ktravula – a travelogue!

Rememberance

A poem by Reiner Maria Rilke, seen on my office door today, from my Geheimnisvoller Freund (secret friend).

And you wait, keep waiting for that one thing

which would indefinitely enrich your life:

the powerful, uniquely uncommon,

the awakening of dormant stones,

depths that would reveal you to yourself.

In the dusk you notice the book shelves

with their volumes in gold and in brown;

and you think of far lands you journeyed,

of pictures and of shimmering gowns

worn by women you conquered and lost.

And it comes to you all of a sudden:

That was it! And you arise, for you are

aware of a year in your distant past

with its fears and events and prayers.

Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming

Ten Random Questions

10. Will it be too cold in Washington DC next week for me to enjoy the sites that I want to see there?

9. Who is the president of Nigeria now? And does it matter in the scheme of the country’s present political arrangement that there’s no one really in charge at the moment while the nation awaits the news on the president’s health? Does it stop the quotidian activities of the agents of state from going on or have citizens realized that their lives are really not controlled by whomever occupies the government houses?

8. Do I sound too angry in some of my blog entries?

7. Has someone in the entourage of Nigeria’s president been reading my blog from Saudi Arabia as Google Analytics has pointed out? Because I would really be flattered. Who else could be reading from Saudi Arabia? Could it be the president himself, to while away the time?

6. Does snow and fog affect the visibility of airplane take-offs and landings?

5. Will I still be able to make blog posts in the Winter when at this moment of just minus six celcius my fingers are already freezing up? If I don’t make new posts for more than a week, will I ever be forgiven by my now dedicated audience?

4. What other impressions does the reader of this blog get after reading a few posts, other than the fact that I’m a curious and often impulsive questioner and prankster – no, I mean quiet and quite unassuming but often probing fella?

3. Who really are those guys who read without leaving comments? 😀

2. How many of my fellow FLTAs now scattered all over the country are looking forward to seeing me at the DC conference? How many of them have forgotten my name, or even what I look like? How many of them are enjoying their teaching and learning experience as I am? How many of the ladies have already accepted marriage or relationship proposals from their American hosts? And how many of the men have made such proposals and have been brutally turned down? 😀

1. Am I really, really making my country – and/or the Fulbright Organization – proud at the moment? What does that even mean?

The Anti-Stress Kit

As seen on the office door of my head of department, Belinda Carstens.

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At The Barber’s Shop

I will be the first to admit that the cliché of the “Barber’s Shop” experience topped my list of reasons to go and get a haircut yesterday downtown Edwardsville. You see, I’m one of those less-than-hairy folks who, even in the farther side of twenties, still has a shrub for beard, and even less – just a few strands of hair – for moustache. It has at least saved me the expense of large combs and shaving sticks, and I’ve delighted in being almost perpetually clean-shaven. In the case of this travel, it has so far saved me the ordeal of a regular haircut, and my three month-old head of hair still looked like one cut just a few weeks ago.

But I got self-conscious and started asking everyone if they thought that my hair was too long, and due for a cut. And they all said “yes”, yet I stalled, first because I wouldn’t stop trying to convert $20 into Naira and telling myself that it was too expensive, and second because I had considered it a strenuous chore to have to ride go the distance just to get a haircut which I didn’t think that I needed. In any case, my curiosity about the American Barber’s Shop, which had gained fame from movie portrayals finally goaded me on Friday towards CUT-N-UP, an African-American barber’s shop a little distance from campus.

The barber spotted me as a tourist just five minutes into my haircut. I would not stop taking pictures so he asked: “How long are you here for?” and I laughed. Then we got talking about other things. Where he’s from: East St. Louis. What else does he do: Dee-Jaying and record producing. He has been in the hair cutting business for seventeen years, and he has a son who is sixteen. Being from East St. Louis – one of the poorest neighbourhoods in Illinois, he told me of how he decided so early in life that he would not depend too much on his school high school certificate, but put his skills into use. Living in Edwardsville for the past seventeen years has taught him the benefits of self-employment. He goes back to East St. Louis occasionally, he says, to visit his folks, but can’t think of settling back there because of the overall feeling of hopelessness and laziness that pervades the environment: his words. This is not the first time I’m hearing of the gruesomeness of living conditions in that area of Illinois called East St. Louis. My secondary supervisor, Professor Afolayan goes to the neighbourhoods at least once a month to give talks to young residents about the advantages of education and zeal. I’ve now registered my intention to visit the place and see for myself. But the images are not flattering. And if any of the words I’ve heard are anything to go by, it’s not a place to go to alone, or at night – just like some parts of Nigeria where, like East St. Louis, creativity however manages to emerge once in a while.

There’s not much else to report about the ambience of the barber’s shop besides mirrors, posters, signs (one says: “if you don’t want a messed-up haircut, DON’T MOVE”), a cable channel showing the NBA games, comfortable chairs and magazines to read. Oh, they didn’t collect electronic payment, and the barber engaged me in a conversation throughout – just like in the movies. The difference was that, in this case, he’s far younger than most movie-made barber figures, and he had a Bluetooth headset on which he also talked to another person, all in a language very appropriate for the domain. My main problem now is that I now wish that I had left my bushy hair the way it was before. True, a few people have told me that I look much better now that the almost jungle is gone. Problem is, they are Americans who are already used to cold air licking their heads at this time of the freezing season. Me not, and I now have to go around with this soft fleece winter cap everywhere I go. I will survive, I think. I hope.

The Blood Bank

As soon as we passed by the Red Cross blood donation point at the SIUe quadrangle today, Chris and I, and managed to steer our conversation to donation of blood, I knew that I had come to another ktravula moment in the life of this journey. You see, I am conscious of all the dimensions of my Nigerianness, and about a year ago, just after I published my short story Behind the Door, I had had a conversation with an American friend who told me that she had been denied the chance to donate blood in America – for life – just because she ticked “yes” on a pre-donation questionaire that asked whether she has had “sexual contact” with anyone who was from or who had lived in Nigeria and some other sub-saharan African countries between 1977 to date. I didn’t believe it even after she sent me the online questionnaire, so I googled it up myself, and the result was indeed stunning. Nigerians, and everyone who has had sex with them were excluded from donating blood in America. (I don’t know yet if this is the same all over the world). The obvious question then is “Why?”, and it had circled my head for a while now, until that time this afternoon when I came within sight of the Red Cross truck on campus, asking students to donate blood. This website mentions requirements to donating blood in America but does not say why Nigeria is mentioned. So, you guessed it, I went right into the truck, leaving Chris outside to gape at what he said was an obvious time-wasting effort.

There was a sign-in sheet on the table. It had the name of those who are on the waiting list. On the examination table is a young woman whose blood was being taken. She had a pump in her right hand.

“Hi. Can I help you?” A young lady approached me. She wore a white lab coat.

“Yes,” I replied. “I’d like to donate blood.”

“Alright. You will have to write your name in here. The next slot opens at 1.45pm, and there are about three people before you already. Is that fine?”

“Yes, of course it is. I can always come back. But I’d like to know if there’s anything I need to read before you take my blood. Maybe instructions or anything like that.”

“Sure. Here, on the wall, is the first instruction. It’s important to read and understand it. And here is the comprehensive manual that every donor must read and comply with.”

“Can I sit and read it in lieu of going and coming back?”

“Yes, why not. Please sit over there.”

“Thank you.”

And read I did, carefully, until I got to where I am mentioned. Indeed, it’s written there in clear black ink of the excluded list. If you’re from Nigeria, If you have been to Nigeria, or had “sexual contact” with a Nigerian. Or if you have had malaria in the last three years, you CANNOT donate blood. I called her back and asked her why.

“HIV and AIDS, you know.”

“What?”

“HIV/AIDS”

“But you do know that not all Nigerians have HIV and AIDS, right?”

“I guess, but, erm, it’s what the FDA says. We just follow the law.”

“Oh my! So what you’re saying is that you have no way to know which blood is infected and which is not?”

“Like I said, it’s just the law, and we just follow it.”‘

By this time, a more mature looking woman also in a lab coat had shown interest in the conversation but maintained an aloofness that told me that she would allow the younger lady handle the situation rather than get involved. Whenever I looked in her direction expecting her to say something, she just smiled.

“I can’t believe this.” I said, as I gave back the booklet to her. “I guess I have to go now since you don’t want my blood.”

They didn’t say anything so I left, back to listen to Chris say “I told you so.” If she had said they do this because of malaria, I could have been a little more understandable. But AIDS? By population figures, there are probably more HIV infections in North America right now than in West Africa, but it is not so pandemic here because of adequate healthcare and healthy living. With the right technological advancement in medicine in the United States, this definitely did not have to be a factor for denying opportunity to a certain demographic to contribute to efforts to save lives worldwide. If I sound a little upset, it could be because I am at the incredulity of the whole matter. Maybe there are some things that people like me are not meant to understand.

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