Oops.

Yoruba is a tonal language, which means that pretty much everything I say is unintelligible to anyone other than myself.  Normally, this doesn’t matter – the people I’m trying to communicate with just smile, tell me I’m trying and wonder what the heck my gobbley-gook meant. 

Today, for example, I informed the archive ladies that I will be going to Lagos to pick up my husband on Friday.  This sentence sounded perfectly clear and understandable in my own head.  The ladies, however, smiled kindly, asked (in English) what I was trying to say and then corrected my sentence . . . repeating back to me the exact words I had just said.  Except with actual Yoruba tones instead of my (apparently) free-form version.

Good luck trying to understand me, people of Ibadan!

At other times my cavalier treatment of Yoruba tones has more serious consequences - like when people ask if I eat Nigerian food.  I typically list the various Nigerian meals I’ve enjoyed and then end with something along the lines of “But I like pounded yam [iyan] the best.”  Well, it turns out that I’ve been pronouncing ‘iyan’ with a high tone at the end, instead of the low tone it’s supposed to have – and therefore telling people that “I like famine the best.”  That’s right.  All over Ibadan, I’ve left a trail of people wondering why I like Nigerian food just fine, but I enjoy famine the most.  (Also, when I tell people that I have a husband, I might also be telling them that I have a car, a farm or a penis.  I’m never quite sure.)

Yams, not famine.

Oops!

Back to the Grind

I've been back in Nigeria for just over a week and I'm already looking back fondly on all of the delicious food I ate in the Netherlands.  Have I mentioned the sausage yet?  And I could cry thinking about all of those opportunities that I had to drink milk and I didn't . . . what was I thinking?!  Now I'm back to tinned milk, which actually isn't so bad when mixed into hot Milo (a chocolate drink beloved by children . . . and me).  But then there are the times when you can't make your nightly mug of Milo because you don't want to dump anything down the sink because the snake-lizard-thingy who moved into your kitchen and you've named Babatunde has fallen into the sink and can't get back out ---

After spending an entire day living in my sink, Tunde and I decided that our cohabitation just wasn't going to work.  So I fished him out with a bowl and a dustpan and set him free in the wilds of the backyard.  And then I made a steaming mug of Milo with tinned milk.  Yummmmm.  (It turns out that tinned milk + lizard companion > plain old milk!)

(By the way, in addition to Tunde, I have a monitor lizard, a wild cat/lynx (true identity still under discussion) and something called an owawa, which my dictionary describes as a "dog-like creation that climbs down trees head-down" living in my yard!  The security guard has informed me that any one of these creatures would taste delicious, but I am hoping NOT to blog about cooking my backyard companions anytime soon.)

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain

With all of your posts of good-looking food, Diana, you're making me look bad!  And I feel that I need to make a confession.*

I don’t cook most of my own food here in Nigeria.

There, I said it.  Also, I hate being hungry.  I mean, really hate it – being hungry and car crashes are the two things I fear most in life (and being in really deep water and imagining giant whales and other creatures swimming around below me).  At home, I typically manage my hunger through prodigious snacking until James gets back from work and I can ask him what we’re eating for dinner.  But here I have Abigail.  Dear, wonderful Abigail, who comes every morning to make sure that I haven’t accidentally burned the house down and every night to cook dinner for me.  This way, I don't have to negotiate the vastly different world of Nigerian food alone . . . and I don't go hungry!  Fears allayed.  

Here we are discussing the length of church services in Nigeria and the fact that I usually need a snack in the middle of one if I'm going to make it to the end.  We are standing in front of her house; my house is off in the distance behind us.  So, as you can see, Abigail is a neighbor and now – a friend.  Not only does she cook my dinners, she also lets me follow her to the market every week, where I’m sure that I make negotiating good prices more difficult with all of my questions and taking-of-pictures.  She is even teaching me how to cook all of my favorite Nigerian dishes.  I’ve promised her that I’m going to cook a Nigerian meal for her entire family before I leave . . . but as she doesn’t trust me alone in the kitchen, I’m pretty sure that she’s put in a prayer request that I’ll forget to do it.

While I spend my days reading about early 20th-century Yoruba libraries, my evenings are spent in the kitchen with Abigail.  In the picture above, she is laughing at me and my ever-present camera.  (And in case you're wondering, we're preparing greens for soup.)  So you’ll hear plenty about Abigail and her family on this blog, as they are an important part of my life in Nigeria.  After all, if not for her, I would be subsisting on peanuts and bananas.  But when I get home, I’ll be steaming piles of moin-moin and pounding yam.  Get ready to eat, everyone!

*Diana, you're from the Midwest - you know how we tend to feel guilty and confess a great deal.  :)