Remembering Nigeria

We the realities of Africa slip in and out of our consciousness as quickly as our eyes scan headlines and links. Watching the scenes of Nigeria from window, from a car and an office, or as I walked, felt, likewise, like I was getting only a hint of what was there. The images that assaulted me stay in Nigeria while I leave. The exist in my mind still, but they're fading quickly. I remember the area boys stalking the streets of Lagos, filled with rage at being unemployed and hungry. The small child sweating out malaria beside me in the clinic. A woman with twins sagging against her body, one on each hip, begging on the street.

The journalists covering politics in Nigeria treat it as an opportunity for their own advancement. The coverage is superficial, an embarrassment. And the heads of agencies, of NGOs, and of corporations read these stories. Journalists hammering out a last-minute story based on a single interview conducted hundreds of miles outside the borders of Nigeria might jeopardize millions in investment and even undermine an entire election.

I just wish I could remember everything, somehow make Nigeria and Africa more than a headline. Reading Tony Horowitz' Confederates in the Attic, inappropriately enough, made me think of how amazing it would be to remember everything, to be able to turn my month in Nigeria into a book or a set of essays. I wish I could organize my experiences into a fair, real, and cogent narrative.