were in the headlines. So before I was 10 years old, I knew about safe sex, condoms, how to put them on and dispose of them safely. Even before that, I knew all about periods and puberty and everything else that was necessary to face growing up.

In the same vein, whenever I made friends with anybody, I would invite them to our home at the earliest opportunity so that my mama could meet them. I knew that if my mama was okay with such a friend, then they were good enough to keep as friends. I could rely on my mama to be truthful. So over the years, we have talked about friends, boys, men, sex, drugs, alcohol, travel, homosexuality, religion, war, the potential for an apocalypse, death and anything else I was ever curious about. We are so comfortable and open that people often get surprised by how much my mama knows about the exact things people would try to hide from their parents. It is only as I have got older that I have started to edit what I tell my mama. This is mainly to do with my significant other relationship and I keep things from her not to withhold my truth but so as not to sour the relationship between my husband and his mother-in-law. After all, ‘they’ say that if you tell your parents about the ‘bad things’ that your spouse does to you, they will harbour it for aeons whereas you might forget it the very next day or week. I am a very lucky girl because in my home telling my truth was not only actively encouraged, it was expected. I am now trying to teach my husband the same and I hope to emulate the same culture with my future children.

In my profession, telling your truth is a GMC requirement and it is set out as part of the duties of doctors which we are sent in paper copy periodically to remind us of our oath. I am a paediatrician and definitely not a surgeon. However as the cookie crumbles, I happen to be doing a surgical rotation (which is ending today. Hoorah!) currently and I have had major issues because of a lack of truth and the surgical culture of aggressive competitiveness and subtle bullying. I particularly had a problem when my father-in-law was taken ill and I was delayed going in for a shift. Long story short, I couldn’t leave him until he was safe and so I was going to be late for handover. The doctor that was meant to handover offered to swap shifts. I thought how lovely, swapped shifts and thought nothing more of it. Then rumours started to fly after I was late for another shift about how I was so late I didn’t turn up for my shift. After a couple of weeks of ignoring the immaturity of it all, I found the senior doctors involved and asked if they had a problem with me particularly if swapping that shift was a problem. They all denied having any issues but I had heard enough to take it to the top consultant and my supervising consultant. They were both lovely and reassured me. I thought ‘Great. All sorted and I’ll put it all behind me’. The rumours continued and I eventually found the source of it all. Disappointingly, it was a registrar senior to me who always made out we were cool. So I had it out with him and asked him to be professional. I am pleased to say once I confronted him, he has behaved in a more professional manner but I must say I will be glad not to have to work so closely with him anymore. I just think that there is no place in a professional setting for lies – everyone is there to do a job and if you are not interested and focussed in the job, maybe you should quit and go do something else.

I have a confession to make. I am rather feisty and not afraid to speak out in most situations. Even as a child, the worst thing you could do to me was lie about me. I remember way back in primary school, someone jealous of me for something or the other said to one of my friends that I had said something about her behind her back. My friend promptly told me because she didn’t believe I would do such a thing but I was so mad that the girl had accused me wrongly that I cried. Unfortunately, in these situations, I still get so angry that I often end up crying because I feel helpless to do anything else. I am getting better at dealing with the anger though so hopefully by the time the kids come along, their mummy won’t go round embarrassing them with her tears. As far back as I remember, I made a vow to myself. Unless there is an absolute need to hide the truth, I shall always tell my truth. And honestly, it feels great!

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Straight Up Nigerian

Nigeria is a humongous country so I will not even attempt to write about it all in one little blog. It would take a whole book to make a dint in the story that is Nigeria. This blog will focus on my memories of growing up in Yola.

Yola City. 2 words. Enough said but just in case you have not sampled the delights of my hometown, I shall expand on the 2 words. Why do I love Yola so? Biggest reason is because my mother is the happiest there and whatever makes my mama happy, I love. Yola like me is full of contradictions. It is still small enough in Yola town (different from Jimeta a.k.a Yola North) that most residents either know me or my mama and will definitely know who my granddad is. So I cannot go round being naughty willy-nilly because they will come round to my house and make me feel like I am 3 years old again.

Knowing so many people is a great advantage. When I visit Yola, I get lots of food brought round and somehow these people know all my favourite foods, all the food I spend many hours daydreaming about back in Birmingham. Every morning is like a lottery and throughout the day, I intermittently check on the little dining table by the fridge to see if there have been any food deliveries. This time, I got at different times: Dan-wake, waina, masa, sinasir, dakuwa, kosai, gari basise, okro soup, this tapioca-type grain which I had with yoghurt, zogale (a.k.a moringa) seeds which were awful, a traditional kanuri drink made up of milk with bits of chewy yumminess in it, dambun nama, zobo and more. I was in food heaven. I ate small portions often in an attempt to get through a bit of everything. I didn’t remember half of those who sent the goodies to thank them but you know what? They probably got report that I stuffed my face with all of it and are satisfied they have done their bit to feed me.

Yola’s geography is awesome. We are in the North-east corner of Nigeria. In the old days, we were definitely in the savannah but now with all the aggressive deforestation by unethical businesses, we are part desert and part savannah. When you drive to Adamawa from Jos/Bauchi sides, you can see the more abundant greenery and exotic plants give way to Neem and baobab trees and green green grass in the rainy season dotted with low shrubs and anthills. I think Adamawa has cleaner crisper air and I can almost taste Yola when I drive into the Adamawa region. The river Benue goes through the state and is an amazing sight to behold in the rainy season. In the dry season, the water level is so low that the river Benue is reduced to a network of streams. In these months, you can see families fetching water, doing their laundry and bathing in those streams. I always want to stop the car and go down into the river bank, feel the sand underneath my bare toes like those families. In the rainy season, it is very different. The banks of the river are full to bursting. In fact more and more these days, we get floods as the effect of global warming is felt. Around Numan if you look carefully enough down at the river from the bridge, you’ll see how there is a clean side of the water and the dirtier muddier side of the water and curiously, the 2 seem separate as the river gushes past. I cannot remember the explanation my mama gave me when I asked decades ago but it doesn’t even matter to me. All I know is that the clean water somehow knows not to mix with the dirty water despite there being no physical barrier separating the 2. Incredible.

I love Yola market especially on ‘market’ day which has always been on a Friday. Back in the day, my mama banned us from going to the market unless in the company of adults. Most of the time, we obeyed that rule but not on Fridays. Every Friday, we would find a way to sneak out of the house with all the pocket money we had managed to save and head to the market. The biggest draw was the snake charmers who would display their trained cobras and even pick on members of the public in the audience to help them out with their tricks. My mama hates snakes so although I was less afraid of them, there was still a healthy dose of fear that I inherited from her. I used to have to look away from time to time during those displays as the excitement crossed the border into fear. However, I never turned down a chance to go there as long as my sister and I were in town on the Friday.

The other act we loved was the monkey owners. These people were less reliable and would turn up randomly. They even went house to house to perform and get given change. I loved the monkeys best and would pray for them to turn up every day during the school holidays. Sadly, my house was never visited. I am not sure whether it is because of our scary dogs or maybe my mum or stepdad were not receptive. Anyway, I was resourceful enough to catch them at the market or neighbours’ house. Another reason for my love of Yola market is the contraband fast food on sale. Contraband in my house meant any cooked food from a kitchen whose owner we didn’t know personally. Naturally I loved everything not cooked ‘at home’ so I was a regular customer and my favourite buys were Dan-wake and allele (bean cakes) cooked in tins with a drop of palm oil to make it glorious. Mmmm, these 2 foods are still my absolute favourite snacks from home.

Other delights I will never forget in Yola market include Amani who had a bad scarring infection on his face once upon a time and his vegetable stall. I loved the exotic fruit sellers sitting in the fruit section who came with their fruits picked fresh from the villages in our state. I loved the goruba sellers right at the back of the market especially because they had sacks of the thing and I always wondered if they ever sold it all and what sort of tree the gorubas came from. I loved the ‘odds’ lane where everything from nails to tree gum for charcoal ink and batteries were sold. I also loved the sweets man near the Fulani ladies with their fresh milk and yoghurt. I was a regular at his stall and especially loved it when he went to Cameroun and came back with the little pink mint balls with green stripes called bon-bon. On the rare occasion we needed to buy yoghurt, I would speak to the Fulani ladies and be amazed they spoke my language because these were the nomadic Fulanis (the bororos) and they were so pretty and different from us. I would watch in fascination as they tipped a ceramic dish of yoghurt into the one I bought without disturbing the smooth set of the yoghurt. I was so happy then. Le sigh.

I will finish on one final point about Yola. I loved the neighbourly spirit in the community when I was little. I rarely ate a proper meal at home in those days. I was always round one neighbour’s house or the other eating their meals because it was different from the meals at home. You know as a child, the grass is greener on every other side. There was always food in these homes and I was always welcome to it. I ate to my fill and said thank you then off I went. Mango and guava trees were abundant in those days (and I guess still are) and when those fruits were in season, I would forget about meals and just gorge myself on those fruits, sitting high up in the trees. So much so that I was constipated half the time because in my impatience, I would eat the fruits half raw particularly the guavas. I, of course, kept my medical problems to myself because I knew fully well it was self-induced and that actually my mama was clear on the rule that we should not be eating unripe fruit. One year, we discovered the delight of climbing up date trees and we were round Amadi’s home daily, eating so many dates that I still cannot handle more than 1 date at a time these days. I had a whale of a time growing up in Yola despite all the naughtiness. I have no regrets fortunately.

A Baby Boy

Dedicated to Fareeda Rasheed – an aunty-in-law and a dear friend taken too soon! 

I am one of 2 girls and for most of my childhood my mama was a single mom so my house was a boy-free zone mostly. No one peed standing up so we didn’t have the toilet-seat-left-up issue or the bits of wee that missed their mark and ended up outside the toilet ball with the associated whiff. No one with boy bits so walking around naked was never awkward outside of ‘visiting hours’. Nor was accidentally opening the toilet door when someone was on the toilet. We were all the same so it was a quick sorry and everyone forgot about it minutes later. As a result, whenever I pictured being older, getting married and having babies, my babies were girls. And to tease me, my sister would say you will have only boys and I would react either with a strident ‘God forbid’ or ‘I hope not’ or ‘please God don’t do that to me’ or similar save me somebody phrases.

 My uncle’s first baby was a boy, who we nicknamed Baby A. His mother was lovely so we became fast friends after the wedding. I was 12 years old. She turned up unexpectedly for one visiting day at my boarding school when I was in JSS1 (first year of secondary school) with a baby bump and I got so excited! This was going to be my first cousin within reach (I have 2 cousins in faraway America). I prayed hard that it would be a girl so I could dress her up and play with her hair. We spent the summer with my aunty and the baby was due the week before we went back to boarding school. We hoped and hoped it would arrive before we had to leave but as these things tend to happen, there was not a peep from the baby. We said our disappointment goodbyes, patted the bump one last time and left.

 2 weeks later, he arrived with great fanfare but I wasn’t to meet him until the end of term. He was 10 weeks old when I first met him and at that stage, he was cute but didn’t do very much. He just fed and slept and I couldn’t even dress him up in cute pink dresses and hair bands. I was pleased but not bowled over. This all changed 5 months later. It was the summer holidays and his mom had decided to relocate to my hometown Yola to learn Fulfulde (the Fulani language), do a HND in Law and generally learn the ways of her husband’s people.

 On weekdays, my sister and I were on babysitting duty from the morning until she came home from Legal studies as the college was called. Being adolescents on holiday, we stayed up late every night and then had a lie in each morning. There was nothing much to do apart from visiting friends and going to buy sweets or drinks from the one main road where all the shops were situated. Sadly, we were by then too old for playing sand games or climbing trees. We were young ladies. Haha.

So back to Baby A, his mom would wake up bright and early, feed him and bring him round to our house. Then, rather than wake us up (which was an impossible task) she would place him on the blanket between my sister and I and sneak out. My sister was the better sleeper so I was generally the one to wake up. The first thing I would notice as I stirred was that the blanket wasn’t moving with me. Then I would feel like I was being watched. Eventually, I would be awake enough to crack open one eye and scope out the situation. Each morning, Baby A would sit patiently and wait for the eye to pop open. Then his face would break into the most disarming irresistable grin. My heart would melt and instead of the usual grumpy awakening, I would pop up and give him a cuddle, drawing from him happy chortling. My sister was soon up in the face of all the merriment. We spent nearly 3 months in this idyllic way.

 We would compete over who would feed him, who would carry him, who would burp him and even who would change his diapers. He was the sunniest baby. Hardly ever cried. Always smiling or laughing. We were there when he mastered how to sit without support and there as he started to crawl and then pull up to stand. By the end of the summer, he was standing and even attempting to take a step. It was with a heavy heart we said our goodbyes when it was time to back to boarding school. This was the beginning of my boy baby love.

 We relocated to London so I missed the infancy of the next boy cousin to be born. Then, when I was in medical school, the news came that my other aunty (wife to uncle no 2) was expecting a baby and he was due during Easter holidays. His grandmother is Egyptian so his mom went to Cairo in preparation for his arrival. My grandmother (her mother-n-law) was also going to be there so I saved up money for flights and I flew to Cairo. He was due the first week of my 4 week holiday. Her tummy was so huge it looked like it would burst and everyone predicted that he would be early being the second baby. Despite her busy upping and downing with the hope of inducing natural labour, she ended up having a caesarean section as there were safety concerns.

 I was much more excited to meet this little boy and he was gorgeous. All black curly hair and very Fulani features. I spent 2 weeks with Modi (that’s his Fulani name) then had to come back. I didn’t see him again until he was 11 months old and I had a 3 month summer holiday. I spent most of it in Kaduna in their home getting to know him. I was his constant companion. Imagine my joy when his first proper word (after da-da and ma-ma and ba-ba) was Diya! I was chuffed. We all went to Abuja together when it was time for me to head back to Birmingham. I was off the next evening. In Abuja, I stayed at my grandparents whilst they stayed at their Abuja home. I went over the morning of departure and spent a few hours saying goodbye to my little sidekick.

 As I got into the car to go back to my grandfather’s and get ready for my flight, he came running out as fast as his little legs could carry him. He bent forward with chubby hands on his thighs and screamed my name as loud as he could. I heard him through the closed windows and slid the window open. His tears broke my heart and I felt myself welling up. I was going to stay a little longer but his mom said ‘no go! I will get changed and bring him over before you go so you can say a final goodbye’. She lifted him to the window and I gave him a quick kiss then detangled him and we drove off. She never did bring him. Looking back, I am glad because I would have made him cry a second time and made it even harder to say goodbye. It was 2 years before I saw him again.

Baby A and Modi were the best convincer for me to be happy with whichever sex baby I may have in the future. Now I look to the near future as a married woman wanting children and all that I pray for is a healthy boy or girl.

Na’ima*

*not her real name      

I was sitting on my praying mat, having a quiet moment of doing nothing when I spotted my old Quran and thought of Na’ima, wondering how she was. Just the week before, someone had forwarded a piece via Whats App talking about the significance of ‘Attahiya’, the passage we muslims recite whilst sitting after  every 2 raka’as of prayers (sallat). Again, I thought of Na’ima and what she was up to. Then an hour ago, she facebook messaged me to ask if I would be in Nigeria at the same time as she. I regretfully said no. So we wont be seeing each other anytime soon. But I have not forgotten…

We met in 1996…10 year olds in brand new uniforms in JSS1, the beginning of our secondary school career. In the 1st year, we talked mostly in Hausa language or IRS classes.  Funny thing about school, ‘someone’ decided quite early who your ‘bestfriend’ was and us girls felt compelled to hang out with this best friend even if we had more to say to some other people. Anyway, we were only 10 years old so we obeyed the unwritten rule.     

Fast forward one year. We were now in JSS2 – no longer babies. 11 years old. Subconsciously, that rule was bent then broken. Somehow, Na’ima and I started to spend most of our time outside of classes together. We didn’t share a seat so we could only sit together in the optional classes Hausa and IRS. Our friendship was on.

She was to become my 1st true friend. The first friend to know my flaws and my strengths and love me for it. Before that, my sister was probably the only 1 to be privy to the real me. I dont remember how this all came to be but there are instances I recall with clarity.

One of the many things I didn’t like about boarding school was the food. I would have breakfast maybe 3 days a week. Lunch and dinner, I ate more of but I hated amala so atleast 3 meals a week, I had biscuits in place of a meal. Naima was a day girl so when she realised this was happening, she offered to buy me snacks from Mr Biggs (sausage roll or meatpie plus scotch eggs were my favourites). I would give her money the day before an amala meal and she would faithfully buy my snacks and deliver each time. She never let me down.

I was praying one day and realised I didnt know how to recite the ‘Attahiya’ properly. I think I knew the first and last couple of phrases with alot of nonsense in between. Who did I turn to? Na’ima. The next time I saw her, I took her aside and with some embarassment admitted I didn’t know how to recite the ‘Attahiya’ properly and would she teach me? Of course she would. She recited the correct words and the next day, she slipped me a piece of paper with the words on it. I asked, she gave.

She got me a Quran from the Sudanese embassy where her dad worked at the time. I think I was inspired by MSS to read the Quran for myself so I mentioned to her that this was my intention. Some time later, she placed a brand new shiny Quran with english translation in my hands…this is the same Quran that seats on my prayer mat today.
                   
My most lasting memory though is break times with Naima throughout JSS2. We looked forward to every break time with the excitement a footballer would look forward to the World Cup. We had sooo much fun every weekday. As soon as the last lesson before break was over and the teacher had stepped out of class, we would stuff our books into our lockers, shoulder our backpacks and race towards the tuckshop. Tuckshop was what we called the group of small wooden shack shops and tables all selling a variety of snacks aimed at satisfying 10-18 year olds. Naima and I would decide what drink we wanted (pepsi/mirinda/7up was sold in a different shop to coke/fanta/sprite to limca/something orange). I preferred Limca and Naima was a coke girl so we did Limca shop 1 day and coke shop another. We would also decide on meatpie, sausage roll or samosa. All this as we hurried towards tuckshop to try and beat the crowds. Inevitably, there would be lots who made it there before us (how did they do it?) so we had to divide and conquer. I would take the drink shop and she would tackle the pastry shop. We would squeeze into the front of the queue and return in minutes triumphantly holding out our goodies. Then we would each buy a dolly (3cm square plastic tub of chocolate to be eaten with tiny plastic spoon) and dodo (small bag of squeeshy plantain chips) and find the corner inhabited by JSS2y girls (our class, even here we stuck together). We would have our drinks and pastry between chitchat, making sure we had 5 minutes to spare before the end of break.
We would wander off to the huge fallen tree trunk we nicknamed dolly station where just the 2 of us would sit and savour every morsel of our dolly. Without fail, as we jumped up and walked to rejoin the other girls all going back to class, something would set us off laughing. I remember a few girls coming over to join us at dolly station but they never came long-term because they got bored of us sitting in silence, observing our dolly ritual. 1 or 2 asked us why we always laughed on our way back to class. I remember Naima’s and my eyes met when the question was 1st put to us. Our response was to dissolve into more laughter. Those girls walked away confused. Naima and I did ask each other ‘why do we laugh here?’ Neither of us ever had an answer. It didn’t matter.

Looking back, 17 years later I think it was because we were happy. Happy to have found a friend we could sit with in silence, a friend who would always be there to teach you things she knew better, who wouldn’t judge you for your failings, who would listen when you had something to say, who would laugh because you were laughing. A true friend.
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