Kiva Stories from the Field

Since arriving in Nigeria, I’ve mostly been hot. When I’m not hot, I’m comfortable. Cold is a word that I reserve for specifying how I would like my bottled water. When I became chilled and goose bumps started popping on Wednesday night, I knew something was wrong.

Within one hour, my forehead was burning up. I returned home from my friend’s house and went straight for my sweatshirt and thermometer. One hundred and two point four degrees. I popped some drugs, collected an arsenal of bottled water and went to bed, telling my Bengali housemate, Rafiq, that tonight I would not be locking my door and that if I did not emerge in the morning, he should come in. I had a sneaking suspicion that this Mac truck of an illness that had hit me might be malaria – the high fever, the pounding head, the aching bones, the fatigue.

Soon after closing my door, dressing myself in socks and my warmest lounge wear and wrapping myself in my silk sleeping sheet that was usually more than warm enough for these Nigerian nights, I began to shiver. I reached for my cell phone and called Rafiq in the other room. “Do you have an extra blanket?” I asked. He brought his blanket and spent the next hour or so brining blood to my extremities by squeezing my feet, arms and hands as well as calming the headache with pressure points and head massage. I fell asleep.

In the middle of the night (around midnight – I had gone to bed at 8:30pm), my fever piqued. I cast off the blankets, tore off my shirt and lay in a pool of my own sweat. I forced myself to drink the line of bottled water that I had gathered with great foresight. I thought I’d call and tell them I wouldn’t be able to go to work tomorrow. I popped more pills in hopes of calming the fever.

As the sun broke, so had my fever. Ninety-nine point eight, much better. I almost felt whole as I called Cynthia, the woman I ride to work with, to tell her I would be spending the day in bed rather than at my desk. She suggested that she still pick me up and we go to the hospital for a malaria test. I agreed, still tired and achy.

A little delirious and still half-asleep I prepared myself for my trip to the hospital. I took money and a bottle of water…I knew that these were the most important things. I didn’t imagine I would stay long and thought that if I had forgotten anything, I could surely purchase it. Other things seemed trivial – my phone, my computer, movies, a book, my iPod, toilet paper.

Hospital Entrance

We pulled up to the hospital. It was a private hospital – one of the best in Benin City. It was a large cement building surrounded by dirt. It almost looked as if it had been newly finished – structurally sound, but still a bit rough around the edges. The doctor was outside and greeted us with a smile, showing us through the front door where the nurses gathered in their white nurse uniforms, some with small white nurse hats. Their dress reminded me of Halloween more than it instilled confidence. They stared at me. I stared at them. One sat me down right there in reception, stuck a thermometer in my armpit and took my pulse. She flipped through a disorganized notebook to find a blank page to write my name on and recorded my data before taking me to the doctor in his office.

I sat down, staring at a large diagram of the female anatomy behind the doctor’s head. “When was you last menstruation?” he asked. What? I’m here for malaria, not a pregnancy test (Nigerians are obsessed with pregnancy, children, fertility, etc.)

“I don’t know,” I replied, a bit annoyed that he wasn’t getting straight to the heart of the issue. I had DVDs waiting for me at home.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I don’t know. Less than a month ago,” I replied. He pointed to the calendar and continued his questioning. I was not of the state of mind that I wanted to expend my precious energy on figuring out when my last menstruation was. I saw little to no relevance (at least not until he had determined that I needed some form of treatment that could endanger a fetus). I knew I wasn’t pregnant and threw out some numbers to appease him, “I don’t know…the 6th…or the 13th.”

“You know you really should know when your last menstruation was,” he said. “It is important to know so that you know when you get pregnant.”

“No, really?” I felt like saying, but bit my tongue. I just wanted my diagnosis and drugs so that I could go home.

“What is your blood type?” he continued. Another toughie. I knew I should know this one…I didn’t.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“You should.”

“I know.”

“It should be in your passport.”

“It’s not.”

“It’s in all passports.”

“Not mine.” I pulled out my passport annoyed to be arguing over whether or not blood type is listed in American passports instead of him asking me about my symptoms.

“It is in all other passports. Look next time,” he said still trying to prove his point. “It is important to know your blood type because if you get pregnant and you are…blah blah blah blah…and your fetus…blah blah blah.” I couldn’t believe he was talking about pregnancy again. I could think of many better reasons to know my blood type. As my blood, whatever type it may be, began to boil, he began to ask about my symptoms and I calmed down.

“Fever, chills, sweating, headache, bone ache, diarrhea, nausea, fatigue,” I rattled off the list I had been waiting to share.

He asked a few more questions about other symptoms and jotted notes down in the book. “Sounds like malaria. I’d like to keep you here for 24-hours of observation,” he concluded in less than half of the time he had spent on women’s issues of fertility and menstruation. What? I wasn’t prepared for this! He must have seen the shock and disappointment in my eyes and said that, maybe, if I was doing really well, I could go home in the evening.

I went out to the waiting area and told Cynthia the diagnosis and the request that I stay. A nurse came over and requested that they find someone to stay with me as well as bring some food for me so that I could start my drug regiment. They walked me to my room. I went, first cutting the deal that if I had to stay past 5 o’clock that the driver would go to my house and pick up my phone, computer and some DVDs to keep me sane.

The room was basic. There were two beds with slightly shaky metal frames. The mattresses were covered first in a plastic sheet and then a blue and yellow checkered fitted sheet. There was a pillow and no blanket. A plastic chair sat next to the bed, as did a wooden school desk and attached chair. A small room was to the side blocked by a curtain. Inside was a bag of cement. I lay down.

The hospital was clean – I was grateful for that. I knew it would be basic, but was a little shocked at how basic. I hadn’t expected a TV or an intercom system and could deal with the fact that they brought a second fitted sheet to me instead of a blanket, but had assumed that a hospital (on the higher end) would offer things such as clean drinking water (essential for maintaining hydration), some sort of food (critical to have with some drugs) and toilet paper (do I need to explain?). With a full staff of nurses, it also surprised me that they insisted that I have a babysitter. The company was appreciated, but made me feel like a bit of a burden.

When my food arrived in a small cooler, I ate it up, ready to get on with the drug regiment. Grace, my babysitter for the day, got the nurse to tell her I was ready. She brought in a weathered IV stand. “I don’t want a drip,” I insisted. This sparked a big conversation and the doctor was called in. “Nope,” I shook my head. “I’d like to take the medicine orally.” At first they thought I was afraid of needles. Then I told them that my doctor at home had suggested that whenever traveling that avoid needles. They showed me their sterilized supplies in hermetically sealed wrappers and I politely declined. With a small crowd gathered I looked at the doctor and said that I will start with the oral treatment and that if I got significantly worse, that we could revisit the issue. The American-style medical self-advocacy was a bit foreign to the hospital staff, but went over fine in the end. I got my oral medication and began on the road to recovery.

When 4 o’clock rolled around, I called for the nurse and began my advocacy again. I was determined to go home and spend the night in my bed. The doctor came in and I pinched my cheeks, sat up and looked as perky as possible. “I’d like to go home.”

He smiled and agreed. He also said that my test results were back and that I had malaria (they had taken blood earlier – I had given in and allowed a sterilized and sealed needle for this purpose). We had a brief exchange where he said that even if the test result had come back negative that it would still have been malaria. He used some metaphor about Bin Laden – a malaria test can’t check every blood cell for the parasite, America can’t check every Afghani cave for Bin Laden…even if malaria or Bin Laden aren’t found, we still know they are there. I wondered if he would have used this metaphor had I not been American. I hoped that modern science in Nigeria was more accurate than American intelligence in Afghanistan.

I took my 6 bags of pills and headed home.

Click here to see entrepreneurs who need funding at LAPO…and make the malaria worth it <<smile>>.

I am a WASP – white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant. My parents rarely yelled, spankings were rare and more painful for my mother than me and requests were granted only when accompanied by the obligatory “please” and followed by “thank you.” On Sundays my family sat in well-ordered pews quietly listening to sermons, bowing our heads in silent prayers and rising (as directed) to sing hymns from notations in a book. At school my friends and I were scolded for being late in an effort to train us all in the expectations of the culturally dominant WASPs who value time commitments and punctuality.

For a WASP, Nigeria is a challenge. It is a harsh culture (by my comparison) with none of the comfortable social rules of home. People bark orders that pang on my eardrums. Daily prayers are shouted with chaotic fervor. Ten a.m. means noon…or one…maybe 3pm. People are friendly once one breaks through, but few smiles are plastered on to pretend that there is a fondness for you that is not there. In all of this there is good and bad.

At first I feared that I had signed up to spend 3 months among people who were rude – a people who had no respect for one another. Little things grated on me. Things like being told, “Give me your flash drive” when I expected a softer, “May I borrow your flash drive, please” or having “Are you getting me?” “Am I clear?” and “Do you understand?” snapped at me in between thoughts as if I were a mentally retarded child with an impatient teacher. I’ve come to realize that this is a Nigerian’s way of ensuring that their numerous accents, languages and dialects don’t inhibit communication with me as well as each other. Just as I have accepted that the tones in which people speak, constantly reminding myself that they are not mad, rude or intentionally aggressive…they are Nigerian.

Almost 6 weeks in, I’ve learned to accept and adapt. I’ve quickly been trained to know that the “diplomatic” presentation of my thoughts and/or requests will fall on deaf ears. I must be direct and blunt – using the kind of tone that my mother would employ when she caught me watching TV rather than doing my chores…after three requests. I am most successful when I am truly annoyed with the person to who I am speaking. In church or during morning prayers, I’ve concluded that closing my eyes, bowing my head and following my own tradition is still more comfortable. Waving my hands, knitting my brow and punctuating my prayers with an energetic “In the name of Je-sus!” is too distracting and feels forced. “My way” seems to be accepted. And when I’m feeling saucy, I’ll demand a “please” before submitting to a task or an “I beg-o” as they say in Nigerian Pigeon English. There is a happy balance to everything and I am finding that space and becoming a Nigerian WASP – my skin is thinker and I’m more likely to bite.

Click here to see entrepreneurs who need funding at LAPO.

There are a number of things here in Nigeria that are just different enough to bring laughter and puzzlement to my days…

“Oyibo” – Wherever I go, people call out “Oyibo.”  Naturally, I initially thought this meant “hello” or served as some sort of greeting.  I suppose it is a greeting of sorts, but literally means “white person.”  It isn’t an insult, just a way to get my attention and a wave.  Generally oyibos remain in Lagos, the business capital, or Port Harcourt, where the oil flows.  I’ve seen two other oyibos in my first month here in Benin City – not many.  I’m certainly an anomaly. I wish I could capture the curiosity and discovery that I see in the eyes of the children I meet.  They look at me with a deep attention.  Every movement is watched.  Every action is noted.  For many, I am the first white person they have seen outside of the manufactured distance of a television screen.  They are excited and confused.  Some try to stay very still as not to let on to their interest.  Others creep up next to me and casually rub against my skin or run around giggling with their siblings, beaming smiles on their faces.

Divine Businesses – Nigeria, and especially Benin City, is a very religious place.  In the north of the country Islam reigns.  In the south, various Christian denominations rule, ranging from Pentecostal to Baptist, Catholic to Apocalyptic.  The seriousness of faith is evident just driving down the road passing signs displaying religiously themed business names.  Some are expected (e.g. Christ’s Bookshop and Religious Store).  Some make me smile in their randomness (e.g. God’s Time Aluminum Co.).  Others make me laugh out loud with comical plays on words (my favorite, God’s Power Electrical Supplies).

“This House is Not For Sale” – you will find these words scribbled in paint across houses throughout Benin (and probably Nigeria).  From a Western perspective this seems odd.  If it is not explicitly stated that the house is for sale, then why would it be assumed otherwise?  Why would the aesthetic of one’s home be sacrificed to clarify this seemingly intuitive statement?  The answer: fraud within the family.  Apparently it is not uncommon for one family member to try and sell the house out from under another.

Soup – Tired of eating a diet based primarily on an endless variety of starches, one evening I decided to order “soup and salad.”  Both of these words are used in relation to Nigerian food, however, “salad” is more of a cabbage garnish topped with a dollop of mayonnaise and soup is not spooned into ones mouth, but eaten as more of a sauce with pounded yam and other cassava-based starchy staples.  One orders their starch as the main and specifies which soup for flavor (like ordering rice with a side of salmon or a whole grain sandwich with turkey).  The difference is subtle, but important.  To me, my order of “soup and salad” seemed to me to be a smart alternative to a carb overload, but the looks I got were riddled with confusion and amazement.  The restaurant staff was so baffled by my order that it was on the house.  From what I can tell as a result of my questioning, an equivalent order in America might be a bowl of alfredo sauce with a side of parsley and an orange slice.

My small black notebook is quickly filling up with lengthy scribble detailing the businesses and lives Kiva lenders are touching in Nigeria. The ever-present entrepreneurial spirit in this country fascinates me while the big-picture political economy boggles my mind.

To put it all in context, Nigeria is the world’s 6th biggest oil producer. Oil revenues constitute over 95% of Nigeria’s export earnings and 85% of the government’s revenue (at US$50 billion in 2006). However, there are frequent power outages, the roads are slow and hazardous riddled with potholes and 57% of the population lives below the poverty line. Few Nigerians see any benefit from the large oil resources. The majority of people are left to fend for themselves, operating an informal economy with more than its share of challenges.

Nigeria is a nation of entrepreneurial middlemen and women. The example of the yam supply chain for Benin City (commonly known as Benin) illustrates this clearly. Yam wholesalers travel once a week to northern Nigeria to purchase yams from the farmers, a journey that takes 4 to 5 days. After purchasing the yams, they mark every one with their unique symbol in blue chalk. Twenty to thirty wholesalers from Benin will pool resources and hire a large lorry to carry the goods back to a large empty plot of land where they will sort and sell their goods. The wholesalers ride rickety 15-passenger vans back, just as they went. From there, local market vendors will purchase the yams and take them to various markets around Benin to sell at a markup. Some of these larger vendors will attract another level of business and sell to small-time yam vendors who provide to the smallest markets on the outskirts of town.

Most things work this way. Boys on the street sell cell phone recharge cards that they buy in packs of 10 from a wholesaler. If they sell them all, they will earn a profit of less than $2. They may spend a few days trying to turn a profit. Women travel to Lagos, a 328-mile five-hour drive plagued by potholes and traffic, to purchase fabrics that they sell at their market stalls or hawk them through the streets. Men may do the same, but for tires or refurbished electronics. Having capital to purchase goods upfront is a common and constant challenge. It takes a long time to build up enough saving to be self-supportive (that $2 profit on phone recharge cards, for instance, comes at an initial cost of $34). Upward mobility is difficult for even the hardest working Nigerians. Microloans are helping. And they are not just benefiting the individual, but are instrumental to the functioning of an economy driven entrepreneurship rather than large-scale logistics. It is exciting to meet recipients of microloans and help tell their success stories, however, the ever-present shadow of a corrupt government and unfilled potential is a constant disappointment.

A man who shall remain nameless on this blog commented to me that Nigeria was lucky to have no natural disasters that threaten their economy – no hurricanes, no earthquakes, no tsunamis. But that they have something worse – Nigeria’s natural disaster is the government. Instead of losing hundreds of homes to a tornado once every few years, they lose billions of dollars to corruption every year. I think about how quickly Nigeria could change if oil money was allowed to trickle down to the common citizenry. The impact of a major roads project, for instance, could have a tremendous impact on job creation and economic efficiency. An overhaul of the Power Holding Company Nigeria, commonly referred to as “Please Hold Your Candle Now” (formerly called the Nigerian Electrical Power Authority or “Never Expect Power Again”) would increase efficiency and lower the cost of doing business. A well-educated workforce could make Nigeria, Africa’s most populous country, competitive in an international market and create true upward mobility. But until there is a significant shift in the political culture of Nigeria, everyday challenges will continue to inspire the most impressive entrepreneurship through hardship and necessity and my black notebook will continue to be full of heartening stories of microfinance to share with the Kiva community.

Currently, Nigeria’s oil production and capacity are equal to that of the United Arab Emirates.

To see all currently fundraising loans from LAPO on Kiva.org, please click here.