Missing home Part 1

So as I get older, I am beginning to experience pangs (or is it twinges) of nostalgia for Nigeria. I must admit that all of a sudden, my memories of Nigeria are all good ones, and the not-so-good memories have suddenly become plain funny and amusing as time goes by. Even the cane-lashings received in school, the bullying, the cries of ‘panla’ (which means a piece of dried cod), ‘chewing stick’, ‘broom stick’, ‘shawa’ (dried fish) etc which assailed my ears atimes when I walked along the streets, which were at the time quite painful, have now become amusing tales to recount for fun.

I find myself devouring ‘naija’ home movies at a rapid rate, and trying to get a hold of anything that is remotely related to Nigeria. I recently attended the premiere of Amazing Grace, the Nigerian version of the movie which tol dthe story of slavery from a Nigerian slaves' perspective directed by Jeta Amata, and I was so pleased to be surrounded by my people, and to be taken back to th esights and sounds of Calabar as I sat and watched the movie.

To satisfy myself from time to time, I visit Dalston market and imagine. I pretend that it is not cold, and I am not wearing a coat while pulling my shopping trolley (oh my goodness!!), which btw has become the most convenient way to avoid making frequent needless trips to the car with all my purchases (See example below).

For a long time vanity battled with practicality as I fought the need to buy one. The only other people who carried these trolleys were elderly grandmas, I thought to myself, but I eventually caved in. Now I find that they view me as a kindred spirit, smiling at me as I walk past them with my trolley. All of a sudden I feel wise in an 'elderly' kind of way.

Anyway, when I get to Dalston I visit all the typical Nigerian shops. If you close your eyes, you could be at Alaba market. The way produce is stacked up in a somewhat disorderly fashion warms my heart. I see shelves laden with Nigerian Bournvita & Milo mixed in with bottles of palm oil, and next to it are bags of ‘iru’ or ‘ogiri’. The only difference is that the foods are packaged in some form. Gari is poured into clear bags with prices on them, Crayfish is packaged in the same way. I love everything about it the smells, the sounds.

There is a certain man I love to see. He is Caucasian and he sells ‘lace’. The kind of fabric worn by us Nigerians at parties. A lot of Nigerians flock to him, ‘cos his prices are reasonable. Much cheaper than you would get at Liverpool street market in London. I love seeing the man and I wonder about him sometimes. What would make a man sell a product typically purchased by people of a different culture? He doesn’t appear to be doing it for the money (‘cos the prices are so reasonable), he almost appears to do it just to interact with Nigerians.

I have been at this point before though, missing Nigeria so much, that is until I visited Lagos in October 2005. Every form of nostalgia was squashed out of me by my experience there that I ran back to ‘Diaspora’ with my tail between my legs vowing not to go back for a long time. That story in Part 2… Soon come!!