the street from where we buy palm oil, there is a long line of children and women fetching water at a tap. They carry brightly colored plastic bowls. They are orderly. The solitary faucet comes out of a pipe attached to the fence of a large private house. But how does this work? My aunt says:
—The government doesn’t provide any running water in this area. So you’ve got a local big man with his own water supply. Borehole, electric pump, underwater tank, overhead reservoir. That whole system. He puts a tap outside his house, hires someone to watch over it, and charges per bucket. Fifteen naira per bucket, payable before you even fill up your vessel.
I see a child of no more than eight place, with great care,a brimming basin on her head. It sits there in quivering balance. She picks her way across the street, one sure foot after the other, and goes into one of the small houses. A life on the margins. For these people who must buy water every day, if there is no money on a given day, it means there is no water that day. And when there is water, every drop is cherished like a quintessence. We drive on. One thought leads to another, as thoughts do, and Ben comes to mind. Ben is a young man attached to my aunt’s school by the National Youth Service Corps. I say:
—You know, I quite like Ben.
—Oh yes. He’s a good man. Very hardworking, and conscientious. He’s Ogoni, you know.
—That, I didn’t know. Those people have suffered. All that oil wealth, and they don’t see a penny of it. Nigeria has been rough on them. Ken Saro-Wiwa hanged, all the military repression, the ongoing environmental damage.
I am warming to my theme. Then my uncle says:
—Awon ko l’o m’an je’yan ni? Aren’t they the ones who eat people?
I laugh. Oh, come on, Uncle, come on, I say, why are you Nigerians so fond of rumors? We—and what I mean is you—are so tribalistic sometimes. And anyway, don’t our Yoruba people also have some kingship-related and grimly nonvegetarian ritual?
That makes them both laugh. The chickens in the backseat start making a fuss, but they soon quiet down. Uncle Bello says:
—But what rumor? Rumor nothing! Okay, I’ll tell you a story about my friend Constance. Constance works at the same company in Agidingbi as I do. This lady is from Ondo State, and she got posted to the Ogoni area for her stint on the National Youth Service Corps. And you should know that she’s an afin , an albino. Well, during the orientation week, and this was in a fairly remote region, near the tribals and such, there was a racket at the gates every night. This went on for three nights, people singing and howling and rattling the gates late into the night. Until the Youth Service people said, you know, just what is going on out there? So they asked around, and it turns out that there’s a belief in this village pe afin o b’osi rara, won fe fa sita, won fe pa je . Ah! They wanted the albino brought out to them so they could cook and eat her.
My eyes widen. My aunt chuckles. The particular Yoruba choice of words makes the story even funnier.
—Poor Constance. You better believe she cleared out of there by the next day! She finished service in Lagos, and not long after, she got posted to my company.
And then he adds:
—So be careful around that Ben. You just never know when the guy might be hungry.
Such a terrible story, and we are all in stitches the rest of the way home.
TWENTY-THREE
A t times, the absurdity makes one laugh. Other times, the only possible response is a stunned silence. Shortly before I left New York for Lagos there was a plane crash in Nigeria. A Bellview aircraft plying the Lagos–Abuja route went down three minutes after takeoff, into forests near the village of Lisa in Ogun State. None of the 117 passengers on board survived. A government inquiry was promised, and there was much public hand-wringing and talk about a time of national prayer. While I am in Nigeria two months later, a plane
—The government doesn’t provide any running water in this area. So you’ve got a local big man with his own water supply. Borehole, electric pump, underwater tank, overhead reservoir. That whole system. He puts a tap outside his house, hires someone to watch over it, and charges per bucket. Fifteen naira per bucket, payable before you even fill up your vessel.
I see a child of no more than eight place, with great care,a brimming basin on her head. It sits there in quivering balance. She picks her way across the street, one sure foot after the other, and goes into one of the small houses. A life on the margins. For these people who must buy water every day, if there is no money on a given day, it means there is no water that day. And when there is water, every drop is cherished like a quintessence. We drive on. One thought leads to another, as thoughts do, and Ben comes to mind. Ben is a young man attached to my aunt’s school by the National Youth Service Corps. I say:
—You know, I quite like Ben.
—Oh yes. He’s a good man. Very hardworking, and conscientious. He’s Ogoni, you know.
—That, I didn’t know. Those people have suffered. All that oil wealth, and they don’t see a penny of it. Nigeria has been rough on them. Ken Saro-Wiwa hanged, all the military repression, the ongoing environmental damage.
I am warming to my theme. Then my uncle says:
—Awon ko l’o m’an je’yan ni? Aren’t they the ones who eat people?
I laugh. Oh, come on, Uncle, come on, I say, why are you Nigerians so fond of rumors? We—and what I mean is you—are so tribalistic sometimes. And anyway, don’t our Yoruba people also have some kingship-related and grimly nonvegetarian ritual?
That makes them both laugh. The chickens in the backseat start making a fuss, but they soon quiet down. Uncle Bello says:
—But what rumor? Rumor nothing! Okay, I’ll tell you a story about my friend Constance. Constance works at the same company in Agidingbi as I do. This lady is from Ondo State, and she got posted to the Ogoni area for her stint on the National Youth Service Corps. And you should know that she’s an afin , an albino. Well, during the orientation week, and this was in a fairly remote region, near the tribals and such, there was a racket at the gates every night. This went on for three nights, people singing and howling and rattling the gates late into the night. Until the Youth Service people said, you know, just what is going on out there? So they asked around, and it turns out that there’s a belief in this village pe afin o b’osi rara, won fe fa sita, won fe pa je . Ah! They wanted the albino brought out to them so they could cook and eat her.
My eyes widen. My aunt chuckles. The particular Yoruba choice of words makes the story even funnier.
—Poor Constance. You better believe she cleared out of there by the next day! She finished service in Lagos, and not long after, she got posted to my company.
And then he adds:
—So be careful around that Ben. You just never know when the guy might be hungry.
Such a terrible story, and we are all in stitches the rest of the way home.
TWENTY-THREE
A t times, the absurdity makes one laugh. Other times, the only possible response is a stunned silence. Shortly before I left New York for Lagos there was a plane crash in Nigeria. A Bellview aircraft plying the Lagos–Abuja route went down three minutes after takeoff, into forests near the village of Lisa in Ogun State. None of the 117 passengers on board survived. A government inquiry was promised, and there was much public hand-wringing and talk about a time of national prayer. While I am in Nigeria two months later, a plane
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