Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me

the sun over Edinburgh, at one of it's highest points, on 21 October

It hit me the other day - I've never been as far north as I am now. I remember being in Amsterdam in the summer of 2000, feeling like I was so far north that the sun would never set. Amsterdam has a latitude of about 52 degrees North; Edinburgh's latitude is almost 56 degrees North.

I've lived in many places, but never with latitudes even close to where I am now. Zaria (11° N) was close enough to the equator that I don't think I ever realized there was any difference to the length of days during the year. De Kalb (42° N), Towson (39.5° N), East Lansing (43° N), Oakland (38° N), and Mountain View (37.5° N), while having latitudes that span over less than 6 degrees, don't have vastly differing lengths of days in the winter. Edinburgh however, is going to be a new experience for me.

Over the past few weeks, we have been getting less and less sun. We get about 4.5 less minutes of sun each day over the last week, which may not seem like a lot, but when that translates to over 30 minutes of sun is lost in a week, it's something to think about. Today, we are scheduled to have a little over 10 hours between sunrise and sunset; in a week, it will be just over 9 hours and 30 minutes.

The sun makes it's way across the southern sky, seeming to move very fast, as shadows change a lot in a matter of minutes. The sun never comes close close to being "overhead", and it looks like perpetual morning or evening with the long shadows cast all day.

my long shadow at 12:30 on 21 October

the low-hanging sun casting long shadows at 1pm on 21 October

When we moved into this flat, the landlord told us that most of the windows faces the south, like it was a selling point. At the time, I thought "so what?". Now, I know. If our flat has a northern view we would never see the sun. Instead though, we get bright rays of sun (for a few precious hours, and only when it's not cloudy) in our flat.

I remember moving to De Kalb from Nigeria. I was prepared cold, as much as a 12 year old from Nigeria could be, I was not prepared for the darkness. I have the same feeling now; people say "are you worried about getting through the cold winter?" (not knowing I lived in Michigan for 7 years), and I say "not at all; I'm worried about getting through the darkness". I knew winter was coming when Lauren made the purchase I was dreading- she bought a SAD lamp. The darkness was coming.

According to this site, on December 21, the shortest day of the year, Edinburgh will have just under 7 hours between sunrise and sunset, from about 8:45 AM to 3:45 PM. That's kind of scary to me, and I'm not planning on being here on that day, but will be in town close enough to that day to wake up to darkness, lunch with a low lying sun, and dinner with darkness.

I'm already looking forward to the day when I start to dread summer, when the sun will never seem to set.

The Nigeria I Knew

The Nigerian Coat of Arms

Nigeria and I have this odd relationship. I was born there, and lived there until I was a little over 12.

The thing is, I feel like I have no real connection to Nigeria anymore. Neither of my parents are Nigerian, so there is no Nigerian cultural tradition, or food, that we would partake in, after we moved to the US. I don't look Nigerian, and have even had to defend that I lived there a couple of times to Ghanaians, who refused to believe that I, the Obroni with dreadlocks, would have ever lived in the most populous country in Africa, the nemesis of Ghana.

I also don't speak with a Nigerian accent (although my West African accent comes out when I speak to Africans). I often get this surprised look from people when they ask where I am from, after I tell them I spent the first 12 years of my life in Nigeria.

I haven't been to Nigeria since 1991, 19 years ago. Much more time has passed since the last time I was in the country than the time I spent there, but I still feel an intense nostalgia about the country, the Nigeria I knew.

I remember the songs we sang in elementary school, about independence day, about the bad shape of the economy in the early 1980s (my dad still chuckles at the thought of having 8-year olds sing about the bad economy). I can still feel my bare feet running along, playing football with a half-inflated ball, or anything round we could find, the feel of the bike I got when I was three and rode until it was unridable (it was, literally, broken in 1/2 by twins I knew). I can still hear the sound of the call to prayer from the Mosques, and the excitement of getting out of school early on Fridays, because the muslim kids had to go to Mosque that afternoon. I remember being called a Fulani, because of my skin tone, and how I felt that was more insulting that calling me Oyimbo (white person).

Unfortunately, Nigeria rarely gets positive stories about it in the media these days; it's looked at for its corruption, the oil industry, the crazy terrorist. It's negative stories have affected me, because of the place of birth listed in my passport, being questioned about my Nigerian-ness by security officials as I pass through airports.

That's not the Nigeria I knew. The Nigeria I knew was a place where I could run around and play all day, where my parents never had to worry about my safety when I was outside, even at night. The Nigeria I knew is where mothers were called "Mama so-and-so" - my mother was "Mama Kodwo".

So I hope that today, the day Nigeria turns 50, people don't see Nigeria as the place they read about in the news, but, for at least one day, see Nigeria as the Nigeria I knew.

Happy Independence Day!!!