Lagos, 2000

I first visited Nigeria late in 1999, seeing in the New Year at a Catholic cathedral in Osogbo with family friends, travelling to Ife, Benin City, Abraka, Olumo Forest and other wonderful places afterwards. Early in January at the start of term, we went to Unilag to find work. We had the slightly insane idea of moving to Nigeria and becoming academics. We'd had the same idea the year before when travelling in Cuba. I was somewhat put off after meeting a philosophy professor at the University of Habana for an impromptu interview - it seemed the syllabus was twenty variants of Saint Marx. I admire Marx' writing like many, but I'm not sure I would ever want a total ongoing immersion experience.

At Unilag, I managed to line up an interview with the Head of Department, Professor Momoh (he died a few months ago). Bibi and I sat down in his office, the other side of his wide desk. A young woman sat to his side. We greeted each other. I breathed in deeply, preparing myself for the questions ahead. I could never have anticipated what he was about to ask me. After saying hello, he said,

"So why are you following her?"

I was somewhat taken aback. Rather than ask me about my area of specialisation or teaching competence as a prelude to some knife-sharpening metaphysical exchange, he was apparently referring to Bibi. I thought for a second, then came back with,

"I notice that you apply the verb 'follow' to my relationship to my partner. However, that word could only belong within a partriachal conception of the world, wherein men are considered to have power over women in many different ways. However, I refuse at all times to conduct myself within such a logic. Therefore, the verb does not apply." I smiled inwardly at my smartypants answer. Professor Momoh eyed me, and then my wife. I wondered what he was thinking, inscrutable underneath a fez-like hat. Then, his next question, even more perplexing:

"But you know your wife is white?"

Now, this was a strange question. The fan whirred above, wafting warm air into the humid office. I could not come up with anything thoughtful or expansive to say. "Erm. No Professor, my wife is black." I replied. Not such a cleverclogs answer.

"No. Your wife is in fact white."

"I'm sorry sir. But my wife is black."

We were not getting very far. Socratic dialectic it wasn't.

There was a pause. Prof looked at his nubile assistant, then at me. Then, he said, "when can you start?"

In the end, we decided against the whole idea (Bibi's PhD in gender studies didnt tesselate with any department). But in a parallel universe, there I am, still teaching at Unilag, converting a generation of eager young minds to the joys of existential phenomenology, tearing them away from uncritical adoration of the works of the Abrahamic tradition.