Self-Sustaining Enterprises Blog

There is a dearth of nocturnal activities here in Jos. There are only so many restaurants to patronize or friends to invite over. When we tire of the books we’re reading, can’t find a movie to watch all over again, or another thing to write or discuss, we still have Zuma Deluxe.

Brian discovered it first, loaded on the laptop our former accountant used. (Probably another reason he is our former accountant.) For those unfamiliar with the game, a spinning frog shoots alternating colored beads into a moving pattern. The trick is to aim accurately and fire quickly. Three beads of the same color spontaneously combust. The more trios you make or shoot, the more beads you eliminate. But they twist and turn and if you cannot pull them back, they’ll advance into the mouth of a tunnel. Succeed and you clear the labyrinth of beads, score points, and earn more frogs. Fail and one froggy-life gets sucked down with the beads and you’ll play the screen all over again.

There’s something mesmerizing in this process. The frog spits out his colorful ammunition and with skill and luck there are gratifying explosions along the way. Each near-death experience brings an adrenalin-rush, and vanquished screens dissolve as new challenges emerge. Somewhere along the line I began to watch. I would heave a sigh at each reprieve, exclaim “Yes!” or “Nice shot!” or the typical African phrase, “Well done!”

Then one day Brian asked the fateful question. “Would you like to shoot?”

Good and bad has come of this. To the good, I’ve gained a few spiritual insights. I spent a week stuck on the last screen of Level One. Beads invariably surrounded and squeezed me, like the coils of a python. Once I broke through, however, I realized the string of defeats had honed my shooting skills. I sailed through the next level.

The game measures each success, no matter how small. There are points as each trio combusts, and when one explosion leads to another as beads close gaps and bump up against each other–even when it’s accidental. There are bonus points for vaporizing so many in a row, squeaking through gaps, taking out a spinning coin, and finishing quickly. Nothing is unaccounted for in the stats at the end of your game. I believe the same is true of life.

And the frog is so joyous. He grins as he spins, always ready with another bead, another shot, another try; even when he goes down in defeat. I wish I could say the same for my day-to-day attitude.

To the bad, it has confirmed my suspicion that I was not designed for video games. I’ve spent fruitless hours hunched over a keyboard, never advancing beyond Level Four. Shoulders tight with stress, rendered sleepless by adrenalin, all I’ve gained is a low backache from bad posture.

I must face it. Brian is the Jedi Master and I am unworthy. There is no way to match his speed, accuracy, or coolness under fire. I am suited for gentler pursuits; like reading, writing, or taking a nap.

Live from Jos,

Karen

One of the reasons I’m glad I don’t drive in Nigeria, (besides the fact that I would kill myself and others), is that it gives me a chance to observe local sights.  One of my favorite “I-Spys” is cargo.  It can take many forms here.

On one of my first days in Jos, Brian and I passed a decrepit truck stacked alarmingly high with colorful mattresses.  Tied together with rope and leaning precariously, they were an illustration straight out of a Dr. Seuss book.  I wondered how the truck stayed upright, and why no traffic officer stopped and fined the driver for endangering himself and others.  That’s when I came to realize that anything goes here.

Take, for instance, livestock.  We’ll sometimes see an open-bed truck with 6 to 10 long-horned cows lying peacefully inside.  (I used to be amazed at how calmly they traveled until I learned their feet were tied.)  It’s a good thing.  Can you imagine the cow complaints from the back seat?  “He’s poking me. Tell him to stop poking me!” We once came up behind a hatchback, and a little animal face peered out at us from inside.  It took a minute to register the fact that it was a goat and not a dog.

One Saturday a sedan pulled ahead of us, stuffed so full the view was obscured through back window.  Whatever it was, it appeared to be writhing.  As we came closer we saw dozens of black chickens, piled high on the back seat.  I’ve seen the panic of a trussed bird, and I could only imagine the state of his interior.  I wonder who had to ride in there to church the next morning?   Eeeww.

If we thought chickens were challenging, another guy upped the ante.  His backseat was stuffed equally full of eggs, layer upon layer in open cardboard carriers.  I hoped he didn’t have to travel off the beaten path.  One bad pothole and he’d have himself a serious omelet.

Since becoming involved with the widow’s sewing school, our California van has been put to the test.  The road to their compound is terrible, with deep ruts and rocks we can barely skim in our low-riding vehicle.  Last April, after my first day in charge of the books, (this was when Jocelyn left for Canada on her maternity leave), Sasa, the school principal, walked me outside to where Brian was waiting.  She said, “If you do not mind, I will follow you.”

“Knock yourself out,” I thought.  It wasn’t until she climbed into the back seat that I realized that phrase means the person would like to hitch a ride.  The next thing we knew, five or six of the widows had joined her.

Thus began Brian’s challenge: How many widows can you stuff into the back of a minivan?  We have carried widows to church for Thanksgiving services, we have carried widows and wedding gowns to the photo shoot we did to help launch the bridal shop, and of course we regularly drop widows along our route home from the sewing school.   The current high score?  I think it’s nine.  (Good thing they’re small.)

Live from Jos,

Karen

One of my worst fears about moving to Africa was bugs. Surprisingly, they have not been as awful as I imagined. For one thing, we spray regularly. For another, I don’t spend a lot of time outdoors.

When we first came to Jos, the house had been fumigated in expectation of our arrival. Except for mosquitoes, we saw no unwelcome guests for a month or so. Brian asked when we should bomb again. In his cryptic, African way Ibro replied, “When you begin to see things that you do not wish to see.”

He was right. The usual suspects turned out to be insects in the dried beans, spiders decorating the walls, and small roaches in the pantry. Fortunately only Brian has seen a scorpion up close and personal.

The best that can be said for the spiders is they are easy to kill. Mosquitoes are probably the most dangerous, as they hold the possibility of disease. But we take our doxycycline faithfully and Brian hunts them down in our room each night. Our other line of defense is the bed-net. It’s king-sized and drapes below the ceiling fan to the floor, enveloping us in a tropical cocoon. It’s a small nuisance for those who go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, but on the whole kind of romantic.

I’ve made a truce with cockroaches, at least the small ones. When I move a dish on the draining rack and one scuttles under the sink, I no longer shriek and jump. I once reached into a corner in our favorite general store, picked up a package of candles, and four or five of them dove behind the ones not chosen. I barely batted an eye and put my purchase on the counter.

But the big ones are a different story. One night last week Brian went out to watch a soccer match. After some consideration I decided to read in bed. I walked into the shadowy bathroom, scrubbed my face and began to brush my teeth. A giant cockroach caught my eye. He crept along the edge of the bathtub and made a break for the door. Grabbing a roll of toilet paper, I brought it down on his ugly little back. Not certain he was dead, I tore off a sheet or two and shrouded him within it. Squeezing ‘til I heard a crack, I buried him in the garbage beneath some crumpled cellophane.

Sometime later I heard a rustling sound. Turning on the light, I peered into the trash can. Nothing troubling, I decided–just the settling of the cellophane. A page or two later the rustling resumed. This time I grabbed a flashlight, sprang into the dark bathroom and shone it in the garbage. There was the cockroach, racing ‘round the rim like a penny in one of those centrifugal-force funnels. I screamed like a girl, knotted closed the plastic bag that lined it, and raced into the sitting room.

Brian had returned and was sitting on the couch, checking email. “What on earth?”

“A cockroach rose from the dead!” I raced around the corner to the kitchen.

“Are you perhaps saying that you failed to kill him the first time?”

Honestly, men are so unimaginative.

Live from Jos,

Karen