Today I Chose to Ride the Oko

There is a village not too far from Central Lekki Island; Iba-Oloja is its Yoruba name. As the story goes, a disoriented expat stumbled upon this village 15 years ago. The expat sought a nearby beach for his family to enjoy their day and instead found Mufa, the guide who today takes curious visitors to Iba-Oloja on day- long excursions by oko (canoe). The two maintained a relationship over the years, and with the help of donations, and of course proceeds from oko rides, the village now has a bathroom, uniforms for the school children, and a fully-functional school. This was the village I visited yesterday.

The canoe ride itself did not prove troublesome. Traversing serpentine inlets formed undoubtedly by oko traffic, we floated along in private oar-steered vessels toward the village. Tree leafs and brush tickled our faces, monkeys and cicadas released calls of unknown meaning, and the humid yet serene atmosphere revealed an Africa I had only read about in books.

But as we approached Iba-Oloja and disembarked with the help of Juma's and Mufa's steady and skillful hands, my trouble began. It is a philosophical trouble that still does not have an answer for me. A conflict that up to this point in time has only been hinted at, but today disclosed itself painfully. On the one hand, here we arrive in Iba-Oloja with genuine curiosity and wonder. We want to see, listen, and watch the happenings of a small isolated village and its residents. And the people welcome us without hesitation, showing us their school, performing juju and traditional dances, and allowing us to visit and drink with the chief in his humble quarters. And it is obvious the villagers know that with visitors come gifts and awareness of their needs. So our visit is welcomed and accepted by those who call Iba-Oloja their home.

On the other hand, we come to see, listen, and watch but not much more. We do not seek an understanding that only friendships can bring. We come and go as we please to enter voyeuristically into their world, and we bring lenses and flashes to document our "experience." As I watched the closing traditional dance, I sensed this relational disconnect in the actions and voices of the villagers. It was not overt rudeness or inacceptance but more like a constant low hum of banality only audible when it stops, when someone shows a true interest in who a person is as a friend, companion, human being.

And so I post this account with hesitation, knowing that I will not return, will not seek friendships, and cannot do justice to these photos that the people in them deserve. Today I chose to ride the oko.