From the Niger to the Mississippi (A Profile)

Because he is so well-known among Union students and he speaks near perfect English, you might not realize that Hananiah “Hani” Nyabam is a native of Nigeria rather than the USA. Having received a good education in Nigeria, Hani was accepted into several colleges throughout the United States, but Hani moved to the United States in August of 2005 to attend Covenant College in Lookout Mountain, Georgia on a soccer scholarship. Since then, he has remained in the USA, fearful that, if he returns to Nigeria, he may not be permitted to return to the United States because of the tricky visa-granting system. After a year in Georgia, Hani decided to transfer to Union University when both he and his best friend from home, Rabo, were offered soccer scholarships.

Hani has played soccer for as long as he can remember. In school, the 1-2 graders had their own quarter-field, as well as the 3-5 graders, so they were always kicking a ball around every chance they got. The middle school and high school each had their own full-sized field. However, in middle school they played mostly on the basketball court. “This improved our accuracy and control,” said Hani, “because we would have to learn to balance better on the concrete, as well as have to shoot at a pole rather than a goal.” Although Hani did not come to the United States solely to play soccer, his athletic ability funded his education.

But how on earth did Hani learn to speak such excellent English? According to Hani, he attended an American Accredited School in his hometown, the city of Jos, during 1-2 grade and then 7-12 grade, taking a small break to attend a boarding school in another city from 3-6 grade. The Nyabams worked to send Hani to the AAS so that one day they could hopefully send him to college in the United States, his oldest brother having moved to the States for school years earlier. In addition to this in-school immersion in English, Hani spoke English at home, as he did not speak his parents’ native languages. “Everyone grows up speaking the language of their village,” Hani explained. “You know many different languages, but not all the same ones as everyone else. I speak some French, as well as Hausa (the language of my state), and West African Creole (which is basically a form of broken English).”

Despite his excellent education in Nigeria, Hani struggled at Union to do well, as he had been taught to do many things differently. Although he took Literature classes in Nigeria, they were constructed quite differently than in the USA. “Writing styles were also different,” said Hani. “I was taught differently how to write and make essays. They never taught us good reading skills, so I am a very slow reader.” Because of this, Hani says that he not only struggles with spelling, but he doesn’t like to read books, especially textbooks.

Teaching styles are not the only thing in Nigeria that are different than the USA. The way of life is almost foreign to the American fast-paced, do-what-you-need-to-get-to-the-top way of life. “Time is of no essence to us,” Hani stated. He gave the example that if a couple says their wedding is going to be at 10am, the couple themselves probably won’t even show up until 11 or 12 o’clock. Being on time is not important, and being late is not considered rude. Although Hani believes that the majority of the people in the southern United States are fairly kind, Nigerians beat them to the punch any day. “For example,” Hani related, “if someone comes to you and asks you for money, even if you know that you need that money to pay a bill in a couple of weeks, you give them that money.” Regardless, theft is still prevalent. “One year our house was broken into three times in a five month period!” exclaimed Hani.

Another concept now foreign to the American way of life is the idea of a curfew. Nigeria is split about 50/50 between Muslims and Christians, with a slight Christian majority. As a result, religious riots are not uncommon. “I live in the city Jos, which is considered to be the gateway to Christianity for the country,” said Hani. “After the terrorist attacks of 9/11/01 terrible riots broke out in my city because the Muslims wanted to gain control of the city.” The rioting comes and goes. Hani’s mother told him in a recent telephone conversation that there has been religious rioting for some unknown reason near their home lately, and so a curfew has been reinstated.

So what religious beliefs do Hani and his family espouse? Well, Mr. and Mrs. Nyabam learned about Christ through missionaries in their area many years ago. Mrs. Nyabam worked in banking and then insurance while Mr. Nyabam worked for a textile company called NASCO while Hani was a child. Now, however, both have stopped their jobs to work as missionaries for a ministry called Prevailing Prayer Ministry (PPM). Hani received Christ as a young child when, just after his grandmother’s funeral his sister asked him if he wanted to end up in heaven where she had gone. And so, he accepted Christ. Despite his Christian heritage, Hani had never heard of John Calvin when he first attended the Presbyterian Covenant College. The prevalence of Baptists who lead double lives at Union University caught Hani by surprise also. Regardless, he is glad “to be surrounded by a Christian environment.”

If American children think they have it bad with an occasional spanking, they should be thankful they are not Nigerian! “I was raised to be obedient,” stated Hani. “Disobedience was not tolerated at all! If we disobeyed we were whipped with branches, twigs, belts- anything our parents could get their hands on.” Hani did not lead the life of an abused child, though. He is the youngest of four, with two older brothers and an older sister, all 10+ years older than he. He specifically remembers family dinners, especially on Sundays, to which everyone contributed by cooking something.

“The food is one of the things I miss most- I love Nigerian food!” said Hani. Although they had two fast-food restaurants, a knock-off McDonalds called Mr Bigs and a wanna-be Chic-fil-a called Chickin Lickins, they were high-priced and not very good. Nigerians eat lots of different vegetable soups, rice, and a variety of meat, including goat, beef, lamb, kabobs, and chicken. “One tribe in Nigeria (not mine!) even eats dog!” recalled Hani. With their meals they also eat a bread-like substance made from corn flour called Tuwo. Most of their food they grow themselves. In Nigeria, you buy a plot of land on which you build a compound with a 13-15 ft high wall and a gate around it. Inside their walls the Nyabams grow many different kinds of fruit trees, including guavas, mangos, and papayas. They also raised poultry. On the outside of their wall they grow corn, tomatoes, or whatever may be in season at the time. Also inside the walls is their home. Hani recalls that if family or friends decided to come work in the city for a while, they would live with them indefinitely, without any question of paying rent or any such obligation. Friends and family would also just stop by unannounced at any given time, as many people did not have telephones in their homes to call ahead.

While many people have electricity and other such amenities, they are not a given in the average Nigerian household. “Electricity will be off and on- you never know how long you will have it,” said Hani. “When it goes off, you just do something else. We played a lot of cards and boardgames.”

Not only time and electricity are relaxed, but so are many of the country’s laws. “We can pretty much do what we want,” said Hani. “There is no legal age for smoking or drinking. Neither is there a speed limit.” Surprisingly, however, there are fewer accidents than in the United States because people are generally better drivers. They also drive mostly European-made cars like Mercedes, Mazda, BMW, and Peugeot. “I never saw an American-made car, like a Mustang for instance, until I came to the USA,” remembered Hani. The Nigerian public transportation system is also unusual. Some larger cities had buses, but they don’t stop for you to get on- you must jump off and on them at your desired location. Instead of calling a taxi-cab, in Nigeria you walk about 15 minutes to the highway near your town and wait for a taxi to come by. Then, you hail cabs until you find one going where you need to go, and then you barter with the driver for a reasonable price. “Usually in a typical 5-seater sedan, you will fit 7-8 people,” said Hani. “The other option is to cram several people on the back of a motorcycle-taxi.” Generally though, within your own town, you walk or bike to your destination. Because they walk so much, the sight of fat people upon landing in the USA shocked Hani, as he had never before seen obesity in his life.

The medical system is also quite different from the USA. There is no medical insurance- you can only buy insurance for physical property like your car or your house. “When you get sick,” explained Hani,” you go to your family physician. They write you a prescription and you take it to the drug story where you pay for it all out of pocket in cash. It is not a solid medical system.” Hani gave an example in passing of the extent of its deficiency. Apparently when he was born, the Nigerian doctors told his mother that he was dead, and so they had to fly to London to find out that he really was very much alive!

Hani plans to stay in the United States as long as possible. “It would be hard to reintegrate myself into the Nigerian culture after being gone so long,” said Hani. After graduating from Union University in December 2009 with a degree in Computer Science, Hani was hired by Aeneas Internet &Telephone as an Account Executive where he works to educate people on how they need to improve their electronics and, in turn, sells them these improvements. Although he never planned on becoming a United States citizen, after the recent Christmas Day attack by the Nigerian Muslim man, Hani is thinking about pursuing citizenship. At the minimum, he plans to get his green card so that he can visit home and still be allowed to return to the USA to work. Although he had no desire to return to Nigeria permanently, he said that he “most misses his family, the people, and their simpler, more laid-back way of life.”

From the Niger to the Mississippi (Creative Non-Fiction)

“You speak four languages?!” I asked incredulously.

“Yeah. English, West African Creole (which is like broken English), Hausa, and French,” said Hananiah ‘Hani’ Nyabam. “I went to an American Accredited School in Nigeria for 1st and 2nd and then 7th through 12th grades so that I could come to the United States for college, and I learned English there.”

“So it must not have been hard for you to transition to classes here at Union then?” I said.

“Well, knowing English helped me a lot, but sure, it was hard. Literature and writing classes were the hardest. I was taught differently how to write and make essays. They don’t teach you good reading skills in Nigeria, so I am a slow reader and it was a struggle for me to read my homework.”

Hani, a native of Nigeria, moved to the United States in 2005 to attend Covenant College on a soccer scholarship. After a year there, he transferred to Union University to play with his best friend from home who had also received a scholarship for soccer. Hani graduated in December 2009 with a degree in Computer Science and now works at Aeneas Internet and Telephone as an account executive where he educates people about technological improvements and sells them these innovations.

“Have you been home since you moved here for school?” I asked.

“No, I haven’t been home since August 2005 because the visa-granting system is tricky, and so there is always a chance that I wouldn’t be permitted to return to the US.” Hani explained.

“So are you planning on staying in the United States or will you move back home?”
“I plan to stay here for now,” Hani said. “I don’t want to be a US citizen. I don’t see the point, and I’m not allowed to have dual-citizenship. I might become one now after the Nigerian bomber on Christmas Day, but before that there was no reason. For now I will get a Green Card and just see what happens.”

But what would make Hani want to leave his home and his family behind for good and stay in the United States? What is Nigeria like? How does it compare to the US? All these questions flashed through my mind as I questioned Hani, and I asked him to explain.

The way of life in Nigeria is almost foreign to the American fast-paced, do-what-you-need-to-get-to-the-top way of life. “Time is of no essence to us,” Hani stated. He gave the example that if a couple says that their wedding is going to be at 10am, the couple themselves probably won’t even show up until 11 or 12 o’clock. Being on time is not important, and being late is not considered rude. Although Hani considers the majority of southerners in the US to be fairly kind, Nigerians surpass their compassion any day. “For example,” Hani related, “if someone comes to you and asks you for money, even if you know that you need that money to pay a bill in a couple of weeks, you give them that money.” Surprisingly, theft is still prevalent. “One day our house was broken into three times in a five month period!” Hani exclaimed to me.

The household in Nigeria is set up differently than in the US in many ways, as well. Most Nigerians own a plot of land on which they build a house and a compound with at thirteen to fifteen feet heigh security wall around the premises. “Inside the walls we grow fruit trees—guavas, papayas, mangos, etc—and raise poultry,” Hani said, “On the outside of the wall we grow corn, tomatoes, and other similar crops in season.” Their home itself is large enough that extended family can comfortably live with them if needed. “My father is the head of the household, and he raised me to be obedient,” said Hani. “Disobedience is not tolerated at all! I was whipped with branches, twigs, and belts for disobedience.” This did not prevent his family from being close-knit. The regularly ate meals together as a family and took turns cooking. Hani’s mother worked as a banker and then selling insurance while his father was a business manager for NASCO, a textile company, during his childhood. In more recent years, they both became missionaries to their country and founded Prevailing Prayer Ministry (PPM).

“I became a Christian as a child when my grandmother died. My sister lead me to Christ after her funeral,” Hani reminisced. “Although I went to a missionary school in 3rd- 5th grade, I didn’t really learn much about Christianity and its history because my parents were also new believers, and so it wasn’t until I moved the United States that I was able to live out and learn more about my faith.”
“Is Nigeria predominantly a Christian country?” asked.

“Right now it is split about 50/50 between Muslims and Christians, but with a few more Christians,” Hani replied. “I lived in the city Jos, which is considered to be the gateway to Christianity for the country. After the terrorist attacks of 9/11/2001, terrible riots broke out in my city because Muslims wanted to gain control of the city.” Although they were unsuccessful, rioting continues indefinitely. Frequently, the government instates curfews to help prevent violence.
“But I still don’t fully understand why you don’t want to return to Nigeria. You say you liked your country and its simpler way of life, yet you choose to stay here. Why?” I continued.

“I would rather live in a Christian country and be surrounded by believers than not.” Hani explained. “America is a land of opportunity, but more importantly, it is a country founded on Christianity. Also, it would be difficult to reintegrate into the more primitive ways of Nigeria after experiencing the innovations of the United States—not only on a technological level, but also on such levels as government and education. Regardless, I miss my family, the Nigerian people, and their simpler, more laid-back way of life.”

Cottonballs

Leaning on the fence, I surveyed the pasture, smiling as the familiar cotton balls lifted their fuzzy faces at the sound of my voice and came running from the far end of the field where they were grazing. “Baa,” they bleated in unison as they rushed forward, “Baa.” We first bought sheep when I was eight years old. A friendly neighbor, James Keith, instructed my parents that we should have a specific call that would signal them to come from wherever they were when we needed them. Now, twelve years later, all we have to do is yell “Baa” and all thirty-something of them come at full speed. I remembered all the times school groups had come out to the farm on field trips while I was growing up. I was homeschooled through sixth grade, so I could help my Mom out and do my own schoolwork later. My mom would have the children try to call the sheep to the fence. They never would come. But as soon as a member of my family yelled, “baa,” they would drop what they were doing and come immediately. This always illustrated so well what Jesus was talking about in John 10 when he said, “The watchman opens the gate for him, and the sheep listen to his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes on ahead of them, and his sheep follow him because they know his voice. But they will never follow a stranger; in fact, they will run away from him because they do not recognize a stranger's voice.”

Although the farm was a family project, I always loved taking care of the animals more than anyone else. Every single cotton ball had his or her own name— I could look at the flock and tell you why each one was unique and different. I could look at the flock and always tell if even one was missing. This helped me to understand what Jesus was talking about later on in John 10 when he said “He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out.” Friends would come out to the farm and I would bring a sheep over to them and tell them “This is Icicle,” or “Snow”, or “Sugar,” or “Black-eyed Susie,” or whichever sheep it might be. “How can you tell them apart like that?” was always the first question people asked. I’d always shrug, unsure how to answer. “You just get to know them when you’re around them a lot. They all have their own personalities and differences.” It always baffled me that, just as I could tell you the names, breeds, ages, and ancestry of the ten to fifty sheep we owned at any given time, Jesus knows not only all this but so much more about each of the 6.5 billion people in the world. He knows how many hairs are on each head. He knows every thought that crosses any mind. He knows each life story before it is even lived.

Climbing over the fence to greet my old friends, I assessed the furry faces that pressed their noses into my hand in hopes of finding some treat or bit of food there. In my absence since I graduated from high school two years before, many of the ewes that had been on the farm since I was eight years old were gone. It made me sad. Icicle, who was my very own and very first sheep, had died during my first semester of college. It was odd now that she was gone, as she had always been the first to come running to see me when I entered the pasture. Her third lamb, Sugar, looking almost exactly like her mother, took her mother’s place following me as I made my rounds. She had two new lambs herself. I knew that my work was cut out for my creating two names that had not already been used several times over the years. We didn’t need another “Piper” or “Pepper” or “Pattie” or “Spice” to confuse matters even more!

I smiled as they frolicked, jumping with all four hooves off the ground. When they started wandering too far, Sugar would bleat in that special way the ewes do when they are calling their young, and the two would come running back to their mother and try to steal a snack. After awhile, they would grow tired and lay down to rest beside their mother as she chewed her cud. “He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young” (Isaiah 40:11). The verse came to me like the whispering of the wind in the pines that bordered the field. What comfort to know I have a shepherd who loves me like that. I always have thought that sheep were the best of mothers. I’ve never seen such attentive mothers. They know where their children are at all times. Their children respect them so much that at the very sound of their voices, the lambs come without question. At the same time, they indulge their young, loving on them, feeding them, cleaning them, and keeping them warm. It’s a picture of God that I wish more people could witness first hand.

I stayed at the farm until dark. I sure had missed watching the beautiful array of colors from the hillside overlooking the pond as the sun set. It had been too long since I last had the opportunity to soak in the beauty of God’s creation. As I sat on a fallen tree, the sheep came to graze around where I sat. I smiled, and tears came to my eyes as the familiar moment brought back a flood of memories. Although I miss getting to spend time at the farm on a regular basis while I’m away at school, I realized there that my childhood experiences had prepared me for life in so many more ways than I had ever thought. I wasn’t just knowledgeable about livestock and agriculture. I had learned so much about my God, and the truths remained in my heart despite what life threw my way. I would never trade my childhood for anything.

Grandmother's Hands

Blue veins like tropical snakes criss-cross
Underneath the worldly-wise skin
That has long since lost its elasticity,
That has so thinned you can almost see the bones.
I watch as you run your finger over the page
In search of that verse that contains the wisdom
You have learned to be truer with the passage of time.
Have they also touched the parchment
Of some crumbling papyrus scroll,
Or is my imagination getting the best of be
As I soak up your fountain of knowledge
Like water poured out on desert sand?
How many paintbrushes have your ancient artist’s hands
Touched as you stroked pain across canvas year after year
The way God does the clouds each day at sunset?
How many friends and family members have you cared for
While quoting words of comfort in their ears
From the only book you find worth reading
Over and over year after year?
How many prayers have you prayed for me
As you changed my diapers, taught me to read,
Played with my dolls, and cooked with me?
You lift your tired but joyful eyes
When you find the sought-after verse.
Grandmother, will I have hands like yours one day?
Your young skin will not last forever, she says with a laugh.

Abstractions Realized

A bomb exploding in a civilian village,
killing the enemies loved ones,
laughing at someone else’s pain;
Hate.

An elderly couple holding hands
as they walk through the garden
paths of a nursing home;
Love.

A wilted rose lying shattered
against the cold, sharp etchings
of a black marble tombstone;
Death.

A newborn baby’s first cry,
a child skipping down a sidewalk,
the sun gleaming as breeze blows over water;
Life.

Leaving home and loved ones
to kill an enemy you do not know,
bombardments and bullets battering;
War.

A cloudless sky on a sunny day,
a daisy alone in a quiet green field,
being around those you love;
Peace.

Discriminations

All the top dollar salaries,
The doctors and the engineers,
The jobs that little kids want
To achieve when they grow up,
Demand mathematical logic
And order scientific analysis.
To build the tallest building
Insists that you solve
A series of equations.
To save a bleeding-to-death victim
Of a drunk driving accident
Measures your knowledge of pints
And quarts and gallons.
Discrimination, that’s what it is.
Algebra for Dummies is no joke.
But though it graces my overflowing bookshelves,
I learned in its pages that I’m worse that a dummy.
When it comes to adding, to subtracting and multiplying
My brain reveals me as an ignoramus.

Chance Encounter During A Film Break

Dressed in all black,
Looking typically suspicious
His back never to the door, yet
Occasionally monitoring his smartphone
Or the chatter coming from his high tech gadgets,
He sits alert in the corner booth.

As he moves a step closer, my brother Peter
Sees not a blond hair out of place,
No, not a grimace on Jack’s gnarly face,
Despite the great torture
He’s undoubtedly undergone
In a single day’s work.

What hour did he know of
The twenty-four later revealed?
What grim act of terror
Would rivet millions to their seats?
What great or weak United States President
Would he devotedly serve this go-round?

A holster strapped to his leg,
As his cuffs would bind outlaws,
Housed a cold, black Glock 30,
And the clips in his belt hung like ominous clouds.
Had he and his character so united that they
Merged into one on and off the set?

Was that Jack’s shiny black SUV
Parallel parked at the curb outside?
Or was that Peter’s imagination
Wishing what he only should dream?
How many high-sped chases, real or fantastic,
Had its tires endured?

Peter half expected the man’s blutooth
To blink before hearing
“Yes, I am calling on behalf of CTU. Yes, the crisis
Has been averted. Tell
All teams to stand down now!”
Peter stepped forward.

Their eyes instantaneously meet.
“Hi, my name is Peter and I’m one of your biggest fans.
Can I get your autograph?”
And the gruff voice grates in response, “Sure,
Which name should I use?
Jack Bauer or Kiefer Sutherland?”