Self-Sustaining Enterprises Blog

Today was Bible Study Fellowship, a free educational ministry for men and women that operates internationally.  Jos has five classes per week; women’s morning and evening, men’s morning and evening, and one for youth.  I’ve been attending the women’s day study since September, going through the book of Acts with forays into corresponding epistles.  It’s been excellent.

It was my first class back since we traveled, and after working hard to get the homework done I learned with dismay that it was my small group’s turn to help in the children’s program.  (I’d been secretly hoping this would occur while I was gone.)  Since it was cold I put black leggings on under my Nigerian dress, which turned out to be inspired.  I reported for duty and was assigned to the four and five-year-olds.  When told I must participate in everything the children did throughout the morning I thought, “Oh no.”

I have always been an awkward play-er.  Brian could sit on the floor and enter into anything our children did with ease.  I, on the other hand, could bring everything to a grinding, no-fun halt.  Eventually I learned to simply read aloud when they wanted time with me.  I could narrate the same book twenty times in a row, which Brian could never do, so we each had our strength. 

When I reported to the classroom I met the three teachers.  Three members of our small group were also assigned, so ten small Nigerian children were definitely well-supervised.  From the schedule written on the white board, we were in Free Play.  I settled down beside two little girls and watched them build a palace for a plastic princess with Duplos, and then helped fix the hair of the grandmother of three baby dolls.  (Their mother was Minnie Mouse.)  Once we had cleaned up our toys, we marched outside to the bathrooms, making noise like a choo-choo.  Fortunately I did not have to use the training potties.

We were told to hold hands on the way back and one little boy shrank from mine.  I showed him the back and he said, “White!” I turned it over, palm-side up, and he said, “Pink!” Once he’d decided it wasn’t too creepy, he gingerly took it. 

We heard a Bible story which turned out to be what I had studied that week; the history of Paul, Silas and Timothy’s first visit to Thessalonica.  We discussed the lesson, sang some children’s hymns, and had a snack.  During finger play I did fine with “Where is Thumbkin?” and “Where is Pointer?” but was shocked and slightly embarrassed when Middleman came out.  Then we stood in a circle and did dance solos.  I could not believe what tiny break-dancers the boys turned out to be.  Interestingly enough the girls were far more inhibited.  When it was my turn I gave them a rendition of “The Pony.” (If I’d had my wits about me I would have chosen something less strenuous.)  I was actually relieved when it was rest time and we all lay down on mats and blankets on the floor.

Although the morning left me exhausted, I was happy to know these little ones have such an excellent pre-school program to attend.  Maybe I won’t even dread my next turn in the children’s department.

Live from Jos,

Karen   

With all of the animals that wander around loose here, I was wondering why you did not see more roadkill. There are not many wild animals, except for lizards and bush rats, but there are tons of goats, chickens, pigs, cows, and dogs that roam about. You will see a hobbling goat now and then, probably the result of a run-in with a car or motorcycle, but you don’t see any dead in the road. So I asked Ibro and he told me this story:

“I was driving in Bassa one day. About 20 minutes from Jos, I hit a dog crossing the road and killed it. I stopped and as people began gathering around, I asked who owned the dog. One young man said the owner had gone in to Jos and would be back later. He offered to let me pay him 1500 Naira (about $10) and he would see that the owner received it for compensation. Everyone around confirmed the dog’s owner and that he had traveled and 1500 was fair compensation. I thought 1500 was too much and I certainly was not going to trust giving it to anyone except the owner. I told them rather than pay now, I would come back later to talk to the owner so I could also tell him I felt bad for killing his dog.

While they said they would tell him, I am certain the people thought I would not come back. A couple of hours later, I did return and asked around for the owner. I met him and told him I was sorry for killing his dog. He did not seem sincerely upset, as he immediately asked me what I would compensate him for his dog. I offered him 1000 Naira and told him that it really was not my fault, the dog dashed in front of my car. He said it should be at least 1500 for the dog. After telling him that it was a skinny dog and not worth 1500, I again said it should be 1000. He was getting angry and started talking in his local dialect to those around him. Not realizing that my family had come from that area and I understood exactly what they were saying, they discussed among themselves agreeing he could hold out and get more from me. So I decided to have a little fun with them.

I agreed to pay 1500 but I said, “I want my dead dog.”

He asked me, “ Why would you want a dead dog?”

“If I have to pay up to 1500, then this must be a special dog so I would like to have him. Besides if I pay for him then he is my dog,” I answered.

“You cannot have him, because we have already buried him,” looking around at the others who now started to laugh a little bit and were still talking to each other in Rukuba.

“Dig him up,” I told them, only this time I spoke in Rukuba.

Their eyes all got huge as they realized I understood everything they had been saying. So I pulled out 500 Naira, handed it to the dog’s owner and said, “I hope you enjoyed your lunch.” After which I got in my car and drove away.”

So that is why you do not see much roadkill. When it happens, it just means it is time for an unexpected meal.

Sai anjima,

Brian

“Thanksgiving” has a unique meaning here, different from the U.S. holiday.  I can’t say if it’s common throughout Africa, but in Nigeria a family or individual can request a Thanksgiving service to 1) celebrate an occasion like a birthday, anniversary, or recent marriage, or 2) celebrate a blessing; success in an endeavor or good outcome from surgery or illness. There may be one celebrant or several, and depending on time constraints members may be able to give personal testimonies. It’s a custom I would love to see transplanted to my own country. 

In the past year Brian and I have attended a number of thanksgivings.  One was given by a young man in our church who scored the winning goal in the U20 African Cup.  Two were 50^th birthday celebrations for wives of Nigerian friends, and two were widows from Gidan Bege.  They all follow a similar format.  At some point the celebrant is introduced.  He or she walks to the back of the church where friends, family members and invited guests gather.  Special music is played and the celebrant leads the procession dancing to the front.  Sometimes there’s an opportunity for personal testimony to God’s kindness or faithfulness.  Then the whole group troops back to their seats, leaving an offering in a big chest or basket as they go.  The funds are for the church, not the celebrant, and God is given the glory.

The birthday thanksgivings were splendid affairs with catered parties before or after for friends and family members.  The widows’ thanksgivings were on a humbler scale, but more touching.  The first was for Tabitha, who had surgery for a fibroid tumor which Jocelyn paid for from ministry funds.  Tabitha recovered and her thanksgiving was public praise for God’s blessing.  The last one we attended was for Tina, a memorial for her police officer husband who was killed in the line of duty ten years ago.  (She is still fighting with the government for his pension.)

Tina was left with six children.  With God’s help she has so far managed to send them all to school.  (The youngest is now in the third grade.)  Her oldest son is a night guard at the widow’s sewing school, and took a loan under my tenure to pay for his driver’s license fees.  (The ability to drive significantly increases a young man’s chances of obtaining employment.)  Since I have known Tina her mother suffered a severe head injury in a motorcycle taxi accident, spent several weeks in the hospital, and still requires constant care.  One of her nieces accused Tina of witchcraft, saying that she “pressed upon her,” which sent the young woman to the hospital in pain.  Last week Tina’s daughter was struck by a car.  Fortunately she came away with only cuts and bruises.  Even though the thanksgiving service was in Hausa, Tina’s sincere gratitude to God was evident to all.

For me the highlight of the day was seeing Jocelyn and all the widows from Gidan Bege gather to dance forward with Tina.  Two were wearing new dresses I had seen them working on at the sewing school.  The family handed out memorial calendars with pictures of Tina’s late husband, Tina, and all six of their children.  Afterward everyone followed Tina home to her compound, where she and her children share a one bedroom/sitting room with a cement floor.   Drinks and a generous meal were provided. 

I remember Ladi once saying that Nigerians mourn with those who mourn and celebrate with those who celebrate.  They’ve grasped and practice a wonderful precept of community life.

Live from Jos,

Karen

With our trip home on the horizon, those who see us over Thanksgiving or Christmas will notice a slight change; Brian and I have each lost twenty pounds.  We have to say, this is entirely due to “The Nigerian Diet,” which we had no choice but to go on.

If you wish to try it, the underlying premise is that meat and convenience foods are incredibly expensive, and many American staples are either unavailable or don’t taste that great. This makes for a diet which is a bit limited but fairly low-fat.

A typical breakfast is two small bananas generously spread with peanut butter, vitamins, and tea or coffee.  (I splurge and buy real Skippy, which costs $4.30 for a 16 ounce jar.)  Lunch is a bargain, a super-sized Indomie (that’s Ramen for all you former college students) which Brian and I share ($.33), and water.  We choose from a variety of flavors here: chicken. If the budget allows we sometimes have a handful of Pringles, which sell for $2.50 a can.  With afternoon tea we may eat a slice of quick-bread, (banana, zucchini, cinnamon or carrot-walnut, which our house helper Mary loves to bake), or a couple of store-bought cookies. (Actually “biscuits,” as I tend to buy British.  My favorite shortbread sells for $2.50 a package.)  Brian only occasionally takes tea, (or coffee, as the case may be), but I rarely miss it. 

Dinner is our largest meal.  It evolved slowly from one-pot dishes on a kerosene camp burner (before we purchased our stove) to more elaborate meals like Italian spaghetti over pasta, a green salad with carrots and cucumbers, and garlic bread. Over time my cooking has evolved into something that is not really American but not Nigerian, either.  I guess I would call it Mennonite International.  Chili, white chili (with chicken), Nigerian or New Orleans beans and rice, Chinese stir-fry and fried rice, curries and soups are regularly on the menu.  They all tend to be heavy on the vegetables. 

Meat is expensive here, so I use it sparingly.  A small chicken is $8.50.  A pound of sirloin, the most tender cut of beef I’ve found, can be bought for $5.20. Boneless white fish fillets (not quite a pound) sell for $10.  Vienna sausages, our favorite frankfurters, are $6 for eight.  A pound of deli ham is $9.  Minced beef (hamburger) comes in frozen sheets, and at 350 naira each they add up to $7 a pound.  I use one per recipe, which is skimpy but we still get the flavor. I do the same with chicken.  One breast of meat goes into each dish. 

Other than coffee or tea, we mostly drink water.  Juice comes in one-liter cartons for $1.75.  Our favorites are Orange/Mango and Pineapple/Coconut.  Soft drinks, “minerals,” are purchased in glass bottles by flat ($7.00 for 24 after deposit), or in plastic bottles by the dozen ($9.00).  We usually keep them on hand for guests or movie nights.  Aside from the usual suspects (Coke, Sprite, and Orange Fanta), I’m fond of La Casera apple soda, Feyrouz pear and pineapple, and Schweppes Bitter Lemon.   

Food bargains are dried beans, (white, brown, and kidney), and vegetables.  Red onions, green onions, African spinach, cabbage, carrots, green beans, Irish potatoes, white yams, garlic, sweet and hot peppers are readily available.  The cost of tomatoes goes up and down, and you can only find Romas.  Careful searching will sometimes yield lettuce, fresh ginger, cilantro, basil, celery, zucchini, eggplant and beets.  Fruit has been a big disappointment.  We regularly buy bananas, Yellow Delicious apples and sometimes lemons.  Plantains are a new favorite but since we eat them fried, I only purchase them occasionally.  Oranges, watermelon, papaya and pineapple are expensive and usually don’t taste that wonderful.  Mangos were the highlight of the year, but they only come in season. 

I use soya and olive oil sparingly.  Our great extravagance is butter, which sells for $10 a pound.  It mainly goes into baking or Brian’s stovetop popcorn, which is an evening indulgence on movie nights.  We eat very little dairy aside from that.  Cheese is expensive; $2.70 for less than 8 ounces of New Zealand white cheddar, and you must make yogurt from scratch.  Milk comes either powdered or in long-life cartons ($2.50 per liter), and has a funny taste.  That’s why we gradually gave up cereal for breakfast. 

Bread is another staple that has gone by the wayside.  Nigerian white bread is slightly sweet, which I don’t care for.  I tried the wheat loaves at each bakery in town, but they either smelled sour or molded so quickly we couldn’t justify buying them.  Anyway, sandwich options are few since meat is so expensive.  Brian and I aren’t that fond of peanut butter and jelly, and you can only eat so much egg salad.  We like Lebanese flatbread, which we use for burritos and with soups, and will occasionally buy an Italian baguette for garlic bread. 

So there you have it, the secrets of our weight loss.  If you, too, wish to go on “The Nigerian Diet,” my advice is to make no provision for snack foods, other than the few I have mentioned.  Eat plenty of dried beans and vegetables.  Charge yourself these exorbitant prices for meat and butter and bank the difference.  Your savings will grow as your waistline diminishes.

Live from Jos,

Karen

Over the past few months Brian and I have slowly transferred the contents of two spare bedrooms at our compound to the bridal shop.  Week by week boxes and bags of wedding gowns, perfume, tiaras, jewelry and veils have gone by van to Bupia Plaza, traveled up two outside flights of stairs, down one corridor, and into the store. 

At each visit Brian and I are spotted as we come, laden with this or that.  Verah and Stella, the shop employees, come rushing out in their skirts and high heels to unburden us.  Heavy as they may be, they whisk boxes and bags out of Brian’s and my hands and usher us in exclaiming, “You are welcome!” 

Last week Brian fought yet another losing battle to gallantly carry a heavy load for a Nigerian woman.   Slender little Stella grabbed a bag that was almost as big as herself and followed him down to the van.

Left behind in the shop with Verah and Barnabas (the H2O Nigeria project manager), I said in frustration, “Why will you never let Brian carry these heavy things for you?  He wants to!”

What followed was one of the most interesting discussions I’ve had yet concerning men’s and women’s roles here.  I learned that in a rural village a man will go out to the fields with his wife to work.  He will carry his hoe.  She will carry a bag of fertilizer, lunch, drinking water, and perhaps a baby.  On the way back she will carry all of the above plus a load of wood for the fire.  Once home, the man will prop himself against the wall, doze or chat, and complain that dinner is taking too long.

One young village couple Verah knew agreed on a different set of rules.  The wife had grown up with running water and was unused to carrying it over long distances.  Her new husband happily offered to take on that chore.  Before long he was so badgered and shamed by his neighbors that he had to beg off.  Instead of seeing him as kind and considerate, they thought him a total weakling to be so ordered about by his wife, and they branded her a terrible nag. 

Instead of setting a good example for the men in the plaza where the bridal shop is, we were making Verah and Stella look bad to all their neighbors.  What kind of lazy employees would sit by and let their Bature (Englishman) boss and his wife carry burdens up and down the stairs?  From that time on, we’ve bit our tongues and said nothing as they fetch and carry to their heart’s content.

Traditional ways are changing a bit in towns and cities.  Since both Verah and her husband are employed fulltime, they’ve worked out a more equal division of labor.  They take turns cooking dinner and both of them share chores around the house.  But Verah is quick to say that all that comes to an end when her mother-in-law visits.  She wishes to see her son taken care of very well by his wife.  So Verah waits on her husband like a king for the duration of his mother’s visit, and has to gently remind him they can go back to their usual ways when she is gone. Stella’s parents taught and modeled a fair division of labor in their home.  Both sons and daughters learned to cook and clean, and were expected to share family chores.  But they appear to have been unusual among rural families. 

After this discussion, Brian went to visit one of the SSE employees who lives in the village of Kisayhip.  He saw him coming in from his fields, carrying his hoe with his wife bringing everything else.  Instead of publicly taking him to task for not helping her, Brian said nothing and watched them carry on in their traditional way.  But when I am present, he will not let me lift one load.  It’s not a bad deal, being an object lesson for Nigerian men.

Live from Jos,

Karen

While sitting in church this morning on a hard, straight wooden pew listening to the poor quality but very loud music, I was thinking, “I wish I had a softer seat and they had a decent sound system here.” I was quickly convicted in my shallow, selfish thinking. How is it through all the challenges faced by the people here these folks can come and joyfully, sincerely thank God and sing, “Lord I love you”? Facing the constant physical and emotional toll of extreme generational poverty in their everyday life, I wondered, “Do they come because it is their only source of hope? Do they come because maybe there could be some help, some program the church offers? Do they come because it is the cultural thing to do?”

I think they come because at the deepest level of human existence, there is a need to connect to our Creator. Bereft of the materiality with which we in the developed world fill our lives, they stay connected to the one need common to all people (whether they realize it or not) –a relationship with God. From the world’s perspective the folks here have no reason to be thankful; extreme poverty, debilitating diseases, corrupt government, selfish leaders, pitiful education, lack of water and power, and the list goes on. And yet they are here, and they are joyful and they are thankful and they are sincere.

There is a woman with her eyes closed, singing with serenity on her face that defies the logic of the world.  There is a man standing with a smile on his face, clapping and praising his Lord singing, “There is no friend like Jesus. No not one.” When she leaves this place she will return to a little mud-brick house with a rusted zinc roof that has no water, no power, no decent sanitation. He will return to malaria, typhoid, and cholera. She will return to eking out a living selling vegetables, chicken feed, or phone cards. He will return to no job, living with his widowed mother-in-law, keeping his late brother’s children as well as his own, and wondering how he is going to provide for them.

Driving home in our big, beautiful car I thought, “I would grumble if we had to walk. After all, it’s at least a mile and we would have to pass through poor neighborhoods and step over “grey” water and smell and see things we find offensive.”  As I sat down to write this on one of our 2 laptops, I realized, “I would grumble if we had to share one. That would be so inconvenient.”  We happen to have power right now, but if we didn’t and wanted it, I would just start up the generator. I would really grumble if I didn’t have one of those.

What right do we have to question God; why he allows poverty and pain and why he doesn’t just do something about it, when these people, the ones who are living it, still bow their heads and say, “Thank you, Lord, because you have allowed me to draw another breath. Thank you because you care about the poor, the oppressed, the orphan, and the widow, of which I am one. Thank you because you care about me, my family, and you know what we are going through and you have not forgotten us.” I wonder, does my strength of conviction run that deep?

Faith is not just believing God exists. Faith is knowing He cares and trusting in His infinite love, mercy, grace and presence even in our darkest moments of physical, spiritual, and emotional struggle.  If I walked in the shoes of the people here, would I still know and trust as they do? I pray that when my times of testing come, I will have the peace and joy I saw in church this morning; gifts that come from true faith.

Sai anjima,

Brian

Last week our helper Mary seemed a little subdued when she arrived.  She set about the usual chores; sweeping, dusting, washing dishes and consulting the list I’d written for her.  It was only later in the morning, when we sat down to tea, that I discovered what was troubling her.

She’d been on her way to work on an achaba (motorcycle taxi), when she saw a crowd of people.  They were standing on a narrow bridge, looking down.  She said to her driver, “Let me stop, so that I can see what’s going on.”

She climbed off the bike and joined them.  The bridge spanned a wide streambed through which a narrow river flowed.  There on the sand, not far from the water, lay a baby.

The child was lying face-down, crumpled and broken.  From the wrappings it was impossible to tell if it had been a boy or a girl.  But it was a big baby, Mary told me, not a newborn.  She stood there in the rain, looking down on that awful scene.

I was appalled.   “If this happened in the United States, the police would arrest that mother for murder!”

“Here also,” said Mary, “if they can find her.” 

And then I knew.  The shadows of secrecy would most likely descend and obscure this sad little story, because a family here would desperately shield themselves from the shame of such disclosure. 

What brought a mother to such desperate straits, to choose a bridge instead of a hospital?  Was she too poor to feed another mouth?  Was she young, disgraced and abandoned by the man she thought would marry her?  Was she a widow, and some relation of her late husband’s had forced his attentions and this unwanted child upon her?  Did she have a chance to marry, but her future husband had made it clear that this baby had no place in that new life?  Was she suffering from postpartum depression, and this seemed the only way out of her hopelessness?

We looked at each other, horrified.  And then I realized how much more terrible and inerasable that sight was for Mary, looking off that bridge with four-month-old Grace, so warm and helpless and safe on her back.

Live from Jos,

Karen

One of my greatest blessings is a husband who will eat most anything.  There are only a few banned substances at our table, and those I pretty much agree with.  They are: liver, creamy lima beans, creamed corn, mashed squash and split-pea soup. Fortunately they’re just as easy to avoid in Jos as they are at home.

Emmanuel Itapson instructed us to always offer Nigerians something to drink.  Since Brian heats water at first light, we usually have two full carafes to work with in a day.  I keep the essentials on a small tray: Lipton tea bags, sugar cubes, Peak powdered milk and Bournvita, the UK version of hot chocolate.  My tea drinkers get more choices; green tea, British Breakfast, mint, Forest Fruits and my current favorite–lime.  But now that I have hot drinks down, warmer weather is turning my attention to cold offerings.

Since our helper Mary likes to bake there’s generally something good for Monday morning meetings. Brian, Ibro and Barnabas get banana, zucchini, carrot, and cinnamon bread.  And in a pinch I can always offer pitas and peanut butter, which go over remarkably well with both Hosi and Alet and the SSE men.

Ibro, Emmanuel Itapson’s younger brother (country director for SSE Nigeria), lived on the Itapson compound for our first eight months.  He inhabited one of the bedrooms in the wing opposite from us.  What graciousness, sharing a house with his boss all that time.  He rose early and come home late, probably because he did share a house with his boss all that time.  But on rare occasions he joins us for a meal.   Come to think of it, he’s pretty shrewd.  He makes staying for dinner such a rare honor that I take it as the highest compliment.

Barnabas, the H2O Nigeria project manager, is easier to lure.   He’s a busy bachelor who takes his food where he can find it.  As Brian can attest, he doesn’t balk at whatever dish he’s offered.  Barnabas once asked for seconds of a village dish Brian privately described as “poop porridge.” 

When neither Ibro nor Barnabas is present, our guard Danladi will gratefully accept leftovers.  I purchased a stainless-steel-lined hot pot with a handle from the Onigbinde department store that has become invaluable.  It keeps rice warm for dinner parties and also works for meals-to-go.  Both Ibro and Danladi know the score; the pot that gets returned clean is readily available next time.

Guests can show up at any moment, as it’s considered unnecessary to call before coming. I never thought of myself as particularly good hostess, but here any portion of food is so gratefully accepted that I’ve started cooking bigger amounts so that something’s always available.  Most any dish can be stretched by serving it on rice, potatoes or yam, or simply putting a lot of pepper in it.  (It is the Nigerian way.) 

As the path to men’s hearts is supposedly through their stomachs, by now I’m pretty well entrenched in the affections of at least three.  (Hopefully I already had Brian’s.)

Live from Jos,

Karen

Evenings don’t hold a lot of options in Jos.  For one thing, they come early. Dusk is a short time period here–one moment there’s light and the next there’s not much.  Darkness falls around 6:30 now, but during rainy season it could happen by 5:00, depending on the weather.  If there’s no power, generator hours are 7:00-10:00 and after that there’s not much to do but go to bed.

Secondly, the potential for random acts of violence keeps people in or simply away from crowded areas.  When Ibro’s wife Mercy came to town a couple of weeks ago, (she has a good job in Abuja where she lives with her mother and the couple’s two children), she wanted to buy and eat fish in a popular market one Saturday night.  Ibro shook his head and said they should go somewhere more private.  Brian recently spoke to the owner of several Mr. Bigg’s, the Nigerian equivalent of KFC.  Business is slow.  People used to congregate in his restaurant dining rooms, but now they purchase food and scurry away. 

Still, Brian and I go out for dinner occasionally.   We frequent Summerland, previously known as King’s Bite.  Last winter we’d catch soccer matches on their large-screen TV, hence the irresistible draw for Brian.  Those devolved into movies, which were still pleasant, but last time all we got were music videos.  (I think management is working through an identity crisis.)  We order “the usual” from our waiter, Monday.  (In Africa it’s not difficult to figure out what day of the week a person was born on.)    He brings us a Fatoush salad, which is lettuce, cucumber, red onion and tomatoes in oil and vinegar with pita croutons.  That’s followed by warm flatbread dipped in creamy garlic soup, and a Reine pizza, made with mushrooms, Middle-Eastern olives and white cheese.  

Our other favorite restaurant is Elysar, which offers a Chinese/Lebanese/Nigerian menu. (You won’t find one of those on every corner.)  We particularly like their spring rolls and African version of Mongolian beef.  Emilee Munafo caters an occasional banquet there, which is always fun.  The last was a farewell dinner for the Back2Back summer interns.  My favorite drink is a Chapman; a mug filled with ice and something like Tahitian Treat soda, poured over chunks of fresh fruit and sliced cucumber. 

Dinner parties sometimes happen.  We’ve been invited to both Nigerian and missionary homes, and the food is definitely more adventurous at the former.  We invite people here in turn.  I was relieved to discover that Nigerians are willing to try international food.  They’re particularly fond of Chinese stir-fry and chili, although they prefer it on rice.  Desserts are also popular, if they’re not too sweet. 

When staying in, we choose from the following activities:  working, surfing our irregular internet, playing computer games, playing cards or Scrabble, (Brian always beats me), reading out loud or alone, or watching DVDs.  (See previous blog post; Nigerian Movies.)  On film nights we go all out.  We make a batch of stove-top popcorn and drink mineral.  (That’s what Africans call soft drinks.)  Besides the usual suspects, (Coke, Sprite, Orange Fanta), we’ve branched out into Feyrouz Pear and Pineapple, Schweppes Bitter Lemon, and my current favorite, La Casera Apple soda.  As you can see, it’s wildly exciting.

Live from Jos,

Karen