J-town, 9ja

Nicknames. Most of us have them, whether we care to admit them aloud or not. They can be fitting or funny, true or tasteless, humiliating or honoring… And even, yes sometimes even, slightly affirming…

I came to Nigeria about two months ago now with an already established, and well-known, nickname:  J9.  

It began as a catchy way to explain the spelling of my full name:  Jea-nine… Jea-9… And then caught on as it’s own nickname over time… J9.

It has progressed over the years, at the hands of my little cousins, to incorporate Battleship references and odd buzzing noises, but the original nickname seems to have stuck across the board and across the years:  from home and extended family, to church circles, to Hope friends.

And now, to Africa.

One of my first weeks here in Nigeria, this nickname came up in conversation with a now close Nigerian friend. His excitement over this (what I thought to be) rather unimportant piece of my past (as in, life in the States) seemed to be slightly overinflated, at least in my opinion…

And then he explained:

“Jeanine, you’ve just moved to Jos, Nigeria. Don’t you see?!”

Jos, or otherwise known as J-town.

Nigeria, or otherwise known as Naija, or written as 9ja.

J-town, 9ja.  J9.    Jeanine. J9.

It was one of those moments, when in explaining to Joe-Shmoe on the street, that may seem to make for just a lighthearted coincidence.

But for me, it was more. Silly as it may be, it was a moment of overwhelming affirmation. A moment of wonder and amazement and awe that the Lord of the universe would choose to affirm this calling and new work in my life in even this, the most simple and insignificant of ways. How beautiful. And what a blessing.

And so, needless to say, J9 has not only followed me across the pond, but it has stuck quite readily.

Here’s to moments of undeserved grace.

 

“Welcome to Jos”

An eery silence enveloped the campus, engulfing it as a fog does a wandering comrade. Not a soul in sight– a foreign experience for the Monday after-school hours. A campus typically teaming with teenage melodrama and school children’s folly found itself in a muted stupor.

Inside, silence. Outside… Well, outside… uproar.

Or, more accurately, trouble.

I am beginning to learn the lingo of this place, came the realization as I strolled back through our deserted Hillcrest campus. Trouble. Crisis. Wahala. Words all too familiar to the local J-town native.

Just an hour before, I stood guard at the door of the high school English room. Each of the 30 members of my junior class stood inside, awaiting the arrival of their parents or drivers. All after-school activities were cancelled. Trouble had descended upon Jos.

To those familiar with the ways of J-town life, this came as no real surprise. For the following day was an important Muslim holiday, the end of the Ramadan fast. And the Christians, well, they sought revenge. Revenge for transgressions committed on their sacred holiday last Christmas. Violence for violence.

During my fourth hour class earlier that day, we could hear shouting from the streets. Stopping to listen, one of my students remarked sarcastically that it “must be riots.” Later that day, after news from outside the compound had leaked in, as I stood watch at the door of that high school English classroom, she approached me again:  “Ms. DeJong, it seems I was right...”

Yes, she had been. If the subsequent military helicopters flying overhead had not been enough of an indicator, reports of trouble across town proved the veracity of her sarcasm. Later, I sat in my apartment, faced with a picture of the devastation…

Trouble had descended. Violence begetting more violence. There is no peaceful end to such cyclical warfare.

Sorrowful laughter never fails to arise when the slogan of Plateau State is playfully brought to light:  ”The Home of Peace and Tourism.”  Oh that one day it may again be so.

And then, a few days later, normalcy resumed. Well, the J-town version of normalcy, at least… School opened again after a week long ‘vacation,’ and people began to move about more freely.

“Welcome to the joys of Jos-living,” a new friend proclaimed. “Are you scared?”

In honesty, I replied, fear has not once crossed my heart. Not once have I felt threatened or in danger. One, because it’s not as bad as I know it could be. But ultimately, because our God has made it painstakingly clear that this is where I am to be. So why should I fear? Such peace must be attributed to his ever-abounding grace.

And though the troubles of this place may still bring me to my knees, there is a simultaneous beauty I cannot forsake. In the hustle and bustle of the marketplace, in the dancing through the aisles of an entire congregation during worship on Sunday, in the gentle face of the old security guard attempting to teach me his native language… How quickly I am falling in love.

And how eager I am to experience what the Lord has already set in motion for my time here, however long that may be.