1981 to 1984
My African adventure
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| With some of my students at the Kumbotso Teacher Training College, Kano in 1981 |
This is going to feel strange but also interesting. It’s the 1st of June, 2018 and I’m going to start typing my diary notes from the time I went to Nigeria at the end of 1980. At that time my notes were done on an old manual typewriter but now I’m putting them onto my iPad. I’m looking forward to re-doing them, reading about the things I did, places I visited, people I knew. I will also be reminded of things I’d completely forgotten. So here we go.
All the postings about my Nigeria experience can be found by clicking on the location labels on the right or on the links of archived posts.
Moving to Nigeria
There was never any doubt in my mind that I had done the right thing in agreeing to teach in Nigeria for two years. Now that in itself is a laugh. I’d been teaching in the high school in Alix and at the end of my second year I decided to apply for a position at the Lacombe High School which involved taking care of the greenhouse, and presumably teaching something about plants. Seeing as my degree is in plant sciences I thought it was appropriate. I’d done four years of a university degree in plant sciences and then I’d jumped straight into a PhD programme based on forestry mycology. It’s a long story, but for this particular writing, I can say that I also jumped out as I was hated it. I discovered I enjoyed teaching so I took a one year programme to become a teacher. The sad part is that nobody wanted a biology teacher and so I ended up teaching business subjects - things that I was good at but didn’t want to do for the rest of my days.
I didn’t get the Lacombe job and, as I’d not bothered applying anywhere else, I ended up at the start of the school year without a job. Woe is me! I saw an advert for World University Service (WUSC) asking for teachers to go to Kano State in northern Nigeria. I applied and was eventually sent to Vancouver for an interview with officials from Kano. We weren’t going as volunteers but rather as teachers employed by the state. I met Eloise Burke the lady who’d been in contact with me - what tickled me was that she signed her name with a small ‘e’ and ‘b’, which definitely showed an independent spirit. She was black but I don’t think she was Nigerian. She said, “We are going to hire you but could you comment on this.” She showed me a comment from my former school superintendent who said, “Peter does not get along with authority.” I was flabbergasted but, putting two and two together, I realised where the comment had come from.
For almost two years I’d lived in Lacombe and travelled the 50km to Alix each day with two teaching colleagues. One of them was Connie who was also new to teaching. Butler was our principal and he was the type of person who came to school wearing cowboy boots and using cowboy language. He was a bit derogatory about females on staff and one day Connie went to see the superintendent. She told him what she didn’t like about Mr. Butler but the superintendent said he’d not heard anything about it from anyone else. Connie said, “Well, Peter agrees with me.” Most likely I did, but there was no need for her to drag me into the conversation. Being a male teacher I had no problem with Mr. Butler and had never discussed his behaviour. So I think that’s why I didn’t get the Lacombe job - at least it’s nice to think that might have been the reason. So, saying that I’d done the right thing going to Nigeria is a bit of a misnomer - I’d got no job and the chance to teach came up - I grabbed it.
The interview was held in the hotel in Vancouver. I arrived to find myself faced by a number of Nigerians, all wearing traditional outfits and all in bare feet. They looked very elegant with their flowing robes and fancy embroidered hats. The interview went well and I was told I would be hired to teach high school biology. I was over the moon.
I still seemed to be indispensable on the farm but, during my free time, I drove down to Calgary and Lacombe to visit friends. Everyone expected me to visit them again, before leaving for Nigeria, and I always agreed, even though I knew in the back of my mind that I wouldn’t be driving down again.
The seemingly endless infections for a variety of African sicknesses tool a toll on me. When I visited the clinic I presented the doctor with a letter from WUSC, explaining that I was a volunteer about would he be kind enough to waive his fees - he didn’t.
I never felt sick from the injections but they certainly caused me discomfort and sore. I was told I should have my teeth overhauled and so my worst day was having three needles in my mouth and two in my arm; I didn’t know whether I was coming or going. My teeth were checked at the University of Alberta, in Edmonton, by a professor of dentistry. She said I had three wisdom teeth and they should come out as I’d have trouble with them. Forty years later I still have them and have never had a single problem with them.
One day I visited the doctor for more tests and one involved leaving a sample of my urine. The stuffing was knocked out of me when the doctor announced that there was a small amount of blood in my urine. All sorts of thoughts flashed through my mind. The most ominous was the fact that my dad had died from bone cancer and earlier he’d gone through surgery for prostate cancer and bowel cancer. I had a medical examination at the hospital and was greatly relieved when they could find no reason for alarm. I was happy with the results but could have done without the embarrassment of the examination. Looking back on this time, I believe the blood in the urine was the start of a health issue I developed in Nigeria.
I threatened my friends that if there’d be any kind of farewell celebration I’d disappear. It isn’t that I dislike parties but I hate being the centre of attraction. Regardless of my warnings I managed to be surprised by a mass gathering of friends at the farm. After I got over the shock I joined in the skits and even didn’t mind the songs and poems that were written on my behalf. Friends plied me with gifts; the most popular items seemed to be Tupperware containers but, being a typist, my most precious gift was a small portable typewriter.
When my last week in Canada arrived it occurred to me that I would not have my friends and animals around me for much longer and I wanted to be in their company all the time. I found myself going around the calf barns, hugging my favourite calves, and talking to the cows I liked best. I even regretted leaving Chester the bull and I fussed over him more than usual. While I was away in Africa, Chester shoved Rick against a fence - I guess he didn’t think much of Rick. The family felt they had to have Chester slaughtered as he might injure a worker. I’m glad I wasn’t there when it happened as I thought Chester was lovely.
I packed all my possessions, which weren’t much, and stored them in the attic of the old farm house. Some of my furniture went to friends who would use it while I was away. I always believe that when I take a picture down from the wall then it’s no longer home - it was definitely the case this time as every single item went into a box or was passed on to someone else.
My last full day arrived and I had my final breakfast with the farm family. I also had a special time with friends later in the day when I set off for Edmonton to spend the evening with some of my friends who are old in age and old in years known - we met at the home of Jean Twiss who was suffering from lung cancer. The first thing that went wrong was a power cut which forced us to walk up the 12 flights of stairs. Miriam, Jean’s Jewish home help, had gone to a lot of trouble setting up the meal but unfortunately she couldn’t cook a lot of it with having no electricity. We dined by candlelight and had a wonderful time together. Tom Williams was there and it was good that he could be with close friends as he had lost his mother that day.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang and Tom let in a man who promptly served a summons to Miriam to appear in court. The happy atmosphere changed to one of tension and unhappiness as Miriam began to cry. I have never understood all her problems but it seemed a harsh way to deal with this diminutive Jewish lady who had no family to support her at this time. One friend felt that the only way out of this situation was to use the power of prayer so each of us handed Miriam’s problem over to the God she said she didn’t really believe in. Tom told her of his own life in which he was issued an order at one point that prevented him entering his own home or seeing his own children. Most likely it was to do with his alcoholism at that time. All these things helped to brighten up the home again and we all relaxed. Jean had felt that with everything going wrong it might have been wrong to suggest the party but the rest of us felt it couldn’t have been planned better as we were able to support both Miriam and Tom in the time of need.
My last night was spent in the home of Beth and Dean Colpitts. Long ago they decided to adopt me and I have looked upon them as a special kind of grandparents. I felt sad at leaving them as they were in their 80s and one never knows how much longer they would be around. The next morning we set off for the airport and said goodbye to each other. There were tears in our eyes; nothing much was said, nor was it necessary. Another pang of guilt struck me as I watched them slowly walking away with their arms linked together. I had already had a sleepless night in which I had written letters to friends telling them how much their friendships had meant to me and so by the time I got onto the plane I was beginning to feel like a wet rag that had been wrung out too many times. Reading these notes 38 years later makes me wonder if I thought I was leaving for another planet.
The time spent in Ottawa was interesting and hectic. I was able to meet the rest of the group and to learn a little about teaching in Nigeria. Any free time we had was spent chasing from one shop to another, picking up the last items on our shopping list and trying to squeeze them into our already bulging suitcases. We’d only been allowed one suitcase and we were expected to take everything we might need. We’d no idea what to expect in the way of purchases in Kano so I’d even packed my trusty pressure cooker which turned out to be one of the best things I did in my plan for Kano.
Our final evening was spent at the home of the Executive Director of World University Service of Canada and he had invited a number of people from government and CUSO to be there. We wandered around talking to people and I was fascinated by the way the government people introduced themselves - John Smith, CIDA, Ghana desk; Bill Brown, External Affairs, Anglophone and Portuguese Africa. The conversations I had seemed to be standard and quite shallow. I had the feeling that while I was talking they were already planning what they were going to say to the next person they would meet.
I enjoyed the drive to Mirabel airport in Montreal and already my mind was wandering over to England and the one and a half days I would be able to spend with Mother and the family. When I had originally agreed to go to Nigeria I had hoped to spend two weeks in England but now it had been drastically reduced. We were told three times that the flight was delayed and so it came as no surprise when we were told it was cancelled and would not be leaving until the next afternoon. We trudged over to the airport hotel and subjected ourselves to a full dinner at midnight. Gradually, the group took on a party atmosphere as we suffered together. Those who had bought duty free goods were getting sick of handing in their goods and returning to the hotel as further delays were announced. I was fascinated by the people I met: an old man from Salzburg who had been a friend of the von Trappe family before the war, a lady who had brought along an alarm clock based on. Big Bird from Sesame Street. The clock proved quite a success when we eventually got on the plane, and we were entertained by the clock telling us to, “Wake up, don’t go back to sleep, put one leg out of bed and now the other. Have a good day and don’t forget to wind me up!”
One the plane I sat next to a man who was going to Belfast to see his sick mother. Unfortunately, due to the plane delay, he had heard that his mother had died. He talked a great deal about the anger and emotion he felt and I thought that I should tell him about my Father who had been under sedation when I had to leave him to return to Canada. I couldn’t say goodbye and I heard two weeks later that he had died. I told the man that my Dad had died on the 23rd January 1976 and he looked at me surprised. “Do you know what today’s date is? It’s the 23rd January.” What a coincidence that his mother had died on the same day as my Dad and what a marvellous thing that we could be together on the same flight. I am a great believe in fate and I felt that it had been intended that we sit together as I was able to help him in his hour of need.
The captain found out about the Sesame Street clock so he kept coming out of the cockpit, borrowing the clock, and walking up and down the aisle playing it for the passengers. He even came out of the cockpit one time with a light bulb in his hand that kept lighting it up. I don’t think I even thought about who was flying the plane when he was having fun with the passengers.
I dreaded arriving at London’s Heathrow airport at 2.30am and having to stagger around with 150 pounds of luggage. I was therefore pleasantly surprised when I was whisked through all the formalities in less than fifteen minutes. I wandered through the long line of people waiting for friends and family, knowing that I could never hope to pick out my family from the sea of faces. I arrived at the end of the line of people with no one coming forward to lay claim to me. I wandered off to the British Airways information desk to see if they could find me a hotel but I changed my mind and went for a final walk around the receiving area. I was too tired to show any emotions but I was very happy to see my brother Brian coming towards me. He’d been told that I would be at least an hour going through customs and so he had gone off for a snooze.
The drive to Armthorpe was enjoyable but I have to admit I talked a lot. I don’t know if I was doing it to keep the driver awake or me. My receptions at home are never overly enthusiastic as we are not a family for showing emotions, but the warmth is expressed with immediate cups of tea. I was encouraged to wake up Mother with a cup of tea at 5.30am. She was totally deaf and so, holding the cup in my hand, I poked her on the nose with my foot; she woke up looking bleary eyed. Without her glasses she couldn’t tell that it was me and so I received a telling off for being daft. Finally the light dawned and she immediately got up and joined the gathering crowd in the kitchen were most of our family meetings seem to take place.
One big joy about my family is that I can stay in one spot and still manage to see many relations. I remember driving to Close Street in Hemsworth to visit my Grandmother’s relations. I knocked on the door of a cousin and told her I didn’t have long. I then returned to the car while she knocked on the fireplace wall to let he Aunt know she was needed. Someone was then sent up the street to fetch my Great Aunt while others went across the street to inform three other households. It was marvellous being able to do such a vast amount of visiting by smily sitting on the car seat with my feet planted firmly on the pavement. Another interesting thing about Close Street is that one day I went with my brother David and he decided to take my photo standing by the door of one of our relatives. When the photo was developed we saw, above my head, an engraving which said “Heyes Cottages” - it was even spelt the way we spelt our name which isn’t so common in Yorkshire. On the other hand, there are lists of people called Heyes in telephone books of places around Liverpool. I guess the families all came over from Ireland. Dad moved to Yorkshire to get work so he was one of the rare ones who moved.
It is always good to see every single family member, but this time I was really looking forward to seeing my sister Margaret. She had been going through a rough time after having surgery to remove a tumour from her brain. They couldn’t remove all of it so she was on a lot of medication. She was having to relearn so many things, even the names of family members that she’d forgotten. Her personality had also changed and I was fascinated to see how true that was. She had often had the reputation for being a moaner, even though she was good natured about it. Now, all this had gone and she was fun to be with. It was good to see how the family had rallied around to help her through this time. She joked about her problem and said I had to be careful or she would have a funny turn. At times she would indicate that we should carry on talking but she was going through a period of not being able to communicate. She told me that she had to write on her hand where she was going and other details, if she went into town, as she might have a turn and would forget everything. One of my sisters went over one day to clean for her and she started to chat to another sister. Margaret threw her ash tray at her saying, “I don’t pay you to chat.”
The other sick one in the family was brother John. He had undergone surgery for a twisted bowel and was having his bowel movements through a hole in his side. John can’t stand being sick and he is like my dad in that regard, always letting his temper get the best of him and making the rest of the family, especially Mother, suffer for his illness. During my brief visit his bowels were leaking more frequently than usual and he was continually having to change his clothes. He couldn’t understand why Mother was a bit reticent about helping him to attach the bag to the hole - he didn’t seem to realise that she did not enjoy having her adult son standing in the middle of the kitchen floor with is underwear around. his ankles. Mother’s deafness is a blessing to her at times, as she can’t hear the language that’s going on, but she is still able to sense the vibrations of the temper in the air.
During my brief six hours at home I managed to see eleven brothers and sisters, three in-laws and one future in-law, three nieces and one nephew. It was then time to drive back down to London for my flight to Kano. I tried to stay awake so that I could savour a last look at England that I felt sorry to leave but I finally gave in to sleep and only woke up infrequently to chat with the members of the family who had come to see me off.
The flight to Amsterdam was uneventful apart from the fact that I was going to be charge for forty kilos of excess baggage which, at six pounds per kilo was quite expensive. Fortunately the staff accepted the fact that I was en route from Canada and so I was let off.
Transferring to the Nigerian Airways flight to Kano was like stepping into another world. The plane was jam packed, people were being turned away and there were no reserved seats. One man was given a reprimand by the staff for swearing loudly. My neighbour had a continuous argument with the steward because he insisted on having his large suitcase travel as a passenger. He even strapped it into the seat to prove his point.
Arriving at Kano airport at 3am was also an experience. We squatted on the floor for an hour filling in the necessary forms for entry. At the back of my mind was the fear that if the officials didn’t like the look of my information they’d put me on the next plane out of the country. The customs officials made me even more apprehensive; none of them smiled and, just down from me, a man was having his suitcases emptied. I was approached by an enormous man, who was around 2 metres tall and weighing at least 120 kg. Without a word he placed a large chalk mark on my case and I was through. I was just going through the gate when a hand reached over and tapped my flight bag. “He wants to search it for plant material”, I was told. My flight bag was a source of embarrassment as it was in such a mess. In Heathrow I had apologised for its appearance when the staff wanted to search it. The man replied with a smile, “Yes, I know it’s in a mess and that’s why I want to look at it.” I felt even more uncomfortable when he lifted up a bag of liquorice Pontefract Cakes that a brother had given me. I was so stupefied, when he waved them in the air, as I had completely forgotten what they were. I didn’t feel too badly when he admitted he’d forgotten their name too.
Coming from the Canadian winter it was a wonderful experience, in the dark of the early morning, to be able to walk around in shirt sleeves, in balmy temperatures, and to see roses in bloom. The streets were deserted as we ignored all the red lights on our way to the. Central Hotel. I had been travelling for nearly two weeks and so I was getting fed up carrying my 150 lbs of luggage. I was almost ready to go on strike when I carried them up two flights of stairs only to find that I couldn’t get into my room.
I’m quite a naive and innocent minded person and so I didn’t realise the trouble I was getting into when I smiled at a lady who was waiting in the hotel foyer. Gradually, all the others in the group went off to their rooms and I was left on my own waiting for my room key. In my innocence and possible tiredness I hadn’t thought that she was a lady of the night. I wandered outside to stand in the cool darkness and suddenly I started to. hear musical whistles coming from the alcove where she was standing. When I didn’t respond the whistles got louder and more varied until finally she got exasperated and started shouting “Honey”, and blowing me kisses. I had no idea if there was any special way to tell a Nigerian prostitute to “Buzz off!”, and so I was glad when I was finally lead off to my room.
She was quite a persistent lady and, whenever I was sitting on my own in the hotel garden, she would saunter round and around the pillars and, as she passed me she would make sucking noises, which I presumed to be the equivalent of blowing kisses, and whispering terms of endearment. I realised I’d got off lightly as a couple of our group had just entered their room when she burst in on them and described what she would do for them. They eventually had to push her out of the room.
After a few days of rest we started to break ourselves gently into the education system of Nigeria. We had an invitation to hear lectures on a variety of topics given by senior education officials. Driving through the city my mind was ready to burst with all the aspects of culture that was bombarding it. The noise of the traffic was unbelievable; ever single driver on the road was honking at every other driver who was within his vision. No one seemed to care about the location of the white lines and, scattered along the roadsides, were evidence of the reckless driving habits. There seemed to be no pattern of removal for damaged vehicles and even the sight of some horribly damaged vehicles didn’t seem to deter the drivers. I was fascinated by the variety of costumes; it was like a scene from Arabian Nights. Men in long flowing robes and beautifully woven hats handled their motorcycles and scooters with dexterity, weaving in and out of the lines of cars. The majority of the population seemed to be selling something. Little stalls were everywhere and, if the people had no stall, then we were accosted as our vehicle stood at a traffic light. The articles for sale were mind boggling; food, clothing, plastic ware, radio antennas, immersion heaters. Boys carrying single items such as a kettle; cigarette salesmen even offering single cigarettes. I was fascinated by the Tuareg tribesmen from Niger. They were swathed in black with only their eyes showing, even in the heat of the day. They always strode along with such a determined attitude in their stride. I was told that if I wanted to hire a watchman I should hire a Tuareg for they carried swords and they would use them, plus various magical objects that would defend them from attackers. I couldn’t take my eyes off them and, when one of them saw me staring at him, he gave me a wink.
Our meetings were meant to introduce us to Nigerian education and customs but I must admit I was more interested in the people who gave the lectures. I have never met a group of strangers who were so polite, kind and caring, especially when I reminded myself that they were our employers. They made us feel important and that we had come to solve their educational problems. They were such gentle people and, rather than the cursory “Hi”, they was a lot of hand shaking and touching the heart. Back in the West we’d say “Hello, how are you”, but here they asked all sorts of questions that had to be answered in a specific way. “How is life?” “Life is fine”. “How is the family?” “The family is fine”. “What is the news?” “The news is good” and on it would go, shaking hands each time and touching the heart.
I began to see the enormity of the problem of having a universal education in Nigeria when I saw the equipment the people have to work with. I would have expected the Kano Education Resource Centre to be full of the latest equipment but I soon realised that I’d have to put my Western style education out of my mind if I wanted to survive in Africa. I was amazed to see that many of the senior educators weren’t even Nigerian but came from other parts of the world such as India, Pakistan, Philippines and now Canada.
When we were still in Canada we were warned about what foods to eat and which were unsafe unless washed or treated. I therefore felt a bit uneasy when I was faced with some delicious looking tomato and lettuce sandwiches. We had been warned of the dire consequences of eating vegetables which could have been fertilised with human excrement, and that food such as tomatoes and lettuce must be treated before eating. I didn’t want to offend our hosts by refusing them so I was relieved when, after a few days, nothing had happened to my bowels.
During my stay at the hotel I became more and more irritated with the behaviour of my room steward. It seemed as if he was constantly watching me because, as soon as I’d go into the room, he would suddenly appear at my door. I tried different ways to enter the building but, even if he was nowhere in sight, he would always knock on my door as soon as I’d closed it. I soon gathered that he liked his drink as he insisted on my knowing that he would be off on the day I left and would like a little money for drink. At this point he would raise his fist to his mouth and make gurgling noises. When I got angry with him he would bow, shake my hand and, with a smile and a few squirting noises, he would demonstrate that he would like to disinfect my room.
While at the hotel someone came and said we’d go to a club in the evening. I can’t remember a single thing about the club but I do remember getting there. We’d borrowed a vehicle and everything went well until we got a puncture. We were stuck in the middle of nowhere; no one had a clue where we were and it was pitch black. The vehicle had no jack and, even though some people stopped to help us, they couldn’t as their jacks didn’t fit our vehicle. Janet was getting paranoid stuck in No Man’s Land, which was actually the name of the area, with howling dogs prowling around us. Suddenly a truckload of paramilitary men jumped out waving their rifles. We were really nervy by this time and, with their aggressive behaviour, we didn’t know what to do. Wilma had taken our passports to get them stamped so we had no identification on us. Suddenly Eugene had a brainwave and flashed his international driver’s licence. They looked it it, believed it was some sort of official document, and went on their way. Eugene can be a nuisance but he comes in handy sometimes.
I had enjoyed the Central Hotel and even the incident with the prostitute was an experience I’ll enjoy recounting. Eating breakfast in the dark because of frequent power cuts was always an experience. Nigerian waiters seem to have a healthy feeling of their own importance and it wasn’t unusual to see one of them laying the law down to a customer.
I had come a long way from Canada to teach and now the deadline was fast approaching when I would be taken to my school and left on my own. I wasn’t going to a strange place as one day we were given a tour of the school. After seeing a couple of older establishments I was pleasantly surprised when I saw my future school. The classrooms were brightly painted blue and the dormitories red. Although the surrounding grounds were relatively bare, an attempt was under way to have trees and flower beds planted. The students organised and tended their own flower beds in front of their individual classrooms. Trees had been planted around the grounds and their young trunks protected from foraging animals with wicker work tubes. Many of the trees were Neem, which had been brought to Africa from India. It’s known as the “miracle tree” because of the benefits humans receive from various parts of the plant. I have been told that antibiotics can be made from the leaves, along with contraceptives and other medicines. The students have discovered that the small twigs make excellent toothbrushes. They would chew on the end to loosen the fibres and then merrily scrub their teeth. I felt sorry for the trees as none of them had branches until they were too high up for the students to reach.
I was glad I wasn’t a student in Nigeria when I saw the beds they had to sleep on. They had metal army-type bunks but, if they did not have their own mattress, they used straw mats or sheets of cardboard. The mats were only about a centimetre thick and they were placed directly on top of the metal wire frame of the bed. It amazed me that they could get any comfort from that sort of bed. Some students had hung lengths of cloth around their beds which might have been for privacy or to keep in the heat as I’ve been told desert nights can be chilly.
I was even more disappointed when I saw my house. I’d been told in Canada that it would be like a Canadian summer cottage and so I was surprised to see that it was much larger. It had two large bedrooms because the homes were built for Muslim families in which there may be more than one wife. There were three french windows in the living room that was enormous and in an L shape. I was also looking for something up to Canadian standards of cleanliness, and this I definitely didn’t find. An attempt had been made to mop the floor and at the same time the dirty water had been splashed up the walls. The painting had been done in a technique that could be best described as splash and dribble; in places there was as much paint on the floor as on the walls. The fridge stood higgledy piggledy on broken pieces of concrete as the cord was too short to reach the plug. Windows were broken and I immediately had a vision of being eaten alive by mosquitoes.
On the day of my departure to the school I dashed across the road to the supermarket only to find that their lunch break was from noon to 3pm. The school bus came to pick me up promptly at 2pm and, with the help of the school messenger, I asked the driver, who didn’t speak English, to take me to the depot where I could collect my propane gas. After battling the traffic we arrived at the gate of the depot only to be told that we had to get a form from the head office. At the head office we stood patiently waiting for the manager who was chatting with other people. No amount of hints that we were in a. hurry encouraged. him to cut short his discussion but eventually he came to our service. Armed with the document we drove back to the depot and were allowed through the gate. We collected the gas and then tried to get through the gate, only to. be told that we’d need a form from the office in order to get out. A half hour later we emerged from the office with a form in quintuplicate. the gateman removed the back copy and allowed us through. No one told me what to do with the other four copies so I kept them for a while as a reminder of Nigerian bureaucracy.
After picking up my propane tank we returned to the hotel and who should be waiting for me but my favourite steward. He offered to carry my bags down to the car and asked me to put each suitcase on his head. I objected strenuously to this as I couldn’t imagine my walking down the stairs balancing 75 pounds on my head. He made two trips without any problem and after that display my attitude towards him softened and I was happy to tip him.
There was quite a hollow feeling in my stomach after I had been dropped off at my house. For quite a while I’d been surrounded and supported by other volunteers and now I was on my own. I knew I had many days of cleaning in front of me. I didn’t mind cleaning as much as the fact that I didn’t know anyone and those I had met spoke hardly any English. Straight after breakfast on my first day I started cleaning and did not stop until dark. This was to continue for four days. No amount of dusting would make the furniture and floor look shiny as thee was always the dust from the Harmattan wind to content with. Minutes after dusting, the furniture took on a greyish look and gradually it started to look as if it hadn’t been touched in a hundred years. I had wrapped all my belongings in plastic bags when I was in Canada as I thought they would come in handy but I now realised I should have used rags instead. The surface of most of the furniture was so rough that it tore the few dusters I had to pieces. The kitchen lights wouldn’t work and so I couldn’t do a think in there after 7pm. The only creatures that appreciated the lack of light were the ants that came out in the dark. One large orange species scuttled around searching for sugary items and they would race back into the dark when I shone a flashlight onto them. The other tiny black ones had a serious sting and were rather more industrious. I soon realised they were the culprits who managed to excavate part of my kitchen wall every night. One night I decided to put some tape across their hole and I was happy not to see any movement. A few hours later I nearly had a fit when I saw a long column of these ants extending across the kitchen, down the hall and into the bathroom. They had evidently found a better place to live. Every night since then I have carried out an ant holocaust, massacring all in sight, but more seem to come. I also inherited a couple of lizards with the house but they don’t seem to help the situation. One was a tiny friend, about 5 cms long, who only comes out at 7pm. He scurries around the floor, picking up anything lying around.
I was glad when I finally got the house ship shape. I’d crawled around on the floor for days as I got fed up with the white blobs of paint on the green floor. The only way to do this was to attack each blob with a sharp object such as a knife. The fridge was a disaster. I’m sure people had been staying in the house and using the fridge as it was loaded with old food and the insides were disgusting. It took me ages to bring it up to scratch. Then I noticed the door had only one hinge, at the top. This meant I had to open the fridge very carefully so that I could keep the door upright and not wreck the other hinge. The windows were not made of single sheets of glass but were vented so they never really closed. Fortunately, I had mosquito nets that kept the creatures away from me while I slept. I was grateful that the school principal had told me to get my house in order before I started to teach.
The school compound is alongside the main road out of Kano so it doesn’t take long to get into the city. There are no fences around it so people come and go. Our houses are scattered in a long line and mine is the last in the road with open countryside as my neighbour. There’s a village close by and sometimes I can hear drumming and entertainment going on. Just outside my kitchen window there’s a small cottage which is supposed to be for my servants, which I don’t have. Some of them have young Nigerians living in them who are doing a sort of National Service for a year or so; these were teachers.
There was also a water hole just outside my home that seemed to be the bath cum shower for the young men from the village. I’ve no idea why it was put there. It’s not big enough for people to get into so the men stand there, in their shorts, to lather up and chuck water over themselves.
Across from my home lives Husaini Mohammed Kankarofi who is a single man and also a teacher. Because he’s single I’m able to go into his home, which is nice. Most of the staff are Muslim and so I have to be careful. With some of them I can go into the home and say hello to the lady. She then provides tea and eats and then disappears. With others I can’t go into the house. The vice principal is Christian from another part of Nigeria. There are two families from the Philippines and they’ve become good friends. Mila has five children but has only two with her here in Kano; the others are with family members in the Philippines. Her husband works in Saudi Arabia and they meet every once in a while. There are also teachers here from India and one from Pakistan. I’m lucky with my posting because other colleagues have been posted to schools that are quite isolated.
The classrooms are reasonable and in separate buildings scattered about. The desks and chairs are in reasonable condition although many are broken. The glass in the windows is louvred and many are also broken. When I first arrived I was shocked when I was told I’d be teaching mathematics, English, General Science and Christian religious knowledge. I protested and said I was told I’d be teaching high school biology. The principal said, “Do you have a degree?” When I said I did, he said, “So what is your problem? You can teach anything.” This meant I’d be getting my exercise walking from building to building.
The dining room was an enormous, open sided building and students lined up to have food dolloped into small aluminium bowls. The food didn’t seem to be varied but nobody complained. During my time at the school I saw there was a lot of hanky panky surrounding the food given to the students.
The students wore a white cotton, pyjama like outfit with a long sleeved shirt and long pants. The colour was totally unsuited to the climate as it got dirty with the dust in the dry season and torrential rain in the rainy season. Different levels of students wore different coloured caps. Because it was based on the British system there were ordinary students, prefects, deputy head and head boy - all with different coloured hats. Although the students were from the age of 11 and upwards, they all looked like little old men. The Harmattan wind was blowing and the fine, talc like dust settles on everything, including the hair of the boys. The ones sporting a moustache looked even cuter with their white ‘tache.
The dormitories were equipped with outside toilets and showers, which left a lot to be desired. Everywhere was permanently wet because of leaks and dribbles on the walls and floors. The walls were covered with green slime, which would lead to one of my saddest times in Nigeria.
The principal was a sight to behold; he must have been the best dressed man in Nigeria. He always wore beautiful baba rigas with gorgeous embroidery on them, plus his embroidered hat. He had a VW Beetle for every day use and a Mercedes for other occasions; based on salaries I couldn’t help thinking he was up to something else.
My Nigeria Diary
All my diary entries about my time in Africa will eventually be uploaded to this blog and will be found by clicking on the location labels on the right, or on the links of archived posts for 1981 to 1984. I am still in the process of transferring my diary to this blog, so more will appear over time.
