My compound

When people ask me about my life in Nigeria and ask me about the people in my life, normally my neighbours in the compound are overlooked. I get intimate questions about the men in my life, but we never discuss that I have seen most of my neighbours in some undressed state or another. When we discuss how lively my life is here, I often don’t mention that the fights in my compound can be so entertaining that I would switch off my music just to hear every word. And when we discuss tribes and politics, I forget to mention that my compound only hosts northerners.
I live in a massive mansion together with 12 others. My 1-bedroom apartment is one of the smaller ones, which gives you an indication of how big the place is. The house was intended for 1 family but when they finally finished the building the children had all moved out already. For 8 years the house was just standing there, soaking up rain water with its cement walls, until about 1 year ago they decided to create 12 apartments to rent out and I am among the first to have moved in.
It is a truly Nigerian compound. This is not because my Tanzanian neighbour and myself are the only non-Nigerians, but because everything has been done with an astounding lack of perfection. Everything is there alright, but... E.g. it has taken 3 months to have the lights and sockets work at the same time, 2 months to pave the compound, and about 5 months for my walls to start falling apart due to the lack of drainage systems. Bathrooms tend to slope in the wrong way and the water problems have led to mouldy walls (and clothes). If it rains the water tends to enter through the windows and the mosquitoes can easily feed themselves on us unprotected humans.
The tiny parking space creates most entertainment though. The 12 cars are crammed inside, nearly spilling out of the gate, and everyone knows when the others are coming and going so that we have created a near-perfect sequence of parking our cars. If you want to leave earlier than normal, you will have to ask the gate men to wake up your neighbours so they can move their cars. This is why I’ve seen so many of my neighbours half-naked. On a few occasions I have heard impressive fights between my neighbours on the speed with which cars are moved, or on the position of the particular car. But like always in Nigeria fights are quickly forgotten and laughter follows suit.
Help is always offered by the gate people. It used to be one gate man from Niger Republic, but there seems to be an exponential growth in gate men. Not one of them speaks English and my Hausa is far from perfect, but you can get far with “moto” and a lot of gestures. When you come to visit me they first tell you that I’m not there unless you just refer to me as “the white one”, and when it’s a man visiting me they’ll act as my protectors and will not let you in unless I have consented. They are like my brothers, taking care of me, and in the 6 months that they have the key to my house, I have felt safe and looked after rather than paranoid on when they’ll steal my belongings.
All my life I have thought of a village as the worst place to live. The social control, the tight regulations and the constant intrusion of neighbours seemed like hell to me. Now I live in a compound where you can be yourself, fight like family, barge in on each other, talk without regard of social position, and walk around in your house dress. Inside our walls we have a village of our own –and I love it!