Nigeria “What do you mean you’ve never heard of palm nut soup or groundnut soup?” I quizzed my Nigerian counterparts. Their puzzled looks prompted them to respond, “No, really, we haven’t.” That’s when I knew it was time for a culinary adventure. We decided to introduce them to the delights of these delicious West African dishes. In Abuja, Nigeria, we hosted a yam fufu (Nigerian-style) party. Steaming bowls of groundnut and palm nut soup adorned the table, and each guest was treated to a small dish of fufu, crowned with their choice of soup. The experience was fantastic, and we danced the night away, celebrating the union of two vibrant cultures. Nigeria became my next destination after South Africa. Helen would have been thrilled for me to stay longer, but it was DFID that funded my work, and they had other plans. Being a single mother to three children would have been challenging without the educational support provided by DFID. I applied for the role of DFID advisor. However, the interviews proved quite challenging, and I failed to secure the position. During my time in South Africa, my close Nigerian friends, Julitta and Seyi Onabanjo, who lived on a nearby street, provided immense support. We had become like family, and I remember discussing my job situation with Julitta’s father, Daddy Duncan, during one of his visits. He offered to pray for me. Surprisingly, I received a call later, and to my delight, DFID offered me a position as an HIV/AIDS advisor in Nigeria. It was an incredible turn of events, and I later realised that Nigeria was a challenging place for many. While in Nigeria, I crossed paths with a young Nigerian girl named Jessica Gwar, who was recommended to me by my predecessor. She was in search of a job to support her through university. I introduced her to a few opportunities, but it became evident that some people were taking advantage of her, so she came to live with me. Eventually, she became my adopted daughter. My time in Nigeria was marked by personal milestones as well. I purchased a brand-new car, and I distinctly remember all the workers gathering around, offering prayers, and expressing gratitude to God for the possibility that someone like them, a black person, could afford a brand-new car. As my son Leslie approached eleven, I began exploring options for his secondary education, intending to send him to a boarding school in England. Meanwhile, my youngest son, Steve, wasn’t thriving in Nigeria and disliked school. My mother and I discovered a boarding school in England called St. John’s Beaumont that accepted students as young as six years old. On the advice of my mother, we decided to enrol Steve there as well, with the understanding that if he didn’t adapt, we would reconsider. To our surprise, Steve thrived at the school, returning home with a plumper frame. 26 The Birthday Journal
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