Oyibo

Contrary to popular belief, I do not sit by the pool and drink cocktails all day. Tempting as it is – our apartment complex (of sorts) sits on the north side of Lekki Penninsula directly tangent to the Lagos Lagoon – I actually get out and about for my daily 4-mile walk.

I began my usual route from our house at Sussex Harbor (Chevron’s private gated community within the Victoria Garden City subdivision). Our community sits on a 3.4 mile loop that encloses our entire subdivision with a local park and roundabout at its apex. On any given day, I will pass by beautiful mansions gated in, guarded, and barb wired as though preempting unwelcome visitors. Between these houses, there are lots waiting to be developed, lots being developed, and lots that are between the two stages with shanties and huts haphazardly erected…presumably for the workers to gain refuge from the smothering daytime heat or to stay the night if their transportation doesn’t come (that happens more often than you’d think).

As I take my daily route around the loop, I always say “good afternoon” to whomever I pass by. The usual response is “fine” or a simple “hello” from my neighbors and the workers loitering in the street. But my most recent jaunt was different. I was passing a group of construction workers, who didn’t look like they were up to anything bad but nothing good either, when a tall, burley man yelled out, “Hey oyibo!” Although other expats had relayed to me their own “oyibo” experiences in the markets or on the street, the term had never been addressed at me until now. Recognizing this Nigerian slang term for “whitie,” I turned around and smiled sarcastically in his direction (though I’m not sure if it translated as sarcasm or flirting) and went about my swift walking pace. To my surprise, the situation upset me! What reason did this man have to yell out “whitie” at me? Instead of flashing a sarcastic smile, next time I vowed to take a different approach.

Wouldn’t you know, not 5 more minutes into my walk, I hear a soft voice on my left: “oyibo, hi.” Still a bit unnerved, I didn’t stop my cardio-pace stride, but said “My name is Sarah. You can call me Sarah.” I continued on my way hearing the gentleman repeat my name a couple of times, presumably to commit it to memory.

Up to this point in my walk, most of the people I encountered were construction workers or employees of the Beverly Hills-esque mansions that flank our condo complex. But as the sun sets, workers begin to disappear and the residents of the homes emerge. They are usually returning from work, coming out for their nightly stroll or bike ride, or doing a bit of exercise as is my custom.

As I near my turn-around point, I pass a group of 4 girls in their mid-20s returning home from work. Once again, "oyibo" was aimed loudly in my direction, this time from residents rather than employees of the multi-million dollar homes. Once again, I turned around and said, “My name is Sarah.” At first, there was silence. But then Linda extended her hand and introduced herself and her friends. We chatted just a bit about where we lived and where we were headed then bid our farewells vowing to hang out if our paths crossed again.

I continued up to our neighborhood park, then started back. No sooner had I turned around, when a woman in tradition dress looked at me from across the street and said, “hello… oyibo.” I’m not sure what it was about this particular night, but apparently my whiteness was more noticeable than other evenings. Maybe it was the residual dark lipstick or Channel knock-off sunglasses that I wore. In any case, I again introduced myself and we began to talk about where we were from. She was Igbo, from an area east of the Niger River. In the midst of our discussion, her two male companions came to join our conversation. I once again gave my name, to which one replied, “I say ‘Hello oyibo’ every night….Sarah…Now I have it here [as he bows his head pointing to his temple] for when I see you.”

After this last encounter, I begin to think the maybe oyibo is not always meant in insult or taunt. Maybe it does have endearing qualities to it and I should simply embrace my oyibo label.

But this morning was a completely different experience. I took my walk early due to evening plans. The streets were pretty desolate except for children being dropped off at school and a trickling-in of construction workers. As I passed by the local school, traversing between the school’s 5 armed guards, one guard looked me square in the eye and said, “whitie” in staccato, plain English with no endearing quality whatsoever. Thinking it wise not to speak to a pissed off guard with a gun, I didn’t introduce myself this time. But I did wonder as I passed by, what exactly I had done to cause this man to speak with such disrespect. And what does it mean to be oyibo in Lagos?