23 Apr 2009 |
|
Of Sausage Roll and Diaspora Cynicisms By Moses Ochonu It was all going well, the biting, the chewing, the swallowing. Until I cracked a bone. I thought this was meat pie. It tasted like one. The label on the box says sausage roll. Oh, that explains it. Good thing I checked the box. I was about to explode into a rant about Nigerian airline food and extrapolate it into an indictment of an any-goes culture of mediocrity and incompetence. The label saved me that angst, which I can now deploy in more deserving directions. Sausage roll is a strange Nigerian culinary invention; a fancy name for what is basically a hybrid of a Nigerian-style meat pie and a cooked sausage. Why not just call it sausage pie then? It ate like a pie, looked like a pie. It didn’t look like a roll—it is shaped like a long hotdog, a baked hotdog with a crunchy crust. There is nothing in a name. Let’s just call it what its inventors intended for it to be called. Nigerians and their love of fancy labels! Welcome to Naija. The snack ate like meat pie, a poor imitation. Which explains why I was eating and assessing it as one before I saw the label. Before then I had wondered about the toughness, strange texture, and bizarre flavor of the meat in the pie’s inside. It was ground meat, but this wasn’t ground steak. I knew this and had begun to fume about the incongruity of its composition and its name. I was quick, I my mind’s preliminary assessment, to put it down to the Nigerian penchant for cutting corners and lowering quality for financial gain. Then I saw the label and it all made sense. The label explained the strangeness of the pie’s interior. I know what sausages are made of—the unmentionables of a cow’s anatomical assets, plus bone fragments of all shapes and toughness. Every body part is fair game in the sausage making business. So, seeing the label calmed my reflexive anger. As a sausage roll, it wasn’t bad. As a meat pie, it would be terrible. Let’s move on. It’s only a snack. I ate the rest of my sausage roll in a reflective calm, in a semi-bashful mood. Why was I in a hurry to blame my bone-cracking experience on the social narrative of Nigeria’s lack of standards? Why was I eager to extrapolate a commentary on Nigeria from a wretched sausage roll served on an airline? Aren’t airline meals and snacks supposed to be bad everywhere? I didn’t approach the sausage roll with an open mind because it was a Naija sausage roll. I was a little embarrassed. When I order a sausage in North America, I expect to crack a few bones in the chewing process. And if I encounter the occasional odd object I don’t extrapolate from it to comment critically on standards in North American culinary capitalism. Why didn’t I extend the same courtesy, the same expectational latitude, to its Nigerian cousin? Why would eating a sausage roll be a big deal unless I was trying to find an anchor for a pre-packaged critique, a metaphor for a preexisting resentment of the Nigerian rot? But you didn’t know that this was a sausage; you thought you were eating a meat pie. Had the sausage been left in inside the crust whole, you’d have figured it was a sausage and eaten it as a sausage, expecting and accepting its warts. These self-exonerating thoughts proliferated. The two sentiments dueled in me. Self-exoneration and self-critique displaced each other in my mind. Was I too quick to judge the Virgin Nigeria sausage roll? Was I coming to Nigeria with a judgmental, cynical attitude? Had I engineered a self-fulfilling prophecy? Would that hurt my return experience or help it? My Lagos-Abuja flight was consumed by these contemplations. Jetlagged, exhausted, and irritable, self-examination was the least appealing thing I wanted to engage in. But it persisted. How about the lady at the Virgin Nigeria counter, the one who checked me in? Had I been too quick to judge her? No. She probably deserved it. Folks, first of all, note that the concept of a connecting flight hardly exists in Nigeria. Arriving in Lagos from my base in the US, I had assumed that the airline staff would transfer my luggage to my local flight to Abuja, since I had booked both flights together and checked all the pieces all the way to Abuja. But the Nigerian in me would not trust the system to function the way it is supposed to. This is Naija, after all. Acting on a hunch, I waited by the conveyor belt. My two checked bags popped out in quick succession. My skepticism about Nigerian institutions was vindicated. I was right in my assumption about Nigerian exceptionalism. It saved me the stress of having my bags stranded in Lagos in a logistical limbo while I gleefully arrive in Abuja to expect them to exit the conveyor belt there. This inaugural encounter with Nigeria is probably responsible for my subsequent cynicism and descent into swift judgment. If I was right in assuming that Nigeria would be an exception to the connecting flight convention regarding checked luggage, my skepticism was not only justified, it was helpful. I dug in after that. From that point on, I expected and prepared for the worst. I expected folks who offered to help me with my luggage to be mindless extortionists, out to make a buck off another street-dumb returnee. No one will game me, I resolved. A man who innocently told me that Virgin was no longer housed at the international wing and offered to get me a taxi to get to the local wing was met with a cynical, mildly hostile stare down. Good natured and patient, he diligently directed me to the international desk of Virgin at the international wing, following behind to observe my encounter. When I got there and was told exactly what my new “friend” had told me, I was embarrassed, especially with him milling around. Did I walk almost half a block and take a bumpy elevator ride with my luggage awkwardly balanced on a malfunctioning cart just to confirm what I had been told? Why didn’t I believe and trust the man? This was one case in which my skeptical defenses brought embarrassment instead of relief, affirmation, and satisfaction. Oh well, at least I was right about the luggage situation. It was a tie. “Oga I told you. I just want make you see for ya self.” Was that supposed to ease my anxiety? I suppose that was his way of offering commiseration. This guy told me the truth and I dismissed him as a tout out for a quick swindle. Was my guardedness excessive? Was I judging too quickly, too harshly? More questioned flowed than answers, deepening my dilemma. Here was a guy who was offering help, for a reward, of course, and I wouldn’t even give him a chance to help me. It was a soul-searching first encounter. It was the reason I decided to wait for him for some annoying 15 minutes when he declared that he was going to get a taxi to take me to the domestic wing for my flight to Abuja. He arrived driving the taxi. I thought he was merely going to broker a deal for a taxi, not to drive the damn thing himself. My skeptical, conspiratorial mind spun several dark scenarios—all of which had the man doing bad things to me. Despite my misgivings, he beckoned and I followed. “How much?” Silence. Strategic silence. I knew the game. I knew both the street version. I also knew the academic/intellectual variety. Thank God I went back to school recently; double thank God I took that negotiation course. He was using the silence maneuver on me. He wanted to keep the fare a secret until we got to the local wing, so he could charge me what he wanted when he held all the cards, having delivered the service to me. He was in with a master. How much? How much, oga? I repeated it until I got an answer: “three thousand.” I had five thousand naira—a leftover from my last trip. What a savior it was proving to be. My stash helped pay for a cart at the arrival hall. And the N300 change I allowed the friendly cart guy to keep. I liked that he didn’t solicit it and showed a heart-felt appreciation when I offered it to him. The reserve cash helped fund my tip to the final gate guy (don’t know if he was customs or immigration—I suspect customs since we had already been cleared by immigration). The N500 tip brought a broad grin to his face. It felt strangely nice to tip the guy. He asked nicely, and didn’t make it a precondition for “releasing” me. In friendly banter he simply said: things hard here o! I knew what he meant, and I liked his friendly bluntness. Plus, he asked only after he had cleared me and had showed me impressive professional courtesy. I can understand that gesture of solicitation. Is it wrong? Technically it is. But folks are suffering here, and so long as they’re not trying to harass or humiliate me into giving them a tip or trying to invent complaints upon which to demand a bribe, I don’t mind dispensing small tips here and there. Such gestures won’t send me to the poor house. Anyhow, the guy was happy; I was happy and my entry into Nigeria felt good. Until his female partner soiled the happy encounter by screaming “Oga I dey here too o!” into my ear. I ignored her. I had tipped her boss, partner, colleague—whatever. There ought to be some sharing among these folks. I was disappointed by her rude solicitation, but overall, it had been a fairly smooth re-entry, except, of course, for the Delta/Virgin Nigeria mishandling of my luggage. Back at the taxi fare negotiation, I instinctively retorted: three thousand? Haba! “Oga I no charge you.” “Okay, two thousand; I no get enough cash.” “Oga dem dey change money for here o!” Ahhhhhh! Finally, the “he-lives-abroad-and-has- I remembered my negotiation course again. A hostile move deserves an identical response. I wasn’t going to cede the advantage to him in this game. In a statistical class game meant to assess our negotiating temperament, my answers to the questionnaire had given me away as a wimpy compromiser, afraid of striking a hard bargain or antagonizing my negotiating partner. I was a Y kind of person, and Y people lose a lot in win-lose negotiations. That was a disadvantage most the time in the negotiation dance, my professor had proclaimed. Since then, I have been trying consciously to cultivate the skills of a tough negotiator. Time to put practice to test. On this day, I remembered my professor’s indictment clearly. “Two thousand, take am, or I go call another taxi. I no get time to waste.” For those familiar with the XY negotiation game, that was an unadulterated X. “Okay oga, na because of you o! Na three thousand I tell my oga. Him go think say I chop one thousand.” Could be true; could be a lie. No matter. That was his problem to settle with his “oga.” I noticed that he was fuming throughout the short ride to the local wing, and he sneaked in the fare issue again when I tried to make small talk about Lagos, in a last, desperate effort to extract more money. Although I knew that it could all be one huge artistic production by a man used to surviving on his wits and Oscar-worthy acting skills, seeing him complain about the fare during the trip filled me with a strange satisfaction. I probably did get a bargain. Not bad for a returnee, huh? In addition to the fare, I gave the guy N200 for his help in directing me to the elevator and helping me fit my bulging luggage in it. I gave the guy who helped with my luggage at the local wing a small tip. My naira reserve, my personal “foreign” reserve, was going far here. The young man was nice and very helpful. And his appreciation again assuaged my Liberal guilt. That would buy a meal or two, I thought, a comforting and humble self-congratulation infecting me. By the time I got to the lady at the Virgin Nigeria counter. I had experienced Nigeria in all its bad and good glories. I was still skeptical but not cynical. I figured that with Nigeria skepticism is a helpful thing. Better for your skepticism to be confounded than for your optimism to be shattered. Anyway, the Virgin Nigeria lady confirmed my Lagos-Abuja flight. After which she said: your baggage is overweight sir. “How can that be?” “Your luggage is above our weight limit” “But I had no trouble checking them in at the other end” Slow typing on the computer. Hush-hush consultations with someone I assumed to be her colleague. “Sir, your baggage is over the limit.” “That can’t be. I purchased this flight together with the international one. It’s one flight” “There’s nothing we can do, sir. You have to pay for the excess luggage.” By now I was fuming as I watched the baggage handler, a stocky young man, change the tags on the luggage. “Listen, these bags were approved and checked to Abuja in Atlanta, so I don’t understand why they would be over the limit here.” “They were not checked all the way to Abuja, sir” “They were; look at the tags.” “Do the tags say Abuja?” The query was directed at the baggage handler but she also looked at me as though she also expected an answer from me. No answer came, so she said to the handler: let me see the tags. The handler had, of course, discarded the old tags, but they were still on the floor, a glance away. “Oh sorry sir! You are right.” Then she turned to the baggage boy: why didn’t you tell me that they had Abuja tags already? Why did you remove them? Why did you make me print new tags for them? Why didn’t you check them? The boy took his humiliation in silence. But she was the one who checked the tags. And it was she who instructed the poor boy to replace the tags after printing and giving him the new Virgin Nigeria ones. I was incredulous to her act. It seemed like an extortion gone awry. I was on to her game, and her scheme had gone burst, and now she needed her poor subordinate to bear her shame. How mean! I wasn’t even supposed be re-checking these bags in Lagos. Virgin/Delta should have taken care of this. Yet she wanted to extort more payments from me; payments that would have gone straight to her pocket. I wasn’t certain, but my suspicion radar was alert. Her whole service reeked of a cheap plot to elicit some payments from me. Simply honoring my ticket wasn’t good enough for her. But was I reacting reflexively without giving the counter lady an empathetic ear? Was she genuinely unaware that the bags had been checked all the way to Abuja? Was her disappointment at the Baggage handler real? I’ll never know. One thing I do know is that once I got on the plane and I and my baggage were airborne, I felt a little guilty that I had perhaps judged the young lady too harshly, that I had raised my guards and skepticism too high, and, worse, that I was assessing her performance through that cynical lens. Maybe we Diasporans do come home with a certain haughty cynicism. It is not entirely our fault. We have to protect ourselves from excessive frustration. We have to expect the worse so we can celebrate the modestly good. Moreover, excessive optimism and highfalutin expectations may victimize us by making us vulnerable to our compatriots who want to take advantage of our exilic ignorance or relate with us unfairly on the basis of the social myths of exilic privileges. I get all that. But at some level, skepticism is unrewarding to the returnee. Especially when it becomes the central organizing principle through which he (re)experiences Nigeria. And especially when it is not moderated by an open-minded enjoyment of the simple, silly kindness and goodness that one still encounters daily in Nigerians. Mrs. Akunyili and other apostles of rebranding say that all Nigerians are not 419 fraudsters. That’s a lazy repetition of the obvious. They also say that there is still some honesty in Nigeria. That’s an inane cop out. And such rhetorical declarations do not invalidate the pessimism and self-preservationist suspicions of Diaspora Nigerians. Not every Nigerian who approaches you wants to rob or brutalize you. But some do want to at least shortchange and extort you. That challenges your willfully naive fantasies of pan-Nigerian, pan-African brotherhood and solidarity. Bad experiences in the hands of home-based “brothers” stoke suspicion, irrational distrust, and even cynicism. Even so, there might be a pragmatic, happier median where you can celebrate the simple pleasures and rhythms of Nigeria while saving your gripe on the rot and leadership failures for more serious forums. The mistake I made is perhaps in allowing my view of the Nigerian leadership rot and of state failure to seep into my expectations in my encounters with people and things here. There ought to be a middle course that allows you to come to these encounters with an open-mind while simultaneously or, as occasion demands, expressing outrage at failures of leadership and followership in specific institutions and situations. I can’t say that I have found that median yet. But on this visit, I have decided that being angry at and suspicious of everyone and everything will rob me of the delight of homecoming. I will pick my fights wisely and express my gripes selectively, where the moral lines are clear and the stakes are high. I no longer care about the counter lady’s attitude, although I do think that if it was, as I suspected, a cover-up act, she owes her traumatized subordinate an apology— that is, if he wasn’t in on the act. That said, I have decided that judging her, or any other Nigerians I encounter, too harshly speaks more to my own anxieties and patriotic anger than it does to the imperative of correction and change. It is, for the most part, a misdirected resentment. Leadership failures in Abuja should not elicit in us an uncharitably suspicious attitude towards hardworking, if subtly complicit, citizens. Nigerians, even those who are compelled to engage in little trickeries for survival, do not deserve to have our anger at the Nigerian leadership dumped on them. At least not before we have given them a chance to prove themselves worthy of our respect. I will enjoy this visit. I’ll accept what I get, even if grudgingly, and challenge what I need to. I will navigate Nigeria this time with an empathetic but detached alertness, neither condemning nor praising. Simply savoring. I will approach Nigeria this time from a non-judgmental distance, observing as an invested neutral seeking both insight and substantive grounding for future critique. Perhaps I will enjoy my stay this way. I won’t let Yar’Adua and his ilk ruin my visit. Not this time.
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
# 
Your Comments
Please make The Square an enjoyable experience for everyone by refraining from gratuitous ad-hominem contributions, defamatory comments and off-topic posting. Such posts will be removed.