It’s been almost a whole month since my last post here. I do
sincerely apologize to you my readers. I’ve just been trying really hard to
adjust to this new phase of my life.
In my last post, I
talked about how I honestly do believe that adulting is, and will always remain
the biggest scam of the century. Have my views on that changed in the past
couple of weeks? HELL NAA! This thing is an extreme sport, almost as extreme as
the task of having to grow up Nigerian (story for another day).
Today I want to tell y’all a little story about “adulting and coping mechanisms”, or
rather some weird coping mechanisms I’ve adopted in the last couple of weeks
since I moved here.
COPING MECHANISM
NO.1: TAKING TRIPS DOWN MEMORY LANE
Although this might sound a little cliché, sometimes I do
wish I could just travel back in time a bit, relive some moments I took for
granted. I realize I was so busy thinking of the next best thing that I really
failed to enjoy the present thing that I already had. Eg: being able to go home
and be with my family if I felt the pressures of life becoming unbearable. I
didn’t necessarily have to talk to them about my bad day or anything like that,
I just needed to be around them, like hear my mum analyzing every piece of
clothing you put on and telling you how she can recreate the exact same design
with her sewing machine (cos’ she recently took up sewing as a pet project), or
my pet dog Dixie running after you cos’ she wants you to play with her( I miss
Dixie a whole lot) or my siblings arguing over anime. You know? just the little
things, and remind myself that there’s always a bigger picture at the end of
the day.
Or also being able to just go meet up with friends and relax
a bit, or even just talk, share ideas with like minded people, have a good game
of monopoly and throw bants about whose work unit was more stressful or more
interesting, and all that stuff. I mean, where are Ebuka and Prisca and Kachi,
and Danna and Keri and Diara and Pam and Toulan and Marvin and Ezinne when you
need them?
Now if I feel that way, I can’t get on the next flight or
bus home, (we ain’t living that kind of baby girl life yet). So what do I do? I call home, but I call like every other
minute and I always want details of what everyone is doing. Weird? Maybe, maybe
not. I figure I can live vicariously through them.
But I think my Dad is creeping out, cos’ usually as an
ogbonge Nigerian pikin that I am, most times I call Dad, it’s usually cos’ I
need money. (You’ve gotta give it up for parents, they’re truly the real MVPs
before anyone else). So the past few days of calling him and telling him that I
was just calling to check in and say hi have been weird for him, cos’ I can see
he usually doesn’t know how to respond and dives right in to asking me about
work. There was this time I called him as usual just to check in, and after all
the work talk, before we hung up, he blurted out in this, “I-miss-you-but-I’m-not-going-to-show-it-cos’-you’re-all-grown-up-and-I-have-to-let-you-live-your-life”
tone, “Kemole, do you still have enough money with you?” (NB: Kemole is my pet name for my father
ONLY!). I kind of giggled as I told him I was fine really. (We have to put on
them big girl pants at some point you know?).
Typical of the man, he still sent money the next day, and
when I called him to say thank you, I also had to hide my “I’m-not-crying-I-swear,someone-is-just-cutting-onions-in-the-ward”
tone from him.
COPING MECHANISM NO.2:
SEARCHING FOR BITS OF HOME AMONGST THE CROWD.
In as much as Abuja is somewhat a northern city, I’d like to
think of it as north central, I mean there are really a lot of igbos and
yorubas around. When I first arrived my new workplace for eg, I was quite taken aback to see that about 60% of the staff were igbos. It has helped me in some way
with adjusting. No offence to non-igbos though, I love y’all the same, I’d just
like to feel as close to home as possible.
For the first time in my life I’ve taken particular interest
in the biodata section when I’m clerking new patients. (Now, I’m not saying I
don’t appreciate the importance of biodata in helping me make a diagnosis, that
would be saying my teachers did a terrible job, and I’d like to think they did
an okay job with me, at least I’ve not put weed in any child’s cough syrup….
Yet!).
I’m always eager to know the ethnicity of any patient I see,
almost like I’m on the lookout for my people, and when I do meet any igbos, the
relief and the joy on my face says it all, like “aah you’re here too? Me too oo.
But what are we even doing here sef? I mean they don’t even have decent okpa
anywhere or nkwobi. Such joy killers! Anyways let’s get back to why you came to
the hospital today.”
The latest addition to this my search for bits of home
amongst the crowd is me travelling miles to a market far away from where I stay
cos’ I feel more at home with the igbo community there. Let me elaborate on
that.
I accompanied my aunt
to Garki market once and was shocked to find out that almost every stall there
was owned by an Igbo, I’m talking like 90% of the traders there were igbos. (Truly
though, na we hustle pass). It really felt like walking through Ogbete main
market in Enugu.
Now from where I stay, the closest market around is the Utako
market. I went there once and while there were infact igbos, I don’t think the
community was as large as what I saw in Garki. So after series of communication
tussles between some traders and I, and me being directed to a wrong section of
the market cos’ between me and the person I asked for directions, I can’t tell
who was having language barrier issues, and then also being ripped off, all in
one day, I knew, I just knew that Utako market was not for me.
I will gladly embark on the weekly road trip to Garki market
where my people are. Na we we afterall.
Until next time on Rosenfield’s
Diaries.
Xoxo!
Alma
Rosenfield