MEMORIES OF BWARI - BAR 1 (5)

INTERLUDE – THE BLOGPOST THAT WAS NEVER PUBLISHED THANKS TO ‘VICTIMISM’

So this is a blogpost I wrote about Bwari a few weeks into law school that never got to see the light of day thanks to other posts being snitched by an imbecilic dunce to our tutors. We were informed that if any other post was published then the writer would be made a ‘victim.’ Victim oh, not even scapegoat. Scary, hunh? Anyhoo, done with NLS now so I can write and publish away to my heart’s content *insert evil cackle*

Enjoy xx

BWARI TALES

Heels and Foneh are imperative…the manual I never received.

The beautiful sandy roads. The shacks masquerading as restaurants. The insects that we all thought were extinct. All these make Nigerian Law School, Bwari what it is. Torture. But you know what causes me more pain, heartache and depression? The female students.

From the first day of registration, what did I not see? Heels – check, false eyelashes – check, tighter than rubber band skirts – double check, Brazilian, Peruvian, Sleek and possibly Expression weaves scraping rounded bottoms – check check check! My eyes were on stalks.

If it were just these, they might have been manageable… ‘might’ being the operative word. But no, even the mature students were trying out for ANTM. Gold eyeshadows covering pencilled eyebrows, matching gold single plaits, funky black platforms…ugh my fingers are itching to scratch my eyes out!

I’m surprised I don’t have a mini complex. Louboutins, Choos, Non-existent label but sky-scrapping Gaga-esque shoes…all fighting for dominance. I could have sworn the school website said something about wearing only kitten heels if heels had to be worn at all! Or maybe I was deceived by evil ex-students.

And the hair; although there were some nice weaves being whipped back and forth ala Willow Smith, there were also some Sleek weaves that should have been, in the words of our marshals, guided and guided very well. These weaves were of the nature that if rain fell, they would be stuck in one position and not shift an inch. Bloody highly flammable mops. And the girls who were in possession of such monstrosities probably thought no one could tell the difference. Ha!

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a bitter soul who wishes I could wear the same but really, it was too funny. I remember the first week having lunch at the ‘dinning’ (as we call the dining room thanks to its dubious spelling). Four girls walked or rather, strutted into the dinning to get some food (well clearly). Jehovah Nissi! Victoria Beckham ain’t got shit on these ladies. I’m surprised not a single one of them didn’t fall flat on their faces. Although, one of them might have been saved by the millipedes on her eyelashes. Those lashes are being coveted by Pete Burns somewhere.

Even to La Liga, the beer parlour; Beer parlour oh where okada drivers and alomo drinking old men chill, I saw a girl with a Loub clutch! I mean, COME ON! Another girl, probably tired of moaning and singing herself to sleep in a jealous fit, wore her Sunday school heels there. And what was yours truly wearing, a dress she rocks to bed as well *sigh*. I repeat, why didn’t I get the memo?

And if this was not enough, the foneh! Oh heavenly Jehoshaphat! Some with British accents, some with American, some with a mixture, and many with Hank Anuku accents.

If an ‘R’ is not included in every word, then you did not school in ‘jand’ or ‘yankee’. If you don’t speak an octave higher when addressing the lecturer then gaddamn you didn’t even smell Murtala Mohammed airport, you liar!

I was queuing for the key to my room and I heard the hottest ‘innit’ accent that born and bred Peckhamites wish they had being spoken behind me. At first, I couldn’t be arsed to turn around to see who it was but by the time I heard some conk h-factor thrown into the mix I turned so fast I’m surprised I didn’t get whiplash. What did my eyes encounter? A girl in full hijab that’s who! 

Now, don’t get me wrong there’s nothing wrong with being wrapped up and speaking in a somewhat iffy British accent but come on, even You would have been astonished at the sight.

I saw the same girl at the bank the next day really ‘rough necking’ to the banker saying ‘I’m not ‘aving it. I can’t put 10grand in the bank when I ain’t got that kina money ‘ere’.’ And no, it was not cockney foneh. It was h-factor foneh. Of course I wasn’t surprised to hear her mumble ‘London Met’ the next day when everyone was saying what uni they went to. Figured.

It’s been three or even four weeks now since I got into this ‘fit and proper school’ so I guess I’m used to it all. Heck, my earrings even got seized. No this has nothing to do with this post but I had to ‘chook’ it in cuz I’m still a bit upset about them *scowl*.

Anyhoooooo, I’m on a one week break now so going back to hunting for Another proper meal. I don’t even care if I get fat right now; it feels so good to eat home-cooked food. J

*bisous mes amis*

MEMORIES OF BWARI - BAR 1 (4)

REGISTRATION AND FIRST DAY IN SCHOOL. THIS AIN’T OXILP, DEFINITELY.

Ugh, ugh, ugh. More ugh. I should so not have gone out the night before registration. First night out on the lash (okay, second but this seemed like the first) and I had not gotten home till about oooh, 5.30am? Yeah, right about that time. And I had to get up by 6:30am.

Yes. 1 hour sleep before registration.

The headache, sleep-deprivation and general irritation reminded me of the fact that I was not the youngster back in university. I was a grown-arse 24 year old who would definitely GET hungover after imbibing. This was my punishment.

I brushed my teeth sleepily and threw some water on my face. This obviously didn’t clear the makeup from last night away but I was too exhausted to care. I dragged on khaki trousers and a black t-shirt, tried to pack my long chunky braids in a semblance of neatness and called the gateman to carry my suitcases to the waiting cab.

As we drove through the city, I nodded off and on – till we got to the proper village. The fear of the journey kept my eyes more alert than 5 cans of red bull guzzled in rapid succession. The roads filled with pot-holes – it was like grinding pepper locally. And the epic landmark ‘Pinky and the Brain Primary School.’

Yes, you read correctly. Don’t wipe your glasses or screen.

And the bendy roads. Now you see a hill, now you don’t. Now you see a car or truck hurtling towards you without any care in the world, now you don’t. I swore to myself that I would never go through these roads at night (in Bar 2, I even convinced my mate to do a night road trip. I’d become so used to it, sigh).

Anyhoo, we got there and my sister’s mate transferred my suitcases to his car so I could send the cabbie away. I’d already spent a fortune. Be aware that at this point, most of the cabbies were using us to do foundation for their houses. What did we know? We were told prices and we’d probably take a hundred naira out smugly feeling like we could negotiate. Little did we know that we should have been cutting them by thousands. (Some poor chap was charged $100 from the airport to Bwari and he thought it was a fair price. Poor sod).

The first thing I asked my sister’s mate for was water. Not his name; water. I was parched. And hungover as hell. I think I fell in love with my sunnies that morning. Now that I think about it, I want to be buried wearing those sunnies. He laughed and went off to get me 2 massive bottles. I drained half of one in a go. It made me feel sick albeit better, if that makes sense. We went off to the admission office (you need to see this ‘office’) and saw some people milling around cluelessly.

We were all clueless. The great Nigerian Law School did not deign to inform us about any procedure. They did not even have a standard procedure. As I ranted inwardly, I spotted a sight for sore eyes. There was a woman stood next to a clueless friend of mine. This woman was Decked Out.

Black fedora, check. Black waistcoat, check. Black bootcut trozeez, check. Walking Stick, CHECK! Baddest of beeches.

All I could think was, these mature students meant business…and glance sorrowfully at my plain outfit. Little did I know that she would end up being one of my closest law school chum’s mummy. Not a student, a mummy. Height of yummy mummyhood, no?

Anyway, I digress. Soon a student took it upon himself to pass a sheet of paper round telling us to write our names down and queue up. Then we heard ‘make ya way to the new library’.  Of course this was easy to spot seeing that we knew where the old library was. I mean, we had been students for all of…oh yeah, NEVER!

Wherever the crowd went, I went. I ended up queuing next to some girls all dressed up like they were going to Whiskey Mist straight after registration. I snickered to myself. Heels in the mud? Good luck, girlies.

We got into the hall and then I discovered the true definition of the phrase ‘power trip.’:

You’re on the right queue? You’ll be yelled at for not sitting properly.

You mumbled ‘good morning’ instead of saying it assertively? Are you a mad man, how dare you?

You say ‘good morning’ assertively and the next thing is ‘who is ya father? I don’t care who you are here oh’.

Do you have the receipt for your fees? Yes. Oh and you think this makes you wise? You’re very stupid!

Why don’t you have the teller? Oh you have it? Then you’re a foolish somebody!

You don’t have the photocopy? Where do you think you are? It’s not my time you are wasting oh! You won’t get room in this campus.

Toh.

Very confused lot.

I sat nursing my headache carefully and called my mummy. Yes, I’m not ashamed to say I didn’t go through the correct sufferhead route. My ish was sorted rapidly, I got my room and the roommate I wanted, did the whole medical crap and bbm’d my daddy smugly as I floated to my assigned room. Upstairs! No ground floor for me, haha.

Then I fell back down to earth.

The sight of the room before me; Jumping Jehoshaphat. I could not even sit down on the bed. I bbm’d my mate and roomie, Arese telling her to come quickly. When she came, I nearly wept with joy at the sight of her mother and aunt behind her. They left to get drums and buckets as I already had mops, brooms, dustpans, etc. Oh yes, we need to bring our own cleaning equipment and beddings and kettles and every darn thing. Law School gives us the room and bed and we should be grateful for that.

My evil roomie came back with all the necessary stuff, dropped them on her bed and waved at me with a cheery, ‘I’m off to town for dinner with my mum. Will be back tomorrow, do you want anything?’

I stared at her in shock and dismay. She was leaving me alone in this dump? By my damn lonesome? All I could do was sulk as she asked if I wanted anything from town. Like I even knew what I wanted? It was my first time in the damn city!

I made my bed wearily and sat on it staring for hours. Then I thought, hey I should bbm another friend I’d just met in person after loads of conversations on twitter and see what he was up to.

‘I’m at my friend’s flat outside campus oh. I don’t think I’ll be back tonight even.’

Chimo! See depression. I hadn’t eaten anything all day, I couldn’t even think of what to eat or where to get food from and now I was stuck on my bed alone in this damn clusterfuck of bricked huts.

Luckily, my sister’s mate called and asked if I wanted anything. I was sorely tempted to say no seeing as he had his final exams in a few weeks and he should be studying but my tummy growled like an angry feline. I meekly replied that I was hungry. He took me to ‘Seun’s Place’ (I forget the real name; also this became the spot for shawarmas, meat pies, doughnuts and ‘egg puff’). I got a large chicken shawarma and said I’d eat it in the car cuz of the ac. There was no light and the gen was not on – at 7pm.

After about 3 bites and 1 surreptitious spit into a paper towel thanks to bones and quite possibly, shaki, I gave up on the torture and deprivation wrapped in grilled angry pitta bread. I bid him farewell and good luck, trudged to my room, called my dad to lament and whine then cried myself to sleep.

Oh what a fun day.

MEMORIES OF BWARI - BAR 1 (3)

TWITTER: A BALM FOR MY WEARY SOUL

 

 

Oh Twitter.

 

My most favourite site in the whole wide world.

 

This site saved me especially during the tedious process of coming to terms with moving back and the duration of law school itself.

 

'Moving back to Nigeria for law school. Sacre bleu!'

 

'As I'm moving back, I better pack sunscreen or I will look like Christmas turkey.'

 

'Kai, so these people want us to wear black and white everyday in that hot sun? Do they want to fry us?'

 

'I shan't be posh anymore. I shall become an Ireti with h-factor :'('

 

These were some of the tweets by future students like me and they warmed the cockles of my soul as I sniggered and nodded and laughed till I cried helplessly at them.

 

The black and white issue was the hardest to bear. So, the law school has a dresscode. Not only do we have to look corporate like we're off to work everyday of the week at some tax office (except on Fridays when we can wear our native or traditional attires), but this corporate look was strictly black and white.

 

Yup, you read correctly.

 

For the girls and/or women, a black skirt that's knee-length or longer. Never shorter. A white long-sleeved shirt - can be short-sleeved but never sleeveless or capped. It can also be a black shirt. Tops or vest tops can be worn but one will have to wear a black cardigan or jumper or suit jacket as they are not 'fit and proper' on their own (you shall be seeing more of this phrase 'fit and proper' as we go on). Black shoes, not excessively high and definitely not peep-toed. It's a school not a club! Hair must be 'guided' ie must be packed. No strand must be allowed to 'fly about. It is not (yes, you got it) fit and proper.

 

For the lads, a proper full-on suit. If not, then a long-sleeved white shirt with a black tie and black trousers. And proper black shoes and a black belt. We are aspirants to the Nigerian Bar and must dress accordingly.

 

What a pile of tosh, but sadly these were the rules.

 

You can imagine the frustration with which we all took to twitter when we read this considering how hot it is, not just in Nigeria but especially in Bwari, Abuja. We were indeed going to fry.

 

For me, it was doubly worse as I had no white shirt. Not one. Black was not really a problem as it was (and is) my favourite colour but white? Nunh-unh. Oh, and I hate shopping. So this meant I had to order clothes by the dozen and hope that they all fit. Remember that all this was sort of last minute so there was no way I could return whatever I ordered back if they were the wrong size.

 

When I think of how much I spent on clothes, shoes, suitcases, stationery, groceries... I'm figuratively tearing my hair out now as I remember.

 

To make things even more worse (for lack of an appropriate description), the skirts were a tad big for me. And I had ordered almost ten. The shirts were okay but all the vest tops I ordered all stopped at my midriff. And I had ordered loads.

 

Egad!

 

'So have they told us how the registration process is going to be?'

 

'Is it not Nigeria? Registration process oshi wo? When we get there we will see now.'

 

'Come, I can't go and die there oh. I'm still struggling to sort out this application form. Why is it even in Bwari? Why can't it be in the city?'

 

'This registration is for how long? I am not going to sleep on the field oh. I must get my own room.'

 

See the trend? A lot of us were worried about registration and this brings me to my next memory...