OYA'S MARKETPLACE - Oya N'Soro

OYA'S MARKETPLACE PAGE 15
compared to the forward journey. Of one
thing I am certain — this is no vacation. I
cannot afford to be a tourist. I must drink
it, breathe it, and dissect it all. I cannot be
a passive observer: I am going home and
home is where you’re an integregal part
of the whole...they need you as badly as
you need them. “ASE,” I sigh as we rush
headlong further and further east toward
the rising sun.
When I woke up, the sun was glistening
off the floor of clouds below us. As I
marveled over the phenomena of flight, I
noticed the clouds part and Mother Africa
peep through. I could not see Her clearly,
but the sighting alone pulled at my
umbilical center so that I immediately
searched my bag for the handkerchief
that Aunt Zelma (actually a maternal first
cousin, once removed) had given me
especially for The Trip. Here I am choosing
to fly into the arms of fate, back to my
mother’s bosom; I reflect on the sensation
of terror They — The Departed — could
possibly have felt being torn from the
same mother. Tears flow for those lying
between shores — all those safe in
OLOKUN’s kingdom, fertilizing all life in
the biosphere. We ride over land for a
long while before those expert in this
passage begin to reach for luggage. The
plane lands like a snowflake on glass.
Everyone applauds the pilot; yes, they
actually clap and shout praises on the
ability of their countryman’s skill — how
African!
The Test began the moment we
deplaned: We had just crossed the
Atlantic Ocean solely dependent upon
extremely sophisticated technology and
upon arriving at Murtula Mohammed
Airport must climb down like a bus station
— only there at least one gets delivered
to a covered curb, just in case of rain; but
here, no such courtesy. Then, The Line.
Waiting to enter, everyone waits “on line.”
Passport, with visa stamped in, and
medical papers are examined cursorily,
oh so slowly, as if slowness insures
some level of quality.
It’s hot inside the airport, humid hot;
sweat, several levels above perspiration,
pours between the creases of my body.
I now understand what people who are
claustrophobic feel. The air is still, tepid.
No exhaust fans are blowing. Nothing is
automated except for the folks in line; they
behave like trained animals, patiently
standing “on line” knowing there is no
value to being impatient.
It dawns on me that uniforms are
everywhere; it’s like a business suit — it
seems that everyone in charge of anything
has on one. The women have wear
anklets and pumps looking more like
Girl Scouts (Guides) than Madonna. The
colors of the uniforms reaffirm the
dullness of the earth and trees, with every
now and then a skyblue flash of some
ranking officer. Nigeria was to be like just
that — dull and dirty with flashes of
brilliance — the textiles, the architectural
forms, murals, sculptures, rivers,
mountains and the people juxtaposed to
the dirt, trash, pollution, disrepair and
jumbled development.
Suddenly, my mind shifts and I realize
that all hosts are waiting outside, not
allowed to come inside to greet their
guests. As I’m trying to digest this new
issue of control, a guard motions to my
husband and the following conversation
occurs, “Sir, welcome home. Sir, this is
a camera, yes? It is too obvious. I would
suggest placing it inside your luggage.
Oh, your cases are full. Well, then, tell me
what you have for them.” I realize he is not
concerned for us; he is the frontman
looking for the marks. The “them” are the
armed guards searching luggage as
you go out. I hold the camera in my right
hand and turn toward “them” presenting
my left hip on which I had that charming
15 month old girl. We pass through to
waiting arms.
I am overwhelmed with smothering
greetings from faces I recognize from
photos — sister-in-law and husband,
distant cousins (and general on-lookers)
to see the African American wife. The
women are pressed and starched in IRO
and BUBA; the men are casual GQ.
Everything is snatched from me; for the
first time in 15 months my hands are free.
(I carried nothing for the duration of the
trip with the exception of a bottle of
whatever to drink and water with which to
bathe. That aspect of respect is definitely
worthy of preserving!) We bustle off to a
car and then we’re off. And, I mean off. I
see no speed limit signs and our driver
(anybody that’s anybody has a driver)
seems determined to see how far he can
make the speedometer needle go into
the red zone. My husband says, “No
faster than 90 please.” I become
conscious that my right hand is gripping
the doorhandle, the left is grabbing for
the child, and my mind is screaming,” Ok,
ok, I’m impressed, already!” as we swing
into a curve crossing one of the many
bridges over the Lagos Lagoon at 75
mph. I knew at that point that an adventure
was unfolding.
The first stop was OBALENDE district
to the childhood home of one of Nigerian
friends in The States. The dwellings are
all swished together with no space
between them — homes and businesses
are side-by-side. My hosts’ children
swarm out to greet her and see the wife
from the white man’s land. They gaze
from the corners of their eyes, kneeling
obediently as they are introduced. I fall in
love with their inquisitiveness. Again,
everything is snatched; ‘Sola, my
daughter, is as delighted as am I. We
cross a small, open sewer on a sturdy
board and go inside. It is dark and cool,
an extreme contrast to the glaring light
outside. Then, to my delight, I am handed
a bottle of Fanta orange — the coldest
thing to drink since departing JFK. As my
eyes adjust, I see a small color television,
fridge, stereo and bed; the room is about
8x8 replete with everything needed for
20th century comfort. Mama comes in, we
stand and she speaks to me in excellent
English. Darkly dressed, she has on
nothing spectacular; I am not surprised.
I pass rooms stacked with cases. She
owns three units, one with a pharmacy,
one with a tailor shop. Plus, she sells
soda and beer wholesale. Despite her
surroundings, there is money here. No
one would know by the premises.
It’s night in Lagos; music and
mustiness pervade all. I’m enthusiastic
and appalled simultaneously. I try not to
stare — all these dusky faces and,
contrary to Anglo belief, no two look alike.
I see the countenances of others I know
at home in America; looking at the folks
mulling around the night lanterns at the
street market, it’s easy to accept that each
of us here, Black in America, has a family
on the African continent. I’m overwhelmed
by the similarities and contradictions.
Everyone is hygienically clean despite
whether clothes are fine or ragged. Brilliant
smiles are everywhere; I saw no cavityridden
teeth. Men, women, boys and girls
stroll arm-in-arm; here holding hands
has nothing to do with romance.
Children’s toys are what their
imaginations can conceive. Moreover, I
am in the most populous nation in Africa
where the British ruled for so many years
with their hoity-toity concepts of propriety
and had the nerve to leave this place with
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