Self-Sustaining Enterprises Blog

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

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 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