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I’m tired, you guys. On a Saturday afternoon. In Abuja. I’m too tired to use all my fingers to type. I’m too tired to figure out if this post has a point. All I know is, I was talking with my dad last night and he hinted that it had been a while since I’d posted. So here I am.

So why am I tired? This place is exhausting. I woke up early this morning to take my car in for repairs. First mistake? I forgot to factor in Nigeria time. The mechanic was supposed to meet me at the Embassy at 8AM, so I was there at 8AM. The mechanic is not there. I cannot reach him on the phone. I wait 20 minutes. I finally decide to go into my office to do some actual work. I call Motorpool to inquire about the whereabouts of the mechanic. I am told “he is coming.” It’s after 9AM now. He eventually appears, though I am not sure when. Around 10:45, I head down to the garage, hoping the work is done. The hood is up on my car; the mechanic is there – eating. Breakfast? Lunch? I don’t know. I ask for a progress report. Another hour he says. I leave, wondering if work has even begun but I’m too afraid to ask. An hour later, my car is ready. Hooray!

Next stop: grocery store. There are many small to medium sized grocery stores in Abuja. This is good, because one must inevitably go to several different ones to buy all the things one needs. I’m trying a new one today. I arrive at the worst possible time: noon. I find it’s best to go as soon as the store opens – it’s less crowded and the shelves are stocked – but I had no choice today. Since this is my first time here, I don’t know my way around. It’s crowded. I snag a basket. The aisles are narrow. I am navigating around other customers and staff who are mopping the floors or moving merchandise. I look at my list: heavy cream – nope; artichokes – haha, dreamer; parmesan cheese – again no. I do spot some cheddar, which I’m tempted to buy (you would not believe what one small package of cheddar cheese costs here), but it looks like it might have melted a bit en route to the store. I decide to pass. Back to the list: Coca-Cola – yes! Chicken breasts – no, too late. Milk – UHT of course. I snag a couple of bottles of hard cider on my way to the checkout line; I earned it. The checkout line is its own special hell. Nigerians aren’t 100% committed to the concept of a line, so I have to defend my place in line. I get to the front, I pay, and I carry my purchases to the door where a security guard pretends to check my receipt against what’s in the bags. Back to the car.

Traffic is the next challenge. Nigerians aren’t 100% committed to lanes either. It’s like speed racer on heroin or something. Weave in, weave out, speed up, slow down. I have a decision to make. Should I go home, or should I try another grocery store? I really need some of that stuff on my list, so I suck it up and head to my regular store. Traffic is awful. It’s one lane each way, no traffic lights. Traffic comes to a halt while several cars ahead of me try to turn left. The police officer who is supposed to be directing traffic isn’t much help. I realize that I have a headache. Too late to turn back now. Frankly, I couldn’t turn back even if I wanted to. Eventually, we start moving. I make it to the parking lot and I find a spot right away. I pass through the metal detectors and show my purse to the security guard. I’m in. It’s crazy crowded. Sigh. I find heavy cream. I find chicken breasts. I even find fresh parmesan cheese, and I accept the fact that I will have to pay through the nose for it. No artichokes, so I buy chickpeas instead (I’ll make hummus). I snag a few more items and once again, stand in the checkout line forever. I pay, I show my receipt to the security guard at the door, and I get back in my car. Now comes the hard part: I need to turn left out of the parking lot, but there are no traffic lights to manage the traffic flow. And of course, no one is willing to let the left-turners merge in. But I’ve learned a thing or two in my three months here: Nigerian drivers are brave (and crazy). The car ahead of me eases further and further out into traffic, I come up on his right a little behind him. I figure this way, his car will absorb most of the force if we’re t-boned by oncoming traffic. The oncoming cars recognize our determination and let us in. I begin the long slog home (in truth it’s probably no more than 2 miles, but it takes forever).

Finally, I am home. I am sweaty. It’s hot out here people. Africa hot. I am tired. But I have my chicken breasts. And heavy cream. And chickpeas. I will sleep well tonight.

But right now, I need a cocktail.

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