A Return: Being and the Bike

I've been traveling for nearly two and a half months now, through Turkey and on to Cape Town, and I've been unable to write anything for nearly the entire time.

That changes now.

I got this crazy idea into my head to bike from Cape Town down to Cape Agulhas, the southernmost point of Africa, to turn north and east along the coast and through South Africa's Garden Route, up through the Mountain Kingdom of Lesotho, over the Drakensberg Mountains, and across the highveld to Zimbabwe.

I'm not entirely sure how this idea implanted itself in my brain, but it has firmly taken root, sprouted, and begun to branch out. I am now over 150 kilometers into a trip that will see me through over 2000km of Southern Africa. God willing.

I like to tell people I have no idea how I got to this point in my life, but if I really start to look back, I can see several narrative strands coming together, laying the prologue for what is sure to be a new chapter of my life.

I don't know exactly when all of this started. Maybe it was Jaime, between customers at Ronnie's, talking me through his tour through France. It's an arbitrary starting point, but it helps set the scene. Without encouragement, it would have been just the ghost of an idea, so maybe I should look towards James who, when I told him of my plan to travel north from Cape Town in search of work, said, "Oh ya, buy a bike and cycle through Africa." At the time, I thought it was insane. I think I even remember saying, "That is insane."

That should have been it right there. But then I met the four young Brits teaching English in Turkey. They told me a story of a girl cycling the entirety of Turkey, and beyond. They'd hosted her through a site called Warm Showers, which is a bit like couchsurfing for cyclists on tours. It seemed like a great idea, but it surely wouldn't ever apply to me.

Then I met the German cycling home from Israel. It seemed so cool what he was doing, and he didn't seem put out at all by the time or the distance.

I guess it all came together to pique my interest, and that seed that had been planted then germinated into this half-crazed romantic notion. But the more I researched it, the more possible it seemed to become. Maybe that's an illusion. Maybe it is just as crazy as it first appeared. There's only one way to find out, and that's by doing it.

From everything I've read, touring on a cycle, especially for a long period of time, is more an issue of will rather than physical fitness, experience, etc., so for me, this is a test of my willpower, much like Peace Corps was.

Hence, the new narrative chapter in my life. It just feels monumental in so many ways. Maybe it isn't. Maybe it's all just an illusion doomed to fail. There's only one way to know it, and that's to do it.

Just get on the bike.

If it is all about willpower, then yesterday was an important test of that determination; one that I passed, if only barely. I left Gordon's Bay with a headwind of over 40 km/hr against me, pushing me to a near standstill and forcing me to walk the bike up particularly steep hills. I never knew it was possible to have such a wind in your face for probably 90% of a 75k ride.

It's not like I was ever going the same direction, either. The wind just stayed with me, and I have to say, it nearly broke me. It's so frustrating to look down at the speedometer and realize that you could probably run faster than you are currently biking. To top it all off, near the end of the ride, I dropped the bike. I was so exhausted by that point that I wasn't sure I'd be able to pick it up again. The strain on my physical energy had depleted my mental energy, which again acted on any reserves that remained.

But in the end, I made it. Exhausted, nearly broken, I managed to get in to Hermanus, where I am now. I don't know if you'd call it grit, pride, or just bull-headed obstinacy, but I made it. It was an important test, and even if it hurt, I knew I just had to get back on top.

There's a lesson in there somewhere. I'll try to keep it with me for next time.

People Remembered, Places Revisited

It’s been a long wait for this blog entry that I hope has been eagerly awaited. I’ve been running around quite a bit recently, reflecting on my trip, allowing the images and the feelings to ferment and gather strength without, hopefully, losing any potency with my lack of immediacy in recording them. Here it is then: reflections on my return to Niger.

Let me start by saying that this wasn’t an individual accomplishment. I was accompanied on my trip by my friend Jane, a Nigerian with a rugged sense of independence that surpasses that of nearly every other woman I know. She had to be tough: overall, I think we totaled 50 hours of travel time from Jos to Sokoto, Niamey, Tanka Lokoto and back in only eight days. Along the way, we were helped out by Ms. Lindsay Goldberg and her boyfriend Nasser who gave us succor in Niamey to break up the travel days. Lindsay is a former Volunteer who stayed behind in Niger after the Peace Corps evacuated, braving the capital even without a half-dozen, Mefloquine-crazed Volunteers lighting up the town and breaking the monotony of quiet, rice and bean flavored nights.

But that isn’t why you came to this blog today. In my last entry, I expressed real fear at the possibility that, upon returning to my village, the realization that one can never go back would tear through my gut like some hateful combination of barbed wire and amoebic dysentery. In my mind, any number of tragedies could have befallen my community in the two years since I left. Most involved the famine that affected the country in 2010, but in my wildest imaginings, which tend to run like an out of control train, certain individuals were vulnerable to anything from malaria to hyena attacks, complications in childbirth to that scene in Alien where the little baby creeper bursts out of the guy’s chest. These things happen in my mind even without government mandated anti-malarials.

So it was as I stepped out of the bush taxi, just pitching up in the village without any prior warning or word that I’d be returning. I’m a terrible guest; really, I am. Unloading from a bush taxi to the sand, sounds, and heat of a two year time capsule was a surreal experience. The men at the mosque seemed to take it in stride: “Hey, Mubarak, ni ka? Fonda kayan!” (Hey, Mubarak, you’ve come? Welcome back!) The children alternately mobbed me and went tearing off through the neighborhood screaming to everyone who could hear, “Mubarak ka! Mubarak ka!” (Mubarak came! Mubarak came!) My friends from all over the village came streaming out of the woodwork, their faces shifting from disbelief and confusion to smiles and laughter seconds after setting eyes on me. All day as they slowly made their way back from the fields, dirty and tired, neighbors and friends greeted me, none of whom I had seen or spoken to since I left. They’d heard news that I was in town and had dropped everything to come see me. And all day, I worried over this person or that until they visited and I saw him or her with my own eyes.

And you know, everyone was fine. Everyone is alive and well in Tanka Lokoto. The village was remarkably the same. They’d built a new mosque, bright, white, and shining even from the dunes north of town. All the children were present and accounted for, all a couple inches taller, their faces slowly smoothing away baby fat as they get older. And everyone had a new baby. I leave for a couple years and suddenly every single family has a brand new baby, most only a few weeks old. It’s something I should have expected in a country with such a high birth rate, but it’s one of those things you just don’t think about when you’ve been gone for so long.

I’m happy to report that my favorite kid, my attakurmizo, Razak, who grew from this kid at the beginning of my service:


To this kid by the end of my service:


And is now this kid:


And if that picture were expanded just a little bit, you’d see him with his little arms around a cute little girl. So maybe he learned a thing or two from hanging around me for two years.

Also, my friend Sekou, who I still maintain is one of the most clever, most amazing people I’ve ever met, is still doing great things for his community. In many ways, he’s still this guy:


He's the one in the blue-grey suit, speaking while everyone else just listens. A man so well respected that he commands attention just by the nature of who he is: a hardworking man diligently working to better himself and his community. He’s still kicking it, same as always, a little pensive in this shot from the top of the dune at sunset:


And in one off the cuff comment, he amazed me with his humility and his dedication to his home and his people. Though it had taken him five solid years, he told me, he had finally managed to acquire a car to act as an ambulance for the local medical center. If ever anyone is in dire need, they can be at the hospital in Niamey in a just a couple hours. Already, the ambulance has saved lives. And he mentioned this just as casually as he would a prediction of afternoon rain.

So, despite two years away, the village is still there. It hasn’t changed much. And in the few days since I’ve been home, I realize how similar my Nigerien village is to my American village. Nothing much changes. There’s a new building here or there, the kids grow a bit taller, the seasons change, but life keeps on going. I’ll tell people where I’ve traveled and they’ll be amazed without any real idea what those places are like, the people who live there, the cultures slowly changing just as cultures always do despite calls to nostalgia and “the way things were.”

I know now that things in Tanka Lokoto will continue without me, just as things in Flora, Indiana continue without me. I can leave these places behind and they’ll be secure in my heart. They don’t change. Or rather, they change with me. They’ll age alongside me, they’ll change as I change, but I don’t have to fear returning to a place I don’t recognize. As I grow older, these places seem smaller, like my childhood bed. I can still sleep there, but my feet hang over the edge. I haven’t outgrown it, but I’m just used to bigger things. I’ve never gotten used to being a big fish in a small pond. I don’t like it. There isn’t enough room to swim. And even if I feel a little lost sometimes, I like the freedom to explore that comes with being a little fish in the big, wide ocean. In the end, I feel a bit like Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha. I’ve learned and grown, but I need to keep moving, to keep discovering, to know that I’ve left people behind that I care about but who I still carry with me in everything I do. These places and these people will always be there, but I’ve got to keep moving. So was it worth traveling over 1200km to learn such a simple lesson? I’ll leave it with a lesson from Hesse’s Siddhartha:

“Certainly I traveled for my own pleasure. Why else do it? I got to know people and places, I enjoyed amiability and confidences, I made friends…I have had good days, I learned, I enjoyed myself, I harmed neither myself nor others through vexation or excessive haste. And if ever I go back that way again, perhaps to purchase a subsequent harvest, or for any purpose whatsoever, friendly people will receive me amiably and cheerfully, and I will have myself to commend for that.”

I will always have a bed to rest my head; I will always have friends and neighbors, whether I’m living in a place or not. And I have only myself to commend for taking the time to build those relationships, for revisiting my past and realizing that I continue to carry a living memory wherever I go.

The Return: A Search for a Living Memory

I've been struggling with this decision for most of my time in Jos, but by nature of the fact that I just got the visa, I think I've resolved it: I'm going back to Niger.

I figure, why not? It's only a two-day trip on tortuous roads through the heat and dust of Northern Nigeria and that half-remembered road from Niamey to Zinder. After all, when will I honestly next get the chance to be a mere 1,271km road trip from the home that built me up, pulled me down, and, every day for two solid years, fundamentally changed the person I was and the person I was to be.

It's impossible to describe the emotion that goes into this decision. It's something I've been grappling seriously with for the last two weeks now. As this idea took shape and began to materialize, I realized that it isn't all Tuareg tea and starry nights. If I'm expecting life to have frozen there in my time away, I'll be sorely disappointed. The children will have grown, there will have been births, deaths, marriages, all the events of life that ground us and give us structure. And I'll have missed many of those.

In fact, I have no idea what has happened in the village in the nearly two years I've been away. I lost my Nigerien SIM card while I was traveling in West Africa. With that small piece of plastic and electronics, I lost my only living connection to my village. Every phone number I collected in Niger is now lost in some forgotten corner of Africa.

I remember meeting a young woman in Sierra Leone. She was set to leave the country and was a bit heartbroken by that fact. We commiserated over leaving a place that felt like home, and I mentioned how much I wanted to return to Niger. "Don't," she said, "I know how much you want something like that right now, but you can't ever go back. What is there for you? Things change."

In every way, she's right, and that's the biggest fear I hold. Two years is a long time in a country where the average life expectancy is 53, where 16% of children don't make to to the age of 5, where, as a woman, you have a 1 in 16 chance of dying during childbirth over the course of a lifetime that averages 7.6 children per woman. In my mind, I imagine this place held in time, where I'll step out of a bush taxi and have a horde of screaming children welcoming me back to village. In reality, there's every possibility that a few of those children will no longer be there to greet me. There's every possibility that the old men who spent their days napping in the shade of the neem trees will be fewer in number. There's every possibility that sometime during one of those hot, black nights of the past two years, someone I cared about has slipped into a malarial fever from which they couldn't recover.

And what can I do about that? Can I mourn time lost in a place I once called home? Or can I return and find a place that has continued on without me and be thankful that I was allowed such a profound experience? One that can never be shared, no matter how many words are spoken or how many photos were taken. Can I grow and plant this piece of myself, permanently locate it within my heart, and continue on, carrying this shard of experience with me, knowing that there is a piece of myself somewhere that continues to live, to grow, to flourish in the harsh, near-desert of the Sahel?

That is ultimately what has brought me to undertake this journey back to Niger. I don't know if I'd ever get the chance to do it again. Despite all the promises and assurances, I've met too many people who never got around to that great passion, experience, or dream that slowly faded into the soft pain of regret and a wistful nostalgia of a previous life.

If for no other reason, I want to go back in the hopes of seeing this kid again:



That's my attakurmizo, my little trickster, the kid who saw me through the trauma of leaving, who taught me more about love and friendship than I ever could have imagined, who did that all without being able to even properly say my name. That picture is the perfect representation of him. Whenever I think about him, that's how I see him, arms wrapped around my leg, wide-eyed affection without a trace of guile. I could keep him like this forever, like a glass ornament, precious and beautiful. But I want to see what he's become. As much as possible, I yearn for the living memory of this place, even if it has a few cracks and scratches. That's what this ultimately is about: the search for that living memory, even if it's painful or broken in some way. Tomorrow, I'll start that search, unsure of what I'll find but longing for it nevertheless.

The Peacemakers

I've been out of touch for a couple weeks now, traveling around Plateau State and conducting interviews with key stakeholders throughout seven of the seventeen local governments. One of the most enlightening aspects of the interviews came with this question: Who is most responsible for promoting peace in your local government?

In many of the local governments deemed "high conflict," the respondents had an immediate answer: Religious leaders, they'd say, followed closely by traditional leaders. Government sources tended to cite political efforts. One man confidently asserted that women were the most responsible for promoting peace. These answers, in and of themselves, gave us an idea of who was working in troubled communities and which groups needed support. Those with actual projects instead of platitudes are the mostly likely to be targeted.

However, arguably more interesting were the answers from communities that have known little to no conflict. When asked who was working the most toward peace, nearly every respondent had to pause to think. When pressed with suggested peace actors from other communities, respondents said that they couldn't measurably say who was working the most toward peace because nearly everyone was involved. Political leaders brought together religious and traditional leaders as well as women, youth, civil societies and NGOs. Each group has its own constituencies, and by bringing them together to work toward peace, these low-conflict LGAs were reaching every member of their community.

This seems like a straight-forward answer, but it inevitably is not. Every single Local Government Council praised the efforts of their chairmen calling together all actors for meetings and discussions. But there were subtle differences between those who have successfully resisted violence and those where violence has torn at the very fabric of the community.

These differences came from the interviews with non-governmental traditional, religious, women, and youth leaders. In conflict communities, many complained that when the government held meetings, they were just talking sessions. They met, they aired grievances, and they left. Nothing filtered down to the actors committing violence. Nothing was asked of the participants, and no practical action plans ever emerged from these monthly meetings.

The peace communities carried a different tone. Stakeholder representatives stressed that dialogue was important, but that dialogue couldn't stay within the upper echelons of these stakeholder groups. Representatives took their message to their constituents, and all were involved in forming individual community action plans: whether that involved inter-religious neighborhood watches, community relief, or any number of tangible interventions to control violence. The important introduction of women and youth leaders brought these messages to a wider audience, as these most vulnerable groups have often been ignored by local government officials who look for those in power to curb the violence, rather than looking at those most affected by violence.

It's difficult to stress how important this distinction is. By including typically disenfranchised groups in the decisions and the responsibilities of conflict and peace, the local governments in these areas have turned them from victims to actors. Rather than bemoan their lot, women realize that they have the power and the responsibility to affect change. Rather than participating in violence as little more than paid thugs, youth are tasked with the responsibility to avoid conflict. They realize then that the best way to protect their community is not to attack another, but to ensure peace through cooperation. In the end, it's a much more monumental task, one that asks something of everyone regardless of status or power. However, with that shared sacrifice comes the knowledge that everyone has something to lose if their efforts come to naught. By delegating responsibility to all, the Plateau's peace communities have fostered stronger, more resilient communities. After all, isn't this the truest responsibility of government? To prevent rather than to react? To build rather than divide?

Bombings and Boko Haram (Part II)

The insurgency continues in Maiduguri and though conversations aren't solely centered around the violence there, Boko Haram maintains its grip on the go-to subject in Nigeria. However, instead of looking at the issue in its current, bloody incarnation, I'd prefer to use it as a model for conflict in general, especially here in Nigeria.

I'll refer to a model from the Conflict Research Consortium, more essays and diagrams can be found here:



Ah, the majestic bell curve. The simple beauty of statistics, literary arcs, and bellmakers. The Boko Haram latent conflict can be traced back to the vestiges of colonialism and the divide and rule tactics of the British. In Nigeria, the British allowed for indirect rule of the northern states, which, from the time of the Fulani jihads, had a feudal system based on the religious power of the Sokoto caliphate. As part of this system, the British did not allow missionaries to evangelize in the North, nor did they spread the Western system of education in the Northern states.

Boko Haram, as previously mentioned, is Hausa for "Western education is forbidden." The group is extremist to say the least, but if one were to take them at their name, the foundation of their grievances is the challenge that they perceive Western education systems present to their way of life. So let's just call that the latent conflict in this scenario.

The conflict emerged through the creation of this organization and their call for an Islamic state in Northern Nigeria. Now at this point, the curve can diverge: conflict can escalate or a peace may be negotiated. It was obviously not in the Nigerian state's interest to negotiate the secession of a significant chunk of the country.

Here's where the conflict escalates: Boko Haram is a militant organization, but there are rumors that several politicians used the group for electioneering purposes. Hired thugs are unfortunately all too common in a country where 46% of the youth are unemployed. The justice system is egregiously broken in much of Nigeria as well, so the few arrests that have been made target only the foot soldiers, not the "big men" pulling the strings.

Two years ago, however, the military got involved and captured the group's leader, Muhammed Yusuf. They turned him over, and it looked like the conflict would enter a period of de-escalation and the group might fade back into obscurity. However, after the military turned Yusuf over to the police, years of impunity were transformed with a little street justice, and Yusuf was dead before he ever reached a court for trial. Since his arrest and extrajudicial execution, Boko Haram has experienced a resurgence, freeing 300 of its members from a prison in Bauchi last year and virtually taking over the city of Maiduguri.

Now the state and Boko Haram have entered the stalemate. The military operation in Maiduguri is ongoing, but the organization, like all asymmetric powers, has gone underground and rumors persist that there are cells like it all over the north. The army has been accused of human rights abuses in Maiduguri in part because they cannot differentiate civilian from combatant and are under constant pressure from improvised explosives that kill soldiers daily. Boko Haram itself says that it refuses to negotiate with a government trying to kill its members. That's not exactly crazy, as the last time one of them pitched up at the police station, he wound up dead.

So as the violence continues to unfold in Maiduguri, it will remain to be seen whether the conflict will rise, fall, or remain in its current stasis. As long as the military crackdown continues, I'm sure it will remain the topic of conversation.

Bombings and Boko Haram

If anyone has been following news in Nigeria recently, it has most likely been focused on the Islamic militant group Boko Haram and their recent attacks on the northeastern city of Maiduguri. The news is no different in Nigeria, either. Every day, front-page headlines are dedicated to updates on the continuing violence in the north of the country. Whenever there's a lull in local conversation, it is inevitably filled with some new comment about Boko Haram.

The group's official name is Jama'atu Ahlis Sunna Lidda'awati wal-Jihad, which in Arabic means "People Committed to the Propagation of the Prophet's Teachings and Jihad," but locals in the north dubbed the group Boko Haram, a Hausa phrase which means "Western Education is Forbidden" due to the group's opposition to western education.

I could give the group's history and a little bit of background, but honestly, there's too much intrigue to cover properly in one blog post. Suffice it to say, things have gotten bad. Last month, the group targeted the police headquarters in Abuja with a car bomb that killed two, shattered windows around the city, and destroyed over 70 nearby vehicles. Since then, the Nigerian government has gone on the offensive, and the entire situation is close to turning into a full-blown insurgency. Thousands of people have fled Maiduguri, including the 35,000 students at the university there, after Boko Haram threatened it with an attack. The timing could not be worse, as most of these students were about to sit for end-of-year exams.

Here in Jos, the conversation stems around the flood of what can only be called refugees or internally displaced people. Everyone I speak to has seen these people fleeing the violence in overloaded cars and trucks. Basically anything with wheels is trucking people out of the city. There are rumors that drivers are charging upwards of 5 - 6000 Naira ($30 - $40) for the journey, a crazy sum for that distance, but one which people are paying due to the military crackdown and increasing reports of extrajudicial killings and severe human rights abuses.

But we can joke about it can't we? Honestly, Nigerians have the greatest capacity for joking about anything, but underlying the laughter is often an ounce of worry. I recently went out with some friends to get some fish and have a beer at one of the open-air bars that are ubiquitous in Africa. However, this time around it took some serious deliberation to choose one that was properly secluded. It was determined after much discussion to avoid the popular ones near West of Mines (a central, typically busy Jos Haunt). When we sat down, one of the guys joked, "Okay, no Boko Haram here." Laughing, we didn't want to believe that he was afraid of bombings. Realistically though, I think it weighs on everyone's mind. Bombs killed 80 people in Jos on Christmas Eve 2010, and reports from the north detailing the violence have continued to set people on edge. Only a few weeks ago, Boko Haram militants on motorcycles lobbed bombs into a popular nightspot in Maiduguri, killing 25 and injuring dozens more. Indeed, for a few weeks it was almost impossible to open the newspaper in the morning without coming across news of another bombing, leading many to think, "If it can happen there..."

The government has responded in its typically heavy-handed way, deploying the military to Maiduguri and watching the fallout. Traditional leaders in the city have criticized the military task force for its human rights abuses, which the state governor only recently admitted were guilty of "excesses."

But as I mentioned, these issues are too much for one post. In the next few days, I'll try to look at the government response to Boko Haram and how a conflict so local has exploded into widespread violence amounting to near-insurrection. The hard-line government stance has done little for the country in fighting the wave of terror engulfing Maiduguri and may have only worsened the situation. Stay tuned for the next post.

Losing My Religion

“We proclaim God’s favour, blessings and protection on all facilities here and upon anyone who comes here to use them for good.” – Placard outside Jos Business School

A few weeks ago, I had to register my phone. This is a common practice introduced last year by the government as a means to combat the infamous 419 fraud scams and the rash of kidnappings in the Niger Delta. New SIM cards must be registered with fingerprints and a litany of the usual information: occupation, address, mother’s maiden name, etc.

However, there are a few questions that threw me off a little bit: “Mother’s maiden name? Yada yada...Okay...Hobby?”

“Excuse me, what?”

“Hobby?”

“Like what do I do for fun?” This is perhaps the strangest question I’ve ever been asked during a routine registration procedure. I mean, what does the government actually expect from this question? “I like to kidnap Chinese oil workers...Damn! WRONG ANSWER!” “Oh, I’m actually the wife of former president Sani Abacha, and I need some help getting some money out of the country. If you could just give me your bank details...oh man, TRICKED AGAIN!” In the end, I declined my usual answers (puppy bowling, internationally renowned gentleman gambler, ruling several small fiefdoms in Central Asia) to give a rather blasé response: “reading.” I think I was a little flustered.

However, if hobby took me by surprise, the next question left me without any answer at all: “Religion?” In the United States, this is a distinctly no-go area. Religion is considered private, personal, but in Nigeria, most job applicants list their religious affiliation on the first page of their CV/resume.

Religion dominates life in Nigeria. It seems like every building, hair salon, bush taxi and motorbike has some motto or religious slogan begging God or Allah’s protection, blessings, a fabulous haircut or finely pressed pants. Sundays are devoted to worship, and every shop, restaurant, and bar seems to close for the Sabbath. This mirrors the specific times that the Muslim traders close shop to pray. Billboard advertisements from the recent elections tout specific candidates with slogans such as “With God, Change is Possible.”


Many politicians in the States cloak themselves in religious conservatism, but I am glad we haven’t progressed far enough down this path to directly invoke God in our political campaigns. For one, it seems facile, without substance (though admittedly, few campaign slogans actually contain much substance), as if inserting God can replace any real dialogue on the economy, education, health care or foreign policy. More importantly, linking religion to a political candidate carries with it the danger that any opposition to the politician may be construed as an opposition to religion. In Nigeria, the confluence of religion, politics, and ethnicity has done wonders in tearing apart communities and inciting bloodshed.

So, back to that crowded street corner and the booth where I registered my phone: “Religion?”

I paused, “None.”

He looked at me, confused, as if one of us hadn’t heard the other correctly. “None?” he asked.

“None,” I repeated. I think it’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever denied a religion. I come from a very conservative community in the States. I could rattle off fifteen different Christian denominations that are present in my small town alone. However, I couldn’t have told you anything about Sufi Islam before living in Niger. (Sufi Islam? Ya, he used to be Cat Stevens, right? Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon, when you coming home Dad...That’s Harry Chapin, idiot. Sufi Islam sang Peace Train. Oh...my bad.)

Fact: Most Nigeriens have never heard of this sexy man.

Because of my past, I always defaulted into Christianity, but for personal reasons, I don’t think I can do that in Nigeria. Here, faith is a very public marker for an identity that is, to me, intensely private. In addition, my work here is to help bring together Christians and Muslims for a sustainable peace in Plateau State. Professionally, I don’t think I should claim one religion or another in my daily interactions.

I don’t write this as an attack upon any type of religion (or on Cat Stevens/Yusuf). Every person is spiritual in some way, and I am no different. One of my favorite writers, David Foster Wallace, spoke at Kenyon College’s commencement ceremony in 2005 and said, “here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship.” I’m compelled by Kierkegaard and some of the other existentialists to constantly reexamine what it is that I worship. And even if that means I have to explain myself constantly to those who ask, I’m assured that in that process of explaining myself, I’ll find the right answers.