I ask to wash my hands and find that my aunt doesn’t have running water. In the bathroom, a large plastic pail filled with water sits next to a generous scooper and a bar of soap. I struggle to rinse one soapy hand after the other until a flash of wisdom tells me to fill the scoop with water and wash my hands in it, discarding and refilling as needed. Later on, I will learn that the industrial sized container in the kitchen holding gallons and gallons of water is filled by a borehole in the front yard. My uncle labors at this into the late afternoon.
The day wears on— slowly. I snap a few photographs. I take a quick nap. Outside my window, nature is in spirited discourse. I do the millennial thing and record a video to “preserve the moment” but really, to share with the world. I am here and it’s important for strangers on my timeline to know.
In the living room, my uncle has turned on the TV but I am not interested. Eventually he leaves to exchanges dollars for Naira at the black market.
I grab one of the small bananas native to Nigeria and an anara to munch on and wander into the kitchen. My mom and aunt sit on a bench and a low stool, chatting in hushed tones punctuated by exclamations and laughter.
Lunch, ofe na garri, is eaten with the fingers and my aunt takes the okporoko that I separate out from the greens. This ritual is familiar to her—her son is also plant-based. I leave them to their talk, wash my hands in the new, yet familiar way, and wander back into my room.
It is a little after 2pm perhaps. My phone tells me that I am connected to Airtel but I can’t surf the Internet or do anything. I am oddly content with my limited options and I stop to name the feeling. It doesn’t come right away and I think about it long into the day.
My mom begins to sort the clothing she’s brought home. I inherit an easy, floaty shift dress and sexy leopard-print lingerie. For my future husband I joke and my mom follows with a very serious “In Jesus Name.” I laugh and laugh. She is patiently waiting for grandchildren I know.
Two become three as my aunt joins us. We talk about the next day’s plans, the outfits, how to wear them, how everyone is faring and the best time to buy dried fish. My mom wants oka na ube and I volunteer to accompany my aunt into the watery twilight. The observations come thick and fast— how everyone greets everyone else, how my aunt doesn’t explain my presence, how easily she navigates the mud caused by seasonal rainfall. At one point, we hold hands. It is comforting and yet another difference to file away. In Nigeria, adults don’t think twice about holding hands.
We visit three stalls and find no oka na ube.
It is dark now. There are no streetlights but I am at ease. We stop by a salon along the side of the road and I make an appointment to get my hair braided. The shop owner, a young woman who attends our church shows me a roster of styles and admires my crochet braids. I try to explain that I purchased the hair on Amazon but trail off when I see the futility. Later on, I experience the same amusing helplessness when I try to explain to my cousin what Pandora is.
Price negotiation for my braids come to a screeching halt. The young woman won’t name her price and I suspect a hustler’s instinct is the culprit. All signs say that I’m a foreigner and she can ask for more later. I accept this and we head home.
The night ends on our bed with fistfuls of homemade granola, more stories and laughter and boiled ube to appease my disappointed mother. I learn that my aunt loves granola and I ashamed of how much I protested when my mother insisted we pack endless bags of it into our suitcase. I thought it was silly to bring pre-cooked food from America but I see now that ndi-ulo are so grateful for everything, even the apple and wedge of cheese from the plane.
The conversation continues long after NEPA takes the light. My Igbo increases in fluency. I was no slack before but conjugations and words come with ease. I watch their silhouettes in what little light remains as they share stories of God’s faithfulness and warring in the spirit. I playfully catch my aunt’s hand in mine, telling her to share her anointing for dream victories.
It is time to retire for the night. I note that no one takes a shower before bed but I can’t bring myself to follow suit. I don’t want to ask my aunt to light the kerosene stove and boil water for me so I tell her I just want to wash my face. The pail is refilled and I hype myself up to the reality of a cold bath. Squatting low in the bathtub and scooping it over my body, I laugh because I still can’t name the feeling from before. It is not a humbling experience I decide because I didn’t come with expectations. As the warm humidity of the bathroom takes the edge off my goosebumped arms, it comes to me.
This is refreshing.
It is refreshing to bath like this, to dump water into the toilet in order to flush it, to see NEPA take and give light at will and to snatch a charge for my phone—as if there is anyone or anything to stay charged for. It is refreshing to hear the noise of the generator, to refill the bucket over and over again, to look for a particular food and not find it, to have no convenience store nearby, to walk unaided by streetlights. It is refreshing to struggle a bit more than usual. It is refreshing to work with life for my keep.