African Journal #20: The Passionate Worker

July 5, 2008

 

I have dreams. Everyone does. Mine is about traveling the globe; seeking adventure, uncovering mysteries, aiding the needy, and making a difference. It is a guarantee that I will leave my footprint in undiscovered countries until the day it leaves no more on earth. My path is often planned yet unknown, I make it a goal to travel and work but where I’d go is always a surprise. I find it more challenging and educational in the four corners of the world, rather than a four-walled classroom. It is my life’s work to provide the resources I’d been fortunate enough to gain from my education and employment. Some people let that rich knowledge and networking go to waste, I don’t. I find it a pleasure to be able to connect people to jump-start a dream; to build a library rich in materials that document dreams. Perhaps one day I could start a non-profit organization that does fundraising and resource sharing for Deaf and Deaf-Blind services, schools, organizations and groups around the globe? One thing is for sure – I dream of buying a house in Seattle by the water, calling it my own, traveling a few months per year when it’s cold. Marriage and children is still a BIG question mark. I long to love my work, and share that love with someone who would be my lifelong partner. One day, perhaps. But right now, doing volunteer work for VSO is one of many dreams I am living out right now.

 

People have asked me why I don’t write about my work, what I do at the school and for my organization. I try to find my muse, or excuse to write about my employment, but I can never find any. VSO placed me with an impoverished school that educate handicapped children, 250 of them Deaf students. It was in all of our intentions that I would survey the school on-site, write up a report on damages and areas of repair, and seek out funding from international charity outlets to renovate the school. I had experience doing damage assessment and proposal work for Gallaudet during my years serving as a chairwoman for a commission on disabilities. I also had intentions of providing workshops to teachers of the school to be more prepared to teach Deaf Blind students, whereas today there is no such group of students.

 

Unfortunate circumstances in the past 2 ½ months have prevented me from being successful in these goals, for many reasons. And I feel that by writing these reasons for thousands of people to write, makes me feel uncomfortable. I want you to understand that the situations that have occurred in the past months have not been pleasant, it has prevented me from doing my work. I feel that I cannot place blame on anyone in public, out of respect for their reputation and privacy.

 

VSO has been an incredible source of support throughout all of this wahala. They have constantly communicated with me via cellphone texts and emails. VSO volunteers have banded together and came to cheer me up in the beginning of June, in midst of all the wahala. Even more so, VSO has made sure that my needs were accommodated for: they covered the costs of internet and the purchase of a generator. They are currently in the process of seeking out a new placement for me, more closer to the capital city, other volunteers, large Deaf communities and more opportunities to make an impact on a national scale. Currently, I’m only able to make an impact on a local scale. VSO feels that my energy, resources, experience and networking could benefit even more Deaf Nigerians nationally rather than spending 2 years focusing on one school.

 

Once I move South, I’ll be working with several organizations: one will be my employer; several others will be my pet projects on my spare time.

 

To this day, I have only met one Deaf-Blind person. Hassan and I don’t really communicate well. However, I am working hard to find a school in the States or Canada that would take him in for a six-week training period with an Nigerian intervenor. It’s proven to be a costly venture, costing around $20,000 USD for both. It has not been an easy search, going through three centers and one charity organization and not receiving much good news. I am still determined to have Hassan fly over to receive training that will empower him to be more independent like I am. He deserves to feel more free.

 

I hope that in the next year, I will meet more Deaf-Blind people, but it will not be easy. They are scattered, well-hidden in homes by parents who think they cannot survive out there in the big, bad world. So, it won’t be a speedy success, it will take me some time to reach the Deaf-Blind population of Nigeria.

 

So, right now, it is a goal to travel the States to raise awareness about several Deaf organizations in Nigeria and raising funds to sponsor them. I have had bags and clothes made by girls at my school and the women at the Birnin Kebbi Women and Children’s Shelter. The profits will be divided up among Deaf organizations to prosper, and the children at the school to receive toys, and the women of the shelter to afford diapers and bottles for their children. The women have HIV, or have been abandoned by their husbands.

 

It brings tears in my eyes every time I make a child laugh, or a woman grateful for my empowerment. It brings pride in me when I tell Deaf people of my own Deafhood, and making them realize that they have their own Deafhood, too. It’s so hard to imagine myself cooped up in an office space, doing dull work while I could be out there, rolling up my sleeves and putting that education to good use.

 

So, you have a glimpse of my work here in Nigeria. I hope soon upon my return in Nigeria this September, I will finally have found a muse and an excuse to write details of an successful placement.

 

I wonder if you are happy where you work, or do you feel stuck? If you feel stuck and bored, you’re largely to blame. You’re in control of your destiny. You are able to choose a job that you love most, that brings you passion. People should love their work, rather than work themselves to death. Every one of you has a gift, use it to empower others.

 

Tactile love,

Coco

African Journal #19: The Children of Naija

June 21, 2008

As Mira brings her seven younger brothers and sisters over for a visit, they silently creep up on me while I’m either doing my work on the computer or doing laundry/kitchen duty. I often smell a whiff of sweet flowery scent, and a very light brush against my skin. My room and the kitchen is often dark, it helps cool the room from the glare of the sun. It’s difficult for me to scan the room for visitors, because of the darker hue of skin. So, I look around and find there is nothing there after I reach out my hand. Marufat usually grabs my hand to alert me she is in the room. But Mira and her brood just stand there silently, thinking I would find them. So after a long pause, one of them would move very close and I would instantly feel some kind of contact and discover the sly kids giggling as I grab them affectionately. They truly bring a big smile to my face. The children are truly a sweet bunch, they act very mature for their ages. Fatimah, the middle child, is so precocious and likes to show off her femininity. She shys away with a smirk, and speaks almost perfect English. She is only 11 and is four years away from graduating with other teenagers who are three years her senior. The children are very helpful in the house, helping their mother with chores. Mira and an elder nanny are the ones that take care of the children. The children of Naija (Nigeria in Pidgin language) have to grow up really fast, unlike many children in America. At the market today with Marufat and Mira, we passed by many young children carrying bowls of beans, mangoes, oranges, water packets, corn millet on their heads, and one gallon of fuel in each hand. One girl could not have been more than five, but she was balancing a large bowl of white salt on the top of her head, and she looked at me with that mature look – as if she was offering to sell me some salt. I declined, she smiled and pranced on. I thought to myself, oh how young she is! Doesn’t she have dolls or a playhouse at home to play with? Does she go to school at all? Why is she working at such a young age? I could not fathom having to work, my childhood was filled with happiness but a lot of sadness, too. I had a mostly happy childhood, but wasn’t forced to do some labor to bring the “bacon” home. The first job I had was delivering Pennysavers on Sundays at age 12 and my first real job was at Gallaudet working for the college newspaper, The Buff and Blue. Seeing the young girls at work made me look back at my own childhood and realize how fortunate I was, but at the same time, thinking how spoiled most children are with gifts, rather than learning the hard lessons of life (not working, but more of spiritual and gratitude lessons). I grew up in a large cul-de-sac house in a nice suburb of Ottawa before relocating to Belleville, Ontario to attend Sir James Whitney School for the Deaf at four years old. My father traveled often for his telecommunications company, while my mother was a housewive and took care of me. While I attended school a mere few miles away, I often came home to find my mother passed out on the couch from heavy drinking. My mother was a closet drinker, no one knew the severity of it until it was much too late. I often kept myself busy playing with the large collection of Barbie and Jem dolls, baked some cakes with my Easy Bake oven, watched too much television: The Brady Bunch, Smurfs, Transformers, the Care Bears and so on. I would go out in the backyard and meet up with Erin and Matthew, two hearing kids my age. Mom would stir awake in time for dinner and I was fed pretty well (almost too well). When Dad would come home, he would lavish me with gifts from his travels, and I would become more preoccupied with playing a new thing while my mother and father were busy, and having Dad leave again for his travels. Every Christmas was a happy one, I would be showered with even more gifts and I forgot about the collection of toys I had gotten every month in the year. Total waste, in my post-Africa adult opinion. I attended school on a daily basis and did not have to work at earning money. I took up a newspaper delivery job just to beat the boredom during summers as Erin and Matthew had moved to different towns. But the job was so short-lived and I went on being a spoiled little princess. As I grew up, admittedly, I still wanted so many things and did not really see the value of saving money or using one thing for a long time then discarding it. I loved shopping with a passion as an adult, I would fill my closet with the latest wardrobe of the season, and spend a lot of money on needless things. Now I’m in Africa, and I don’t have that many clothes or luxuries. I brought some jewelery with me but they were the only glamorous items I brought. I left behind my bath collection, shelves of shoes, boxloads of clothes in storage. Back to the children of Nigeria. I’ve seen a lot of street children standing by the curb, with their hands outstretched, hoping the batura would give them money to bring back to their beggar parents. I’d see children playing in dirty ditches full of garbage and dangerous objects. Street children would wear ratty, torn and filthy clothes as if they’d never had the luxury of feeling velvet, lace, silk or the best fabrics. You could tell the difference between street children and children of the wealthy. Children of wealth wear fancy dresses and for boys, long kaftans (robes) made out of expensive material. They would walk with their other brothers and sisters freely, without having to work the streets for money or food. Children of wealth go to school and most of them have the privilege of learning English. Despite having parents with money, children of wealth still have to work around the house, sweeping floors, washing clothes, dishes and maintaining the house. Although I doubt children under five are forced to work, I do see a sense of maturity in all children under and over five. The children of Naija don’t have the same luxuries as most middle and upper class children of America do. Even children in America with poor parents do not work because of laws protecting children’s rights. In Nigeria, it seems, laws that protect children do exist but are not enforced because parents feel it is their decision how to raise their children, and that includes labor,discipline, education, and home life. This mostly occurs in cases of street children, which I think is the biggest tragedy. They don’t experience a normal childhood, having some toys or comfort of shelter and food or parents. The children that suffer the most are those with a disability. I have encountered children who are blind, crippled, deaf, mentally retarded and learning challenged on the streets, using their disability to beg money off people. Once they saw that I had a cane and I had two disabilities as well, oftentimes I would receive a smile off their faces. It’s like they knew I was one of them. Sometimes I’d have enough change and donate. Sometimes I’d buy oranges (20 cents US each) and give them to the disabled children to eat. The “normal” beggars don’t receive anything from me. They have the opportunities unlike disabled people in Nigeria but most of them make the choice to beg. At the Kebbi School for the Handicapped, there are no bright red balls bouncing in the yard. No kites, swing sets, dolls or toys strewn all over the yard. The children mostly remain indoors, in their classes or the dorms. During recesses, they usually lounge outside, gazing at the skies and dream. Children who are crippled (this is the term used in Nigeria to describe those who have no use of their limbs) are forced to crawl on the sandy ground from one building to another. They don’t have money to buy wheelchairs, and what used to be white clothes on them turned into a dirt brown color. The 250 Deaf children who attend Primary and Secondary classes find solace in the excitement of greeting the deaf-blind batura that comes twice a week to do her on-site work. “Coco! Good morning! I am fine!” they sign with a big smile. I ask the principal if they have toys or good clothes? He says that the children only receive 300 Naira (2.75 USD) a month for toiletries such as soap. The children never make enough to have toys. The children who live in the dorms see their parents every 3 months for one month-long vacation in their villages and return for another 3 months of schooling. I often ponder if there is a construction company in Nigeria that build playground sets? That shall be my next project. The children of 87. Murtala Mohammed Road deserve to be children. The thing is: I’ve noticed that many children have many brothers and sisters, are loved by their parents, taken care of by someone. They are always around adults who discipline them, tell them stories and hold their hand. In America, there is a big problem with latch-key kids. Kids come home to an empty house with their own key, even at age 8. Parents have to work, so maybe they leave the kids with the elderly neighbour, or trust the TV to keep the kids preoccupied. Parents feel they have to work harder to sustain a good life for the family, but it is in reality that more time with the family and less work is what makes the children happy. Focus less on work and focus more on what they do on a daily basis, ask them what they have learned today, give them hugs instead of gifts to say you’re sorry for not being there for them. I guess you can say that I have seen what it is like to be a child with and without love, luxury, education and a spirit. It reminds me that I was brought up as a kid who was allowed to be a kid. I didn’t have to work or beg. I had the unconditional love of my family. When the children of Naija greet me, I bend down and shake their hand, smile back and I instantly feel young again. We, admittedly, have forgotten what it’s like to be a kid. We look at the kids of today’s generation and say, they’re so different than what we were back then. But the reality is, the adults make them different than what the children of the 1990s or 80s were. Parents think that they need to work more to be competitive, and in turn, children think they are adults and make decisions on their own. This speaks true for the children of America and the children of Naija. It’s time we looked after the children of the world. Tell them we love them. Ensure that they are taken care of and fed. Most of all, let them know that there is a kid in your spirit, and you need to remember what it is like to be a child. Fight for the rights of children all over the world. They are our future. Tactile love, Coco

African Journal #18: Coco Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest

June 19, 2008

 

The electricity has been not so good and so good to us lately. We have received more than 18 hours of electricity for some days in a row, but there are nights when it goes out for more than 5 hours straight after the sun sets. There is not much to do when dark sets in, the candles can only provide so little light for a small area of the room. I’d have to light 10 candles to brighten up the room and with my clumsiness and vision, that isn’t such a great idea. Sometimes I’d light one lonely candle sitting on top of a rustic looking empty wine bottle, lie back on my bed and look up at the illuminating candlelight glow on the ceiling. The silent pause gives me a moment to reflect back on my day, my living and working situations, and my life. I think about loved ones, past and future relationships, and people that stood out in my 28 years of life. I dream about my past travels to Asia, America and Europe; my journey as a spiritual being here in Nigeria; and my future destinations that await. I analyze my character: the best and worst things, my strengths and weaknesses, how I view the world and its inhabitants. My body is constantly studied, as it goes through a major transformation, realizing that the permanent flaws of my physique is what is beautiful and very much a part of who I am. This happens mostly when I lie back on my bed, looking up at the illuminating candlelight glow.

 

The worst of my character has come out at times. I find these times not dark, but intriguing. Where has the opportunity to grow that character flaw come from? Genetics? Nuturing? Or Nature? I have no one else to focus on, only myself. I have time to sit back and reflect on my attitude towards something and think about the best way to overcome it. I get frustrated when something does not go my way and I get emotional pretty easily. I feel sometimes I could lose my insanity. The flight prices on the internet have never looked good for a one-way, no return ticket. There are fragile items around here that I could easily pick up, throw and break it. It isn’t in my nature to want to do that, but the challenges I face every day make me want to commit myself to the nut house. Perhaps near as crazy as Jack Nicholson was in “It Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”.

 

There are times in your life when you really need to sit back and reflect on yourself, how you deal with situations, how you view the world and most importantly, learn how to love yourself. It’s more a challenge with the latter – with no time for themselves, people forget to look in the mirror and be grateful they were born on this Earth. Love thyself, before you love others. I have found that by reflecting on my person, and working hard to lose weight has really made me more appreciative of who I am, how I have helped others and how I show my love.

 

I don’t really see birds around here. The last time I saw a flock of birds was at the Waziri’s ranch. He is the lieutenant governor of this state. He raises pigeons for whatever reason I have not figured out, but they remain in the pigeon shed. I don’t see any crows this time of the year, I’ve seen a few perched on boabao and eucalyptus trees that line up along the interstate out of Birnin Kebbi during the early months of the year. Perhaps it is too hot, so the birds flock down South where it is more cooler. The mosquitoes and the cockroaches are amiss, too. They came in droves and infested my house when I first moved in. When I arrived home after traveling Nigeria for three weeks back in May, I found several dead cockroaches but nothing was moving. The heat has dropped one farenheit degree every couple of days lately, and it has finally rained two days ago after one month of a hot drought.

 

Everything seems so eerily calm. I shrug off the problems, and decide the best approach would be just to sit back, ponder about the next thing I could do to make this situation better. Dreaming of what is to come in August, and what fortunes the future could bring.

 

Light a candle wherever you are, and sit back, watch the illumination of the candlelight glow on your walls and ponder your existence.

 

Tactile love,

Coco

African Journal #17: The Straw that (almost) Broke the Camel’s Back

June 12, 2008

 

In most northern African countries, camels are used as tools in agriculture and the trade markets. Kings and peasants use camels alike, however, it costs a pretty penny to own one. Camels carry so much weight and trudge on for days without water or support from the shepherds. They bear the heat, the situations and when it is time to die, they don’t notify the rider. It just gets on its knees and dies right away.

 

I feel like a camel, almost. Since I’ve been living in the desert, I have experienced heat to a high degree, carried so much weight (literally and figuratively) and facing situations that test my will to continue as a volunteer. But I am still walking on my two legs (hobbling, actually) and determined to finish what I started.

 

The past two weeks has been more so incredibly hard. First, I had suffered injuries: cutting my fingers twice, spraining my pinky finger, burning the same leg twice on separate occasions on a kabu kabu, and scratching my calf deep. It had seemed like I had upset Karma and he was getting back at me with a vengeance. I had been without my laptop for three weeks, some items had broken in the house, costy spending had almost drained me of my month’s savings already, situations that came up at work and at home. I was bearing the brunt of all the stresses from these situations and I was becoming unhappy. No matter how hard I tried to fix the problem, it seemed to persist or become worse. I held it all in, with an occasional grumble or throwing up my arms in frustration. It didn’t help that Marufat, my intervenor, communicates 80% of the time in fingerspelling and she is the only one “able” to interpret conversations between me and people here. Sure, I do write back and forth but most situations did not allow for me to do that. So, when she would not understand and I had to repeat a long sentence again in fingerspelling, I become frustrated and bite my tongue.

 

The last injury I had was burning myself on a motorcycle (kabu) exhaust. It was hotter than a red-hot coil on a stove, and it could cook an egg in 30 seconds. When I hopped on one, my bare leg touched the exhaust briefly, and unfortunately my skin had melted so fast some skin stuck to the exhaust. Pretty gruesome sight, it was. Over a few days, the dead skin began peeling off and muscle was exposed. Infection set in and it was unbearable to walk. The weekend was approaching fast, and I would be hostesses to six VSO volunteers coming up for the Great Blackout of Birnin Kebbi party. To make matters worse, I had a stomach virus and wasn’t feeling well. On Friday, Kristel and Glenn, two vols went with me to the Federal Medical Center two miles outside of Birnin-Kebbi, with the principal of my school and Marufat. Marufat tried to interpret for me in the doctor’s office but she was not able to fill me in on a lot of the happenings or what was being said. It was so stressful.

 

Friday afternoon came, and it brought Susan, Eunice, Helen and Jane into my home after a long 8 hour drive from their cities. We set off for the fish and chips place by the military market and we enjoyed a beautiful sunset by the desert horizon. My leg was killing me.

 

Morning came and everyone was up and about, making a delicious breakfast for everyone while I was still in bed, feeling ill from the infection and stomach pains. The volunteers told me to relax, that they would take care of me instead. I had to return to the hospital that morning per the doctor’s orders. I waited for the keke nepap from the school to appear at 10am, but it never did. I can’t really elaborate on the serious situation that led to the keke not coming, but I can say this: I had enough. I was not about to take a kabu to the hospital because I had hurt my leg on one in the first place, and secondly, the hospital was a little too far for me to ride a kabu. In the northern states, taxi cars are forbidden, only keke nepaps and kabu kabus are allowed for some unforeseen reason.

 

I walked into the living room after waiting outside for a bit and finding out that my ride was not coming – and I signed fiercely to everyone that I have had it and the problems were just getting worse. I ran off to my bedroom and started crying and releasing all of the stress that had consumed me for the past few weeks. I had no friends in town for moral and emotional support, limited communication and time did not matter. Jane, a volunteer who had picked up some signs and fingerspelling when I was in Akwanga and taught her, had caught on my signing and interpreted for the volunteers. She came in, consoled me and said that they all were here for me and it was OK to cry. It all came spilling out, and I can honestly say I have never felt better. Jane and I talked on MS Word, typing back and forth and talked about the situations and solutions. It was a blessing to have the volunteers up here, it was in the nick of time.

 

I went back to bed in the afternoon, and the volunteers waited for their camels to come. I had arranged for camel riding through the principal, for the vols to have a real desert experience. But the camel herd never came, but the vols found something to do by browsing the market nearby for food and souvenirs.

 

Today, my leg is healing nicely. I have talked to the principal about the situations and he understands it has to improve. I have a loaned computer at home now with internet access so I can start working. I have lost over 50 lbs and feel so much lighter. I have the prospect of going to the States this summer and getting a much needed injection of tactile love from family and friends. After the volunteers left, everything seemed different. I was willing to stick it out a bit longer – and if the situations persist, no problem. I’ll just transfer out of this state to another, helping other Deaf organizations prosper.

 

For camels, there isn’t much choice. They are forced to walk the long way across the Saharan desert, without water for days to come. They drop at their feet and die, without any mercy. I felt almost like that: forced to walk all the way to the end of this placement, with no end in sight it would seem. But after being fed and nurtured by a team of caring people, I have strengthened, able to walk a bit longer with two choices: go on or die. And I pick to go on and choose another path.

 

Tactile love,

Coco

African Journal #16: Coco, The Alchemist of Birnin-Kebbi

June 5, 2008

 

On lazy afternoons once in a while, I would put out my handwoven blood-red Muslim mat (it doubles as a lush bathroom mat) out on the veranda, slather some sunscreen on, pop on the shades, suck on delicious ripe Nigerian oranges and immerse myself in the classic, The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho.

 

I had plucked that book out of the Chapters bookstore large print shelf, ecstatic that I had found this specific book in text size I could read easily. I had gotten so many positive raves from my friends, notably several from Seattle (ode to you true bookworms) and saw several omens along the path to the book that told me I HAD to get it. Before buying the book, I had seen this book in the oddest places: on a woman’s lap on the tube in New York City; discarded advertisement from a bookstore for The Alchemist blowing its way down the street in Seattle; on bookshelves and displays here and there. I kept seeing the book on my friends’ nightstands and in their backpacks. These omens told me that the book had a special message for me, so it came into my possession in January when I bought a stock of books for my African journey.

 

I will confess, to the most surprised readers, that I am not as literate as you think I am. I don’t like to read books much. Not because they’re not invaluable or educational, but because of my short term memory, my tight pockets, too much reading in college that it wore out my eyes and sometimes the literature I bought didn’t interest me. I could find more excuses – let’s sum it up by saying I get easily distracted and don’t ever finish a book. In high school, I was quite the bookworm but that all changed when I moved to college and packed up my Nancy Drew, Fear Street and Judy Blume books so I could have shelf space for dull textbooks. Especially these huge, thick History books. Bleh.

 

With The Alchemist, it is a different story. The covers of the book are cracked, bent and rustic-looking, as if someone read the hell out of these books. Which is just what I did. Mainly because it is the only literature in large print I have (one large box full of books/resources had to be left behind in March because of a hefty $1,000 fee for transporting two more on the plane), and because the book is simply the definition of me. Truly, madly, deeply the epitome of what I am going through, the eerie resemblance of the background being the desert – a place I also call home.

 

I don’t want to spoil too much, but I can say this – the book is a truly captivating read, from beginning to end. It is a fictional story of a young boy who leaves behind his sheep flock in quest of the unknown, a treasure called the Personal Legend. He experiences detours, barriers, tough decisions and pessimism along the way to finding his life’s treasure. The meaning is explained in the beginning of the newest edition of the book, so you can understand the morale of the journey the boy takes across the Sahara Desert.

 

Coelho says there are four things that stop someone from achieving their Personal Legends (life dreams) – and they are simply: money, love/family, pessimistic people who disencourage, and lastly, when the person is finally at their treasure (the dream has come true) he or she tells themselves that they aren’t good enough or don’t deserve to have the dream.

 

I have given up so much in order to pursue my own Personal Legend. I have left my family back home when they need me the most; I have left a secure community I called home in Seattle; I am sacrificing the chance to have love; and the guarantee that I would have equal access to everything. Life has become tougher, because of my blindness, and living in the desert has brought me upon the brink of insanity sometimes. But the book reminds me that I am the boy in pursuit of his treasure, going across the desert in order to find true meaning to his life and he will be rewarded when he finishes his journey. Will my journey end when I leave Africa? Or is my Personal Legend not yet complete? Will I ever have true love even if it means he has to wait for me to complete my Personal Legend?

 

When I return home this summer, I will sweep off the dust of my box, take out the other Coelho book, The Witch Of Portobello. It’s supposed to be a book about a reviled but admired woman in the center of the city, the book has different voices from people who have their own opinion of her. Paulo Coelho is from Brazil, and it was in several dreams that I and my true love are sitting in a banana boat, paddling down the Amazon under the hot Brazilian sun. An omen, perhaps?

 

Trust the omens, follow them towards your life’s dreams and die fulfilled.

 

Tactile love,

Coco