I tend to shake people’s hands a lot, I don’t know why. Sometimes I like to hug people, but only sometimes. The Yoruba custom when greeting elders is to kneel or prostrate. I’ve never been able to get used to this, it’s something that makes me anxious whenever I’m going to be in a group of Nigerian people. I can’t really bring myself to do either. As a sort of compromise, I tend to lower my head slightly and just shake hands. The same kind of compromising head-lowering that I use during unexpected prayers. It doesn’t really work. Besides having freakishly long hair at the time (see left, my cousin, right, with the more common haircut for people our age), things like this made me stand out during my trip to Nigeria in 2006. I had a pretty unnerving dream about this last night, one where I woke up sweaty with my heart racing. This reminded me of another dream I had earlier this week.

I’m standing outside with someone I can’t identify. Somehow part of my blood has been replaced with some sort of flower essence. This happens instantly and as far as I can tell, for no reason. Moments later I hear a horrible buzzing. Tens of bees swarm my face in what I understand to be an attempt to pollinate me. I’m freaking out, mouth clenched shut, eyes closed. They’re trying to crawl into my mouth, up my nose, into my ears. Their numbers are increasing. I’m being raped by bees and there’s not much I can do about it. I don’t want to be stung so I don’t try to kill them. Why isn’t my friend helping me out? The buzzing sound grows louder… and then I wake up. At this point, wide awake, I decide that what happens next is that I magically extract all my blood and live happily ever after. Crikey.