MEMOIRS OF A NIGERIAN LIVING ABROAD (EPISODE 7)

Before I delve into this episode, I would love to delve Pa and Ma Nizzle for sending me to the best schools in Nigeria. Why? Because if I had not achieved the level of literacy I now possess, I would be mired in the technological jargons here in the UK. Even with my supposed level of literacy, you have no idea how many buses and trains I have missed because of the level of information you have to absorb. Information such as arrival times, departure, maps would keep your brain running at a million miles per second. If you want to come to the UK and your literacy level looks as bad Ronaldinho’s face, I suggest you brush up.

Back to my sojourn, I got to the Bournemouth station and after struggling with the ticket machine and enduring the impatient stares of the polite citizens who if they were Nigerians would have wonderfully blessed me with curses and insults, I finally found out that my fare would cost me £46.50. My legs started shaking and the syndrome I affectionately call the ‘Calculator Syndrome’ took over. The Calculator syndrome is that in which you unconsciously and subconsciously convert pounds into naira either with your head if you are at maths and if you are bad at it as I am, with you calculator. The syndrome has affected me so much and still does. Any price of any good or service quoted to me and immediately I am multiplying by N250. Major symptoms of this syndrome is increased heart beat, frequency of breaking into a cold sweat, leg shaking and twitchy movements, stammering and a severe bout of depression after paying. In short, my brain is a foreign currency exchange industry.

After paying at last, I walked dejectedly into the train hoping the Amala promised me would be worth the ticket fare. Because the train was so comfortable, it wasn’t long before I drifted into a nap and then I started dreaming weird things ranging from the absolutely ridiculous to the sublime. First, I dreamt I was on an okada heading towards Oshodi, after I alighted, I started chasing mosquitoes telling them I love them and they duly reciprocated singing hymns in my ears. I dreamt I was at an Ibadan Amala joint watching a obese woman prepare it with her sweat dripping into the Amala (we all know sweat actually makes the Amala sweeter), I saw the unlucky but sumptuous goats to be slaughtered into Egufe and licked my lips in anticipation.

My dream suddenly turned for the better with Miss Nizzle beside me, cuddling me, whispering love nonentities into my ears ...My dream was suddenly halted by sudden movement by my side. I woke up to see a heavily bearded Arab man with a turban by my side, he was reading something in Arabic and seemed to be chanting, beside him was a bag. I have never sweated since I arrived Uk before because of the weather but with this instance the sweat started to drip profusely. I started regretting and lamenting what the promise of Amala had gotten me into. To be blown to bits! To make things worse, the guy smiled at me and I started wondering what I would tell God at the pearly gates. Imagine telling him my time was cut short because of the black flour called Amala. For the duration of the trip, I prayed in languages from English, Yoruba and even French I couldn’t speak. When the train stopped at London Waterloo, I ran faster than Usain Bolt towards the exit.

London posed another challenge. First I would love to thank the Murray Bruce’s before I reveal the challenge. The challenge was that of escalators. There are too many escalators in London. If not because I had done Industrial Training in boarding escalators at the Silverbird Galleria and Ozone Cinemas, I would have been found severely wanting. Even with all my ‘training’, maximum concentration is required else I embarrass myself and the entire Nizzle household. This made me remember when I saved a girl from escalator death at Silverbird Galleria. The poor girl had never boarded one in her life but was still trying to feel sophisticated. Midway, she tumbled backwards and it took quick thinking on my part to drag her back save her from death or from the embarrassment that could equally lead to death. Please if you can’t board escalators, don’t try to be sophisticated, the best policy is to confess or take the stairs.

On the streets of London, the ladies especially the black ones were ogling me with their eyes like eye candy. Later on, I learnt the girls here have radar detectors to sense new fish in the pond which was supposed to be in this context. I could see them sharpening their knives, preparing to cast their nets. Pity! I was already taken. Not that I blame them though, a fine young man like me would always cause that reaction. If I was them, I might have done the same to me too.

Still on ladies, I have noticed that the backsides of white girls have grown considerably bigger. Previously, from what I used to see in movies, I thought it was a lot flatter but in actual view, from what I have seen, they are catching up seriously with the girls I used to eye through subterranean means via my rear view and side mirrors. I don’t know the cause but I would safely attribute it to climate change or depletion of the ozone layer. Or is it that Dr 90210 is working overtime? Beats me. Miss Nizzle, please disregard the above paragraph, let’s imagine I didn’t write that.

Around 4pm, it was already dark as is the case over here during winter. It is a very disconcerting feeling especially since that it not the case in Nigeria till 7:30pm. Imagine your whole environment dark around 4pm! It makes me lazy quickly because once I look outside and see that it is dark, I instantly assume the day is over and close my brain up for the day. Furthermore, I don’t understand the fact that Nigerian is an hour ahead. Does it mean I live in the past here? Does it mean Nigerians are one hour in the future? If so, it would be nice receiving information about what would happen in the next hour. Please if you’ve got exclusives, you could help me live a better life.

Finally after getting lost as I always seem to do over here, I got to my destination. My dreams had finally come true. I was at last going to reunite with Amala and before I forget, long lost relatives. My stomach did a joyful somersault and started singing songs of Solomon. This was going to be a fun-filled time and I intended to enjoy every morsel, the image of the Arab man on the train made me more determined...

MEMOIRS OF A NIGERIAN LIVING ABROAD (EPISODE 6)

In the beginning, the world was divided into the freezer and the oven. Countries in the freezer were mostly developed ones like the United States, the United Kingdom and other European countries while the oven comprised mainly of African countries and of course our beloved country Nigeria. In the freezer, most of the people are mostly passive, easy going almost to the point of being labelled ‘Mumu’ while in the oven, the inhabitants are overly aggressive, confrontational and the colour of their eyeballs are always red. In short, citizens of the oven are as paranoid as a Nigerian radio soccer commentator during a match. In the freezer, there is a culture of repairing and rehabilitation while the hobbies of the ‘ovenians’ are to destroy and lack maintenance culture. In the freezer, there is a high sense of transparency but in the oven, we have all been baked in corruption and the fine art of deception. In the UK, a minister can be held to just stealing a pound but in Nigeria, it would be a sin that could lead to being ostracized by your family members if you are in a position of authority and don’t embezzle. An attestation is the fact of how internet fraud a.k.a Yahoo-Yahoo is now our major export after petroleum and the major victims all come from the freezer hemisphere

I labelled the UK as part of the freezer because of the cold environment. It is so cold here that if you hold a hot bottle of Guinness and walk down the street, it would be cold before you get to the end of the road. I now understand the reason why Arsenal manager, Arsene Wenger shivers during matches. At first I thought it was as a result of the match tension but now I know better.

The weather here is also conditioned in such as way that even the most facially offensive person would actually start looking good after some months, to the extent that he would start comparing himself to a Denzel Washington. Well, with someone like me who was already pleasing to the eye before leaving Nigeria, the weather here has only reinforced my aesthetic value. Needless to say, I am a head-turner; Miss Nizzle is one lucky gal. I labelled the inhabitants of the UK as passive because everyone waits their turn over here. Everyone is a perfect gentleman. In Nigeria, if you decide to be a gentleman, you would be labelled as slow and what I popularly call a ‘John’.

The aggressive and greedy nature of humans even seems to have transcended into the behavioural structure of our animals and insects. You cannot afford to leave your food on the table without the mischievous rodent a.k.a rats coming to feast on your delicacy. I remember an epic battle I had in Nigeria; it was a titanic struggle between man, insect and rodent. On this particular day, I had been famished, as in I had not eaten all day. I finally managed to score myself some rice and chicken and settled down to do it justice. Before I knew it, a battalion of ravenous ants and a gang of cockroaches marched with vengeance towards my meal with determination in their eyes.  I was still swiping at them when some adolescent rats joined in the fray, aiming for my chicken. To tell you the truth I was scared and confused that day. I was very confused as to what to battle first as they all attacked my meal simultaneously; the situation was as confusing as someone telling to make a decision about which one you want between Jay-Z’s wealth and wife. The scary part was because of the new-found courage of the animals, the depth of desperation. That incident made up my mind to leave Nigeria before these animals plotted against my life.

Due to the fact that I was born and raised in the oven hemisphere, a lot of ‘ovenian’ deceptive characteristics have followed me here to the UK. Prominent among that characteristic is that of flashing. Flashing, a notorious phone habit (one used in cutting call tariffs) in Nigeria is now even a form of communication. You could use flashing to tell someone you are waiting outside, I have used it often to tell Miss Nizzle I love her, you could use it to find your misplaced phone, say good night e.t.c but over here it is non-existent. However, it has served me and still serving me well in the UK to cost enormous calling costs. Anytime I want to talk to my European classmates, I rarely use my credit. Once I flash, they would call back within seconds and I would give them the excuse of trying to call them...blah...blah...blah. Till date I have not been found out. Trying to push my luck, I put the same practice into use by flashing a Nigerian based over here. As I write this piece, he is yet to call back.

The freezer and oven have other differences. In the freezer we have butterflies while in the oven we are blessed with beautiful, sexy mosquitoes. In the freezer, romance rules eternal. All you have to do here is gaze into a girl’s eyes, hold her hands and tell her you love her. It doesn’t matter how much you have, your social class, all that matters is your declaration of love which you obviously uttered to fast track your green card application. Unfortunately, in the oven, if you tell a girl you love her, you had better be prepared to show her your account balance, the keys to your car and flat at Ajah to stand a good chance with her. Ah! Before I forget, load her phone with credit regularly too.

As I entered the train heading to London Waterloo, the freezer and oven theory played in my mind. I was past worrying though, all I had on my mind was the Amala that had been promised me in the English capital...

MEMOIRS OF A NIGERIAN LIVING ABROAD (EPISODE 5)

While I was in Nigeria, I felt I was precocious, that is being a young genius. Back home, I was like one of the youngest in class and of course one of the ‘smartest’. Nothing seemed beyond my reach and in fact it was sometimes embarrassing revealing my age in order not to be labelled ‘too young’. On getting to the UK, I expected this to be the case, I expected to be a young prodigy, expected to be hailed as a genius at the very least- I was wrong, very wrong.

Over here, I am what we Nigerians would term ‘Agbaya’. In class, I am surrounded with very intelligent 20 or so year olds who know more than what some lecturers back in Nigeria can only dream about. I seriously began to reduce the numbers of my Intelligence Quotient when I saw what I was faced with. All at once, I came to the sad realization that schooling in Nigeria was a play-ground and a skirt-chasing arena. Imagine using words like post-modernism, existentialism, solipsism, cultural relativism, hegemony regularly and then you start to get an idea of what I am talking about. Imagine arguing with and reading works of people like Roland Barthes, Fredrick Nietzsche, Baudrillard, Lichtenberg and then you would begin to understand why my hair is growing faster and my brain expanding like an inflated balloon. This seriously was a rude shock from using words like shebi, oya, abi and arguing about Guinness, Arsenal and Man-U in class to suddenly delving into an intellectual world like this made me have a rethink. I immediately made plans of knocking some years off my age so that they wouldn’t start looking at me like Olodo Agabaya.

However, one thing that I was a trendsetter in was in the social scene. I remember when we were going for a class outing one Thursday night. While we were going, one of my classmates driving was bitterly complaining of what he termed as traffic which in this case was less than five minutes. I gave him an unbelieving look, laughing in my mind on how lucky they were over here. I swear, if I put this fella on 3^rd mainland bridge traffic on a Friday Night, he would contemplate suicide by jumping into the ocean. I kind of felt nostalgic, missing the Lagos traffic. Most of my creative thinking was done inside Lagos traffic. I used to plan like a year advance of my life in traffic! I could watch half a season of Prison Break inside traffic!

As we continued, this same guy started complaining that the road around where we were going was bad. I braced myself hoping to see bad roads but to my surprise, the road he called bad, was smoother than a bald billionaire’s head. Imagine, if I dropped this guy on an average road in Lagos? Imagine if he had to drive without street-lights? During my stay here, I am yet to see a pot-hole. In Nigeria, the pot-holes were so much that I had an inbuilt GPDD (General Pothole Detecting Device) programmed in my brain. Needless to say, I pride myself on the fact on knowing where all the potholes in Lagos are located. Infact, the way the guy was driving was annoying and he claimed to have been driving for 4 years! Worse part was that all of them were driving like zombies. I missed my Lagos drivers; the dare-devil stunts we pull that would make Michael Schumacher blush in appreciation. I longed for the curses thrown on the roads, the tooting of horns and the million-per-second calculation our brain does in avoiding pot-holes, other drivers, pedestrians and of course the bloody  and often lawless Okada riders.

Finally we arrived at the club and I had to use my passport to get in. They didn’t want under-age people to get in but when they saw my face, saw my agbaya face, they let me in without objection. Once I got in, I noticed differences between clubbing in Nigeria and the UK. The first glaring one was the percentage of females that were drinking. In Nigeria, we guys for whatever reasons practically beg girls to take some alcohol which in most cases for whatever reason, they refuse citing that the only alcoholic drink they would contemplate drinking was the wallet sapping, milky, Baileys. Here, girls drink everything from beer to vodka and they do it until they literally drop. I noticed also the level of promiscuity here in clubs can be compared to that of Sodom & Gomorrah. It takes less than five minutes between a guy meeting a girl and getting accustomed to the machinations of her lips and tongue. I shuddered. I also noticed the music was not what I was accustomed to, they played a lot of garage music and techno and they all danced and bobbed their heads like wall geckos drunk on Shepe. I have never been a fan of Terry G but right then, I would have traded my Arsenal jersey to hear his music. After watching them a bit and after some pints descended into my nervous system, I decided to take law into my hands, by showing them how to rock the dance floor. Those who knew me in Nigeria heavily used to criticise my dancing style which bordered on the erotic but when I started moving those hips ‘African style’, giving them the Alanta and Yahoozee, all eyes fixed on me. I was like Michael Jackson when he was black without his gloves.

Like a magnet, they all started gathering around me and some even started emulating me. With my success on the dance floor, I silently imagined opening a dancing school based on my dance moves and making thousands of pounds off it. Imagine a school named- NIZZLE HOUSE OF DANCING. Ah! That would be nice. However, nothing beats clubbing in Lagos. I noticed that the guy who drove me didn’t drink much and he told me because he didn’t want to lose his license for drinking under the influence (DUI) because of the cops. I laughed. Laughed because, mid-night on Awolowo road on a Friday night was where you could see the highest congregation of drunk drivers in the world! Laughed because even in your intoxicated state, the Nigerian police wouldn’t penalize you, rather there are situations when we even give them alcohol too. Laughed because Nigeria is the only place I see hawkers selling can- beer in traffic to people that drive.

Laughing and bemused with my experiences that night, I left the club. It was odd because I was in a sea of white instead of usually being in the midst of my black brothers. All around me, I saw a lot of teenage drunks puking all around the corners; I saw some entering cabs ready for late morning trysts. I was alone (obviously, Miss Nizzle wouldn’t have it otherwise) and longed for more black, I decided to go to London not to see the Queen but long-seen relatives...

MEMOIRS OF A NIGERIAN LIVING ABROAD (EPISODE 4)

Firstly, I want to congratulate the ‘Super Chickens’ on their unlikely and undeserved qualification to the 2010 World Cup in South-Africa. After the match, they really made me jump around my room like an adolescent monkey on steroids. For like five minutes, my monkey business continued and you should have seen the ugly hollering noises I was making. After I calmed down, I began to miss not being on the streets of Lagos celebrating instead I was stuck in a cold, rainy England celebrating alone.

Now, back to my story but still on the theme of missing. After spending a couple of days and the euphoria of being in a new environment had subsided, I began to miss Motherland with an intensity I never imagined possible. Little things I used to take for granted came to the forefront and homesickness became the order of the day. It started when I was sleeping on my third night here; I realized that a certain winged creature a.k.a mosquito was missing in the scheme of things. I miss the wonderful buzzing noises the mosquito used to make in my ears, the wonderful lullabies it used to sing to me and of course I miss the erotic bites and caresses I received from it daily.

I miss being an irritant and pest to my friends who I used to daily disturb with my dry wit and humour; something I am sure they are sure missing right now too. I miss seeing household livestock like fowls and goats walk the roads, miss having to step on my brakes anytime they majestically cross the road, miss watching a horny cockerel chase a hen for copulation. Over here, it’s just the finished products you see and it could be quite depressing. I hate the psychological impact which sitting on the passenger side of the car here makes me feel, I can’t always help but press an imaginary brake or clutch since I always think I was sitting in the driver’s side of the vehicle. I miss the verbal gymnastics and insults thrown on the roads of Nigeria like Were, Oloshi, Ko ni da fun e, O ni fe te or if you are lucky actually experience a fist-fight. Over here, politeness is the order of the day and it is extremely boring. Worse still, I miss the tension inside the commercial buses in Lagos, the insults traded with conductors, the shouting of O wa o! when you get to your preferred destination. Over here, it’s so damn civil and you have to press a bell thingy when you get to your stop although I would very much prefer to bellow O wa o from the depth of my soul but then I would be arrested and charged for being a public nuisance.

I miss seeing ladies who are enormously endowed with booties and bosoms walking the streets or on okadas. Back then, my side and rear-view mirrors were my greatest assets especially if Miss Nizzle was sitting in the car beside me and didn’t want her to know I was scoping the lady. Well, Pa Nizzle was instrumental in teaching me that particular skill, learnt it from him since I was little. I miss not being able to lie on network failure if I forgot or didn’t call someone which I used to frequently do when I was in Lagos. Also, I miss not being able to use traffic as an alibi anytime I failed to turn up for an appointment on time. I miss the cacophony of blaring vehicle horns when I am stuck in traffic; over here it is so silent you could almost hear a pin drop. I miss hearing sounds from Dee Jays who have illegal stalls by the road play extremely loud music, over here; my ear-phones are my only salvation.

I miss the mental tasks my brain is forced to do like remembering to charge my phone, laptop, rechargeable lamp, iron my clothes because of NEPA/PHCN. I miss pouring fuel into the generator and pulling it, lighting up a stove, pumping water. I miss the dirty black uniform of the Nigerian Police, the dexterity they exhibit when palming those N20 notes.

Here, the police are so neat you actually wonder if they can catch a criminal with their fancy uniform. I miss being a ‘thousandnaire’ that is having thousands of bills in my wallet just for the fun of it. Here, if you can afford to have thousands in your wallet everyday then please give me your number and let’s be friends.

I hate listening to lonely love songs and automatically assume they are assuming to Miss Nizzle and I. ‘Long Distance’ by Brandy tops my list. I miss having to eat like a pre-historic man that is eating with my fingers and cracking bones. I miss Iya Basira, Iya Tunde, Iya Bola, in fact all the ‘Iyas’ that used to provide me sumptuous meals. I miss using my student ID card to watch movies at Galleria even though I have ceased being a student for almost 2 years. I used to do it so that I would pay N500 instead of N1, 500.

I miss sweating. Here, I am yet to see a droplet of sweat on my body. Anywhere I go, I have to have nothing less than 3 to 4 layers of clothing and shoes of course. Whatever happened to me going barefoot and wearing boxers to buy pure water? With all these ‘missing’ thoughts in my head, I bolted away from my room before loneliness overtook me. I ran away from the room faster than the day Miss Nizzle’s dad came home unannounced and unexpectedly from an outing. Before I could be sighted, I took the kitchen exit almost forgetting my shoes. Ah! Those were the days.

I headed out towards school, hugging my jacket tighter prepared for another intellectual adventure in class...

MEMOIRS OF A NIGERIAN LIVING ABROAD (EPISODE 3)

I used to constantly laugh at Leonardo Di Caprio in Titanic while he was freezing to death, now, not anymore now empathize with him despite feeling less than one-tenth of what he was feeling. Back home in Nigeria, I intentionally started an Industrial Training in 'Airconditionology' which means an act of being in the air-conditioner for a number of hours. All my preparations were in vain, as the chill hit me from different sides. This wasn't fair, for over twenty-something years of my life, I have been in perpetual heat and all of a sudden, I was thrust into this giant freezer of a country. At that moment, I longed for humid, sweaty Nigeria. Having my bath proved to be harder than the Gulf War, it took me ages getting the right combination between hot and cold and when I finished I had to rush to seek solace in front of the heater (my new best friend).
My first days here also proved to be filled with unnecessary paranoia. My mentality was still in Nigerian mode and i always had this feeling at the back of my head that NEPA a.k.a PHCN were going to strike. It was at this moment I realized how much my psyche has been affected by that 'terrorist organisation' known as PHCN. God, these dudes are worse than Al-Qaeda. I always rush to iron my clothes, charge my phone (which at the moment is complaining of overcharging) and my Laptop. The feeling still lingers and in a funny way I kinda miss the blackout and the way NEPA plays with our emotions when they toggle with electricity like kids in a candy store. After dressing, I set out for my first day at school. As I was walking out of my room, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and was impressed by what I saw: A confident, good-looking man. I silently thanked Pa and Ma Nizzle for their gene pool and I began to understand what Miss Nizzle saw and admired everyday.
Back to the story before self-conceit takes over, I started to walk to school, YES, Walk. I was not going to waste my money on cabs that the fare metres were faster than a male cheetah chasing a female one to mate. The bus too always took time to come, there were time-tables they adhere to and lazy me always missed the early one besides I always feel like Rosa Park in the bus anytime I enter. Imagine being the only dark-skinned guy in a whole bus, pretty spooky! I began to reflect on the irony of life: Back in Lagos, i used to drive everywhere, I loathed walking, entering bus and used to mock those who did and all of a sudden, I am now a 'walkaholic', sometimes, now, I think I can rival the Israelites of old in the walking game. Infact, I think I should be the next Johnnie Walker model. During my mandatory 15mins walk to school, I periodically cast envious glances at those who had cars and even more at those who had bicycles. Bicycles are the coolest, most efficient way of going to class here. They actually look like Range Sports to me here and I am looking forward to saving and buying my own shining bicycle.
Finally, I got into school. The environment was what I expected and so much more. Everything was neat, tidy, and picturesque. As I sauntered in, a girl smiled at me, I smiled back but alarm bells rang silently at the back of my head. I remembered Miss Nizzle's lovely face, her silent warning and I immediately sped away. The Devil is a liar. One thing I noticed was the multitude of smokers at the school. I instantly labelled school 'Smokeville; As in, they were so many and you would actually think nicotine was the new oxygen, not that I blame them, it was so freaking cold and smoking was an outlet. For a second, it looked tempting but once again Miss Nizzle's disapproving face flashed by joined this time by Ma and Pa Nizzle. Quickly I erased the thought and settled for a milder form of nicotine a.k.a Coffee. Walking into my faculty, I was amazed by the decor, the setting. It didn't look like school; it looked like President Yaradua's living room. I mentally compared it to Mass Communication, Unilag; it was like telling a tortoise to race with a Lamborghini. From flat screen TVs in every direction to elevators, to using special codes to enter your classes.  In class, everyone had a computer and you could choose to facebook even during classes. The internet was faster than Superman; I could go on and on. One particular episode made me flustered. It was during Radio presentation class and we all had to come in front of the class to present. To complicate matters, I was the only African in class and always have to be on my toes to represent and defend everything African. My classmates did their thing with their fancy accents and then it was my turn. When I got to the front of the class and heard my voice presenting, I almost broke down. I sounded like Olusegun Obasanjo at a press conference. I was surprised while they didn’t laugh because if it was me, I would have laughed so hard. My God, I was pathetic. My classmates are cool though and my name has never been pronounced better. The way they pronounce Akin is so sing-song, better than the guttural way you folks back home use to roughly call my name.
Getting directions to places is one thing that takes some getting used to over here. They believe too much in using maps. Ask for anywhere and they instantly log on to Google to get the map and directions. The sad truth is that I don't know how to use the freaking maps. Back at Nigeria, my map was the nearest okada man who could direct me anywhere. Well, if you can't beat them, join them but i still prefer okada men any day, anytime though. Another thing here is the food. I miss hot Amala. My dreams nowadays are laced with 'Amala and pounded yam intentions'. Over here, I eat trash, food that I can't even pronounce the name. The diet has so changed that my stomach rumbles in protest, I can hear it screaming ‘Amala,Amala,Amala’. My diet has so changed that even my fart smells different. Smells like jand, you could use it as fresheners.
After classes, I headed back to my room. Crossing the road tentatively like a northerner hooked on anti-depressants. To prepare for another day, to adjust to another culture...

MEMOIRS OF A NIGERIAN LIVING ABROAD (EPISODE 2)

After getting the necessary directions from the stewards at London Waterloo, I trudged into the train not unlike Noah’s animals entering the ark. I settled into a seat beside another black, another Nigerian coincidentally and it was then I noticed that Britain is an ‘earphone’ nation. Almost everyone had ear-phones plugged in, they wear it everywhere probably during copulation too. Oh I digress! The innards of the train was super! It looked just like a plane and it was very comfortable. The inside of the train looked far better than anything Nigerian Airways had in her heyday. After almost 3 hours on the train I sought refuge at as friend’s mum’s place at Dorset. You wouldn’t believe this; I actually ate hot Amala and watched AIT while I was there before retiring for the night.

The next morning, my friend’s mum advised me, prayed for me and urged me not to become irresponsible by getting tattoos and stuffs. Finally, she blessed me with the greatest gift ever, she gave me GARRI. In hindsight I regret not packing a lot when I was coming over from Nigeria, bringing then looked superfluous to me. That aside, I ventured out and the cold hit me smack from my face down to my genitals. My breath started to cloud, I felt like a character in those movies and I was like yeah! I have arrived. I hereby made a mental note to use Aboniki as my body cream every morning (I bought a dozen while I was coming). The train station proved another challenge, apart from the heavy baggage, paying was kind of hard too, the British currency has so many goddamn coins that it took me an eternity sorting out how much I was actually supposed to pay. This wasn’t helped by my poor mathematical skill which is appalling to say the least. Within an hour-and a half, I got to Bournemouth Train station where I hailed a cab. Even though the weather was freezing cold, I almost broke out in a sweat when I saw the way the cab meter was running, it was faster than Usain Bolt on steroids and I was flustered to say the least. I noticed how neat the roads were, there was a litter bin every few metres. I longed for Nigerian dirty roads where I could go to a corner and pee like a stray dog. Not in a chance in hell could I try it here. Their whole society is like Big Brother, there is always a camera watching you, so very creepy but it is still better than those nefarious brown-wearing LASTMA officials. I noticed that the driving was sane, in Nigeria we drive like raving lunatics; here civil driving is an understatement. In Nigeria, when the traffic light turns yellow, you rush to beat it but over here, they just chill and remain relaxed. Here, there are lights for pedestrians and there is a button you press when you are waiting. I compared this to Nigerians who run like rabid fowls on Ikorodu road despite pedestrian bridges. The buses here are driven by neat, responsible men who could pass for school principals. In Nigeria, the drivers are either half-stoned on marijuana or imbibed so much shepe that everything is a purple haze. As I alighted, crossing the road was hard, I kept looking at the wrong side (In Britain it is right hand drive so the roads are constructed as such). While trying to cross a car sped towards me, instead of shouting invectives at me like Were, Oloshi, the man actually smiled and let me pass. At first, I thought it was a peculiar case but I later found out everyone is like that over here. They are so patient that when I cross the road now, I swagger; at least they can’t hit me now? As I walked down to my hostel I noticed that the houses all looked neat with low fences and not the high ones we’ve got in Nigeria. With the fortresses we build back home, you would think there was an Ark of Covenant in each house. God, we even put barb-wires and bottles. How very barbaric!

After my road battles, I got to my room and believe me, I got ecstatic when I saw it. First, an elevator took me to my room and I actually use a card to open my freakin door! My room looked like a 5-star hotel and I was like ‘This is the Life’. An image of my Abule-Oja place of abode crossed my mind and I shuddered. My roommates were from different parts of the world-Turkey, Thailand, United States, Greece and they all welcomed me. It felt like the United Nations in here, so many nationalities. I had my wireless internet connection and believe me when I say browsing here is the ‘ish, so fast that it goes before you even click. Browsers in Nigeria, I hail thee.

Getting to school was another experience; I had to hurry because I had missed 2 weeks of lectures. I hurried through registration, snapped a horrid picture for my ID card which looks like a mug shot and bounded over to class. As I walked into class, a lecture was already 30mins in progress. Everyone looked back and I was like ‘WTF’. Expecting far worse, I was heartily greeted. Apparently they had all been expecting me and believe me they have been helpful in helping me settle. The class was a thoroughly intellectual one, so very much that I started developing a migraine. What the hell did I learn in Africa? I put the thought out of my head and vowed to catch up...

MEMOIRS OF A NIGERIAN LIVING ABROAD (EPISODE 1)

While I was schooling in Nigeria, there was this rogue publication called The Watchdog, an evil write-up that seemed to get into every one’s business and mock them like hell. I was the first victim of this insidious publication but despite all these, I was continuously linked as being the man behind it all by friends like Demola, Osho, Ayomide Tayo and other classmates.

Less I digress; this is about me, about my new life experiences in the Land of the Queen (a damn expensive place where everything is taxed). Leaving Naija was kinda hurried, got my visa on a Friday and travelled on Sunday, so everything at that point was like I was on a fast-forward button. Leaving my friends was very hard, harder than I imagined, a whole me actually shed tears, as in REAL TEARS! The worst was at the airport when I was saying goodbye to Ma Nizzle, it started with a whimper and almost turned into a wail. Also had to say goodbye to my friends, my dad and last of all Miss Nizzle. At that point, I thought I would break down and had to hurriedly walk away before security guards at MM Airport arrest me for bring a crying nuisance.

The flight with Arik (a very cool airline) lasted like 7 hours, in-flight I kept eating like a rabid monkey and touching the on flight entertainment system. Damn! I was like a kid in a candy store. I had to stop though when I noticed some stares plus the fact that i didn’t want to press that button that would/might crash the plane. On the plane, i reminisced about everything I was leaving behind; from my job, St Bottles Celebrations every Friday, my family, Miss Nizzle, Gidi... For the first time in my life, I was going to be alone, truly alone...

After landing and waiting for a while for my two heavy luggages (loaded with stock fish, garri and other African paraphernalia) which took some time to come, I confidently swaggered to the front of Heathrow. The first blast of cold weather almost had me running to Nigeria. As in, it was freaking cold! I had heard that it was cold and actually bought jackets but ii wasn’t prepared for that kind of cold. Worse still, I was told that it was still warm, that the actual cold had not even started s till dreading when that time comes. At the terminal, I saw a lot of black dudes, hustlers, all speaking Yoruba who were cab drivers. I looked around and picked the oldest and seemingly responsible one who agreed to take me to Waterloo station for 20 pounds. I walked towards his cab and wanted to get into the passenger side only to find out that was the driver side, Silly me! The driver sensing this smiled and after seeing me shivering with teeth clattering like a drenched puppy, he switched his heater on. He was a Nigerian who had resided in England for around 6 years. Looking at him and with no disrespect, he was at the bottom of the British class system but with the tale he told me, he was a big boy in Ibadan, Nigeria with a lot of houses. We stopped at a fuel station which had no fuel attendants. He paid and sold fuel himself. I asked if he could just sell without paying and he said yes but that CCTV was monitoring and he would be apprehended. In my mind, I was like ‘Yeah Right’ Imagine that system in Naija? He was friendly right until the point when he wanted his money; his parting shot was that ‘In London, we don’t play with money’

With my heavy bags, I trudged along to the station. Citizens of London all looked at me and pitied me, really I was a pathetic sight, carrying such load and shivering + looking extremely lost. I stood straight, I was here for a purpose and i was going to achieve it, BELIEVE THAT! I bought my train ticket and headed towards Bournemouth...