#13: The Sands Of Time

May 11, 2008

          It was time to bid Abuja adieu, its luxury traded for the rugged inferno of the desert I called home. My organization had agreed to have one of their drivers drive me home, amid concerns that as a Deaf Blind white woman I would not fare so well traveling alone on the open highways upward to Birnin Kebbi during a long seven hour journey cramped in the back of a beat-up Honda station wagon with eight other people. So, Matthew, the VSO employee that brought me to the hospital, was my driver and we set off for the desert state of Kebbi on Sunday. I was recovering pretty quickly from the viraemia flu, so I was well enough to travel. I was anxious to arrive home, after three weeks of traveling different central states and living out of my suitcase.  I wanted to settle down in my routine, start working out with my personal trainer, sleep in my own bed, cook food, start working at the school and immersing myself in the Northern culture. I knew I would miss the people I had befriended on my travels, but they were welcome to come up and visit – and I would be in Abuja in late July for meetings with government officials and set off for America where I would vacation for a month in August. So, living my life in Kebbi was important to me, I wanted to start making changes for the school so that the children’s lives would improve.

I wore a flowy sunflower dress with a peach-colored Nigerian headwrap, it was my favorite travel wear. Dresses during African travel made it easier for me to make a pit stop by the roadside, take a squat and pee rather than having to hike down my pants awkwardly and stumble, fall onto my pee which is something I want to avoid, especially with my faulty balance. Matthew came by bright and early, packed my things in the back seat of the truck and we set off – but not before stopping by a fast food restaurant to pick up some breakfast. Here in Nigeria, fast food restaurants (there’s NO McD’s or Starbucks) serve rice and chicken for breakfast. So I had that and munched while we drove off to Minna, a pit stop in between.

Once we got to Minna, we stopped by Mr. Biggs, another fast food restaurant to pick up some ice cream and I had to use the girl’s room.  Ice cream was a refreshing treat, as the temperatures rose every kilometer we drove up North. As I walked out, I saw several Nigerians and Japanese tourists staring at me with their mouths wide open. I was accustomed to these things – Erin and Zach had told me a million times (environmental information) that people were gathered around me and staring. So I didn’t pay any attention to it and got in the truck. Matthew wrote me a note, “Your dress has a tear in it”. I thought he was talking about the small hole on my right side seam so I told him it was OK and I didn’t need to change clothes. He gave me a very concerned look, so I brushed him off and we set out for the rest of the trip.

One hour before we arrived home, I asked Matthew to stop by one of these side-road huts, I needed to buy some mango and onions. The vendor, a young teenage boy, looked at me with his eyes wide, and his mouth open. It was hard to get him to finally get the mangoes and when I waved and snapped in his face, he finally “woke up” and scurried to get me my items. I paid and got back in the truck. He’s probably having some sort of culture shock, not having had seen a batura before. Before setting off, I glanced back and saw a few Nigerians staring at me with their eyes open. Now, what? I am sure they have seen at least one or two bature people in their lives? It was not the usual stares, it was more of a shocked look, as if they’d seen Allah walking on water.

Home sweet home. The guard was laying on his back on his ratty mat and slowly got up. I swear, this man seems to be stoned twenty four hours, seven days a week. He had that same, old goofy smile on his face. The guard hoisted his fist in the air – that is the North way of saying hello. His aged body walked slowly over to the truck to help me move my things. Abdullahi, my neighbour, was sitting on the porch, too, and beamed a big smile. He was ecstatic to have me back. When I walked around them, I glanced back and the two men had the same shocked looks plastered on their faces. WHAT??? WHAT???? I was so puzzled but went for the door to unlock. By then, I felt a strong draft up my dress and it didn’t feel right. It felt more…. Exposed. So I reached out for the left side of my dress and my hands ran over my bum. No fabric was covering it. It was bare. There was a huge hole – my dress had been torn into a huge meteorite crater, exposing my naked bum. Admittedly, my underwear ran out the day before, so I thought to myself, why not travel for a day without it? Ahem. Mortified, I opened the door so fast, ran into my room and got a change of clothes. I walked out of my room looking sheepishly, and Matthew was standing in the hallway laughing and mouthing “that, that” and pointing to where the hole on my dress was.

It had dawned on me: My dress had been torn like that ever since I left Abuja. How in the world did I not feel that? It’s likely 50 people saw my bare ass. Be cool, cool. I’ll see Matthew a few times a year but there’s my neighbour and my guard. They know where the birthmark is.

Once Matthew left, I was standing in the doorway of my living room that leads out to the central courtyard and it had dawned on me: Zach and Erin weren’t here anymore and I was truly on my own. I sat down on the concrete, looking around at the empty house and started crying. Not the painful kind, sure, I missed them but it was more of a liberating feeling. I was able to live on my own, with one female Nigerian intervenor coming soon – but I had disconnected myself from everything I was familiar with in America and now living as a Nigerian. I had my own home, a life to make, work to attend to and only myself to get to know better.

There was no electricity for three days, somehow the fuse box went idle while I was gone. So candles illuminated my room every night and I laid on my back thinking about my life back in America, my friends, family and colleagues. Thinking about the future, where I would be once I finished my volunteer stint in Nigeria. Thinking about today, who I am and what I am doing. In all this time I have by myself, it was sure to be a great metamorphosis as a person and as a spiritual being.

By Tuesday, Marufat – known as Moji – arrived at the house. She had come to Abuja when I arrived in Nigeria so that she would shadow Zach and Erin, learn the ABC’s of intervening for a Deaf Blind person. Two months later, she was here, ready to be my intervenor full time for a few months when she finishes her civil service and return to Oyo State to graduate from university there. Moji can only sign a few basic signs and fingerspells pretty well, however, communication had been very tough in the beginning for us in March. Now that she’s here, I hope that every time we have a conversation, she’d take note of each new sign and in time, pick up more signs so I’d have someone to talk to. This week, she came to work with me sometimes, and I would set off to Sanjo’s gym on my own after work and meet Moji at home. She’s there to make sure that I am safe, from intruders, hazards, and to ensure that I lead a more independent life.

One of the steps in my metamorphosis process is getting fit. I have enlisted Sanjo, a friend of a former volunteer Hilkje, to whip me into shape. I’ve been overweight for almost all of my life and I have chosen now to get healthy and fit so that I can travel more and participate in the Seattle Women’s triathlons with my Deaf Blind friends. So far, he’s doing a good job – every muscle in my body is aching!

Now that I have a place to call home, I have all the time on my hands. As the sun rises, I rise with it and watch the colors vibrate through the desert sky. It gives me energy to go on throughout the day with the prospect of learning something new. As the afternoon sun shines, the heat rises and the time becomes more idle. I sit in my office at the school under the whirring fan, look at the cracks in the walls and think about how I could fix it in time. In the darkness of my palace, my hands touch the walls to guide me from one door to another, and my feet tread so slowly. There is no rush at all, each door needs to have my touch, and one door will be opened. Candles move forward and back with the whip of the wind, billows of red sand burst through the screens and fall on my bed like snowflakes with grace. I cannot move, my eyes fixated on the ceiling staring at the illumination of the moving candles as it makes a warm glow around the room. It’s calming, while the fierce desert storm is brewing outside, like sands of time funneling down a hourglass. Time is still, then it runs away.

Tactile love,

Coco

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