Within the HoneyWoods

Bain recently launched an Inspirational Leadership model in the San Francisco office. The training asks each of us to build a “Rockpile” of four leadership elements that we want to develop to make us potentially inspiring leaders someday. In order of elements I need to work on, my biggest rock (boulder, even) is “Follow-Through.” While I’m great at initiating ideas, I’m not as great at seeing them through.

So I’m blaming Bain’s “Rockpiles” for my idea to fly from San Francisco to spend 96 hours at ALA to see my Creativity Class’s final performance through. Once I worked out the math during the flight, I realized I was earning 1.6 Joburg hours per traveling hour. Seemed like a great deal.

The Creativity Class was an experiment concocted at Mr. Gavin Peter’s desk, and the hook that brought me to ALA in the first place. I wanted to help start the arts program and Gavin wanted to unleash right brains, so we were a good match. “We must have a class!” he exclaimed one afternoon. “Now who will teach it…? Ahhh!” He landed on me with a smirk. And just like that, our little idea became a Monday afternoon class offering creative exploration and expression through visual art, dance, music, and drama. The fact that the teacher’s experience with dance, music, and drama were limited to nightmares of Mrs. La Porte’s metronome and a still-scarring “I forgot my line” in the fourth grade play didn’t seem to matter.

In February, I needed to return to Virginia to take my mother to a chemo appointment, and needed a sub for my Monday class. Conveniently, it also happened to be a lesson on performing arts. Since I didn’t have any intention of re-living my one-play “career,” I would have needed a sub anyway (trip home or not). Playing to Veda’s soft spot for his stage days, I convinced him to take over for me. Turns out I had unleashed a monster, as this one-time sub took over after I left ALA in April, turning my Monday afternoon “experiment” into a semi-professional production scheduled for Graduation week. I wasn’t going to miss this… and by the time I got into Joburg to surprise my students days before the performance, there was still work for us to do.

Sunday evening, we went to school for the rehearsal surprise.  I hid upstairs in the EL department until Veda had them all lined up on the stage for focusing exercises. “Tonight we’re going to speak LOUDLY.” He begins. “TONIGHT WE ARE GOING TO SPEAK LOUDLY,” I can hear through the doors of the Auditorium. Mid-speech, I slipped into the darkest corner of the Auditorium. Watching their faces flooded in Magnifique’s spotlights, I see Natalia squinting into the darkness, as her raised eyebrow drops into an open-mouthed stare, which closes into a scream… and then twelve more, before I’m engulfed by a horde of hugs. “MS. ALLI!! You didn’t tell us you were coming!” That was the whole point, guys!

I’m a guest in my own class, watching the rehearsal until midnight. “This is not high school drama. This is a semi-professional performance,” Veda begins. I’ve left my class to the Princeton perfectionist, and the results are staggering. Even in the rawness of the rehearsal, I hardly recognize them.

The next morning, it’s time to finish the set. Director Sunassee is envisioning a hole in the stage, which the set company comes to remove mid-morning. Turns out it suits our performance better than it suits the all-school Awards Assembly that afternoon. Nothing keeps you listening for your name in an Awards Assembly quite like knowing you have to cross a giant hole to receive your reward. As I join the EL faculty team on stage to hand Awards to students more concerned with their paper print-outs than their footing, I’m just waiting for the next viral YouTube to be born. Valedictorian falls in hole mid-handshake!

One of the great scenes in Veda’s vision is a group painting, performed as a dance on the floor to Nero’s Into The Past from the Gatsby soundtrack. Being the “painting expert” of the group, I’m expected to provide him a small 6 x 6… meter canvas and all the paints we need. So, Dave and I seek supplies and venture to Builder’s Warehouse where we sort through enormous muslin drop cloths and “bubblegum blue” paint cans. Could have sworn bubblegum was universally pink, but it seems they do things differently here. “Sorry, we don’t have 2 Litre containers of paint. Only 1 Liter cans. So I can’t help you.” Dave is incredulous. “Ahh, but you see, 1 plus 1 equals 2. So can we not just get two cans of each?” Dave asks. Then, shaking his head to me, “We could probably get away with one of each, but I’m never coming back here again. Make it two.” Good point. As we sort through muslin options searching for two 6x6m “canvases,” I’m tired. “Dave, Veda’s crazy,” I sigh, just as he texts me, “Oh, I also need two packs of marshmallows.” Of course you do. At this point, I’ve stopped asking questions.

Before we know it, it’s Dress Rehearsal Day, and I’m at my desk in the EL department engulfed in one of the two 12 square meter canvases I’m hemming with a darning needle and fishing wire. We order a fancy dinner (Nando’s) and are projecting The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly movie theater style, so I can appreciate the dramatic brilliance that has inspired our Director’s opening scene. Having written my American Studies Thesis on Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show and just watching this movie for the first time in South Africa five years later, I feel… pathetic. My thumb numb from the needle, I’m worrying about the choreography of this canvas-dance, but Veda assures me they’ve done it before.

But when we rehearse it with real paint and hoist the dripping draft from the stage floor, it looks like they've taken my Picasso lecture to heart a bit too much. The bulbous left nostril, amorphous eyeball and all-encompassing blue “beard” give me the urge to yell “I told you so!” but it’s 2am and frankly, Director Sunassee is starting to scare me.  We’re shooing the kids to bed (and to not have nightmares of the monster they just created), and I’m barefoot mopping – no, scrubbing- layers of paint off the stage. So glad I didn’t take the time to prime our canvas now, eh? With frostbitten toes and only the gray slosh of the mop to keep me company, I feel like jumping into the hole and never coming out.

Portrait of a Man in Blue Hat, Pablo Picasso

Wake up! Wake up! It’s the big day. The mandate I’ve been given is to “just fix the painting” so we don’t have a screaming audience on our hands when we raise the canvas. I spend the morning working with Tife to map out the face, protyping a 12-person performance painting by dipping and dancing my pinkie through a paper plate of paint. It feels like a stretch, but we don’t have a choice at this point.

It’s 6pm. Rosie and Faridah’s final art show is still unhung, Magnifique is exploring new discothèque techniques for lighting, and the Director of Security is complaining that the trees stuffed into the Auditorium are blocking the EXIT. Just hours before, The Director was barking orders to the dozen young lads lugging these massive pieces of pine onto the stage. He’s like a much less jolly version of Chevy Chase in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation as branches lash through the Emergency Exit doorway and the auditorium is stuffed to the ceiling with sap. 

Meanwhile, Dave is on a ladder feeding rope through an aluminum shower rod to support the canvas, and I’ve unrolled last night’s still-wet disaster, practicing painting styles with my performers, chanting “Feel the beat! Feel the beat! Less paint! Feel the beat! Be the brush!” If only Bain could see me now.

At 6:15pm, I don’t feel ready… for the performance, or for the cab that is taking me away to the airport the second the curtains close. But suddenly, Director Sunassee has transformed into a beacon of calm confidence. He lines the performers up on stage and begin,. “Tonight, let’s show this school what we can be. Let’s show them that art can be, and should be, taken seriously. Let’s raise the bar tonight, forever.” I want to follow up with a goodbye, because I know the aftermath of this is going to be too hectic for it, but I can’t stop the silent tears that are already rolling down my cheeks as I hide in the dark behind him.

Everyone’s seated. Three seats in the front remain. It’s time. Stress has knotted my back into a tangle of nerves, but Gavin’s warm smile puts me at ease. Within the HoneyWoods begins with the theme of The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly and Alcides’s video starts rolling.

Four centuries ago, three artists, the world-famous painter from the Wild West, Carneisha Evans, the great dancer from the far East, Zheng Chun Long, and the incredible singer from Russia, Elena Alexandrov, had all individually reached the apex of their arts. One day, in their respective corners of the world, they discover the location of the Secret – which, if revealed, unlocks one’s potential to become the best artist of eternity.

Faridah’s gaze, her paintbrush dabbing the palette, the canvas, back to the palette. Nandi singing through bubbles at Emmerentia Dam. Eric meditating atop the fountain. And then the chase. Running, running, when they burst through the Auditorium on stage as Il Buiono, Il Cattivo, Il Bruto theme crescendos. Faridah paces in my Tory Burch boots. They look so much better this way. Nandi emerges from the hole, her face white with powder. Eric awes the audience as his umbrella snaps with the force of his movements. Once-quiet Lucas elicits roars of laughter with his “Soooo…” line. Faridah directs the group painting and lifts her arms to raise it… satiating the silent audience’s curiosity. And then a loud “OH EM GEE” from Gavin as I simply burst into tears. It's... perfect.

It was all a beautiful blur. “We did it.”

And then I’m sunk into the back seat of Henri’s cab, drunk with the flurry of goodbyes, tears, hugs, laughter, and pure joy that just sent me on my way. Off to Amsterdam to Bain World Cup, trying to connect the dots once again. But no matter how wonderful Amsterdam was, I just couldn't seem to get South Africa out of my system.

Stale from the lingering Café Patron of Saturday night, I thought brewing a new batch would be the way to send out the old with the new. Wishful thinking. I snuck out to the kitchen and put on the kettle before searching through the cabinet’s surprises in search of anything resembling a coffee tin. As I found the tiny Nescafe tin hiding up in the corner, I turned around to see the kettle, plugged in, sitting in a pool of water. Not sure if this was a scene from Final Destination 6, I decided to take my chances and lifted the electrified metal pot out of the pool, its contents continuing it dribble out of its bottom. Brilliant. Guess I’m going to have to ride on fumes from that 4am orange slice dipped in Nescafe, instead.

If I thought I was in bad shape, we probably should have hospitalized some other members of our party. “Hangover” was a few steps before whatever this was. Brunch was the only option. So we hobbled into the car and let Sayo speed us to the Radisson where we tornadoed the buffet line in our sunglasses. Tenderloin medallions? Puffed pineapple cake? We’ll take it. Spiced rice? Pesto linguine? Savory Sausage? I’ll have seconds. Pickled prawn? Bring it on. We were a force to be reckoned with.

Until we weren’t. Anjarae forced down her $17 Bloody Mary as Sayo just plain gave up. And he lives here. “I’ll be in the car. I can't wait. I need a quick nap,” he said, as he handed his credit card over to Anjarae. We asked for the bill after another heaping plate of pineapple and waited…waited…waited.

Anjarae’s bbm buzzes. “Did you guys get a bloody room in there? I thought I was taking a ten minute nap!” Judging by the sallow complexions across the table, that probably would have been a good idea. A three hour brunch later, we got back in the car with a well-rested Sayo. We had a little more than an hour before the Man U game was on – our non-negotiable deadline to return to the couch to watch the game with Sayo and his two best friends from home (named Sayo and ... Sayo. The Three Sayos).

In the meantime, “Our” Sayo indulged my whining for a “real market,” and swung by an ATM to let me get cash on the way. Whipping down speed limit-less streets gaping with potholes, we pull up to the lone red booth next to a dilapidated wall painted with the insightful travel tip: DO NOT GIVE PASSPORTS OR MONEY TO STRANGERS PRETENDING TO BE HELPFUL. You’re kidding, Lagos!

“Go ahead, get out.” Wide eyed and reluctant, I burst out of the door running, eager to get the hell back behind something bulletproof. CARD IS NOT SMART. Crap. I fumble through my purse to find the other one, without looking away from the Strangers all around me. TYPE IN YOUR SECRET NUMBER. With my adrenaline pumping and this posh accent coming out of this machine, I feel like I’m in Skyfall rather than in front of an ATM. When the Naira denominations pop up, I freak out. Top? Bottom? Left? Right? Bottom right! Go, go go! 10,000. Ten thousand what?! What’s the exchange rate again? I can’t even pay my $112 Amazon Prime bill this month.

“Sayo! I don’t know what I’ve done! I don’t even have this much money to my name! I just cleared out my entire bank account! I’m such an idiot! Such an IDIOT!”

“Will you quit with the drama, McKee? No one’s shooting at you, man. And I can see it in your hand. You barely even took out fifty dollars.”

And back to the ATM I go for scene two of Skyfall. By the time I have braved the streets of Lagos to get the 20,000 Naira I have in my in hand and have trekked across the entire city to get to the "real market," I can’t even remember what I wanted to buy, other the Indomie (Top Ramen of Nigeria) I promised to bring back for my students. Gotta get rid of my currency though, right? South African Police is going to lock me up for importing MSG at this rate.

“You are the only person I’ve ever met to go on holiday in Lagos. Ever.” Ansi says, flabbergasted as I run into her while attempting to retrieve my still visa-less passport from Andre’s pile in the HR office. “And I lived there for three years.”

When we arrive in the airport and are greeted with a sweltering humidity that just feels like chaos, I know what she’s talking about. We are hustled through a narrow hallway and turn a corner to be greeted by Sayo’s crisply-suited “guy,” standing with his arms crossed against his chest. “Anjarae, Alli, Anna?” he asks. I’m confused as to how he knew to walk straight up to us, until I realize that we…uh…stand out a bit. I’ll totally be able to pass for a Nigerian.

And then there’s Sayo, waiting to lead us to the big black SUV that will take us to his place. “Sayo, why are these doors so heavvvyy?!” we complain. “Because they’re bulletproof.” Casual. The driver opens the door of the trunk. And then another metal door, before securing our bags in the boot. The most valuable thing I brought was the Duty Free perfume I just bought after drinking two bottles of free South African Airways wine on the six hour flight up, so… I don’t know if two layers of bulletproof metal are going to be secure enough, sir.

We’ve been parting the sea of traffic for about ten minutes when I lean over and whisper to Anna, noticing the persistent blue and white police lights in the rear view mirror. “Are we, um, getting pulled over? Is he going to stop, you think?” But she’s learning quicker than I am. “Alli, I’m pretty sure this is our police escort…”

When Sayo said he lived on Banana Island, he wasn’t kidding. I had never seen so many bananas – or rotting fruits of any kind, for that matter – in one place. They looked more attractive, though, once we opened up our greased newspaper full of suya for dinner. Why is it furry? Apparently the insides of “mutton tummy” (as we’ve so aptly named it) have a kind of fuzzy mini tentacle texture. Washes down real nicely with Veuve. Because that’s how it’s done in Nigeria, it seems.

One thing I did expect from Nigeria was good music. So for our first night in Lagos, we weren’t going to accept anything less than an epic dancing night. We started off at a bar called Sip and then moved to a club called Liquid, which seemed appropriate. When we walked in, we were swarmed. My answer to “Where you from?”— “Nigeria, why?”—wasn’t as convincing as I’d hoped. “I can’t take you girls anywhere,” Sayo complained. “You’re like frickin’ fresh meat.” I posed that it was probably just because there weren’t many white girls in the bar. “McBeal, you’re the only white girls to ever step foot in this bar,” he corrected me. Feeling right at home.

Whatever suspicions my “white” hair had risen about my identity were promptly confirmed by my very non-Nigerian dance moves. There are two options: (1) the “surprised-karate-chopper” dance and (2) the “lip-bite-body-roll.” Neither is particularly cool (unless you’re the one doing them). I just figured I’d become a good dancer by being surrounded by good dancers. Judging by Sayo’s raised eyebrows and SMHs, though, he wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t force us to go home until after 4am, so he couldn’t have been too embarrassed.

Saturday morning slapped us silly. A nice icy shower woke us up before we headed out to begin our Lagos ‘vacation’—a beach party. We strapped on our mandatory life jackets and took the boat towards ‘the island’ (wherever that was), gliding in between monolithic ocean liners on our right and seaside slums on our left. Sobering, until they were gone.

Once on land, we hurriedly trek through the scalding sand to Ogi’s house where the party was…supposed to be. But when we arrived, it was just an empty porch overlooking a limp hose trickling water into an empty pool. 

A few minutes later, three Dutch milk men (employees of Peak) show up, confused as to why we’ve crashed their private “poolside” afternoon. One thing led to anotha... and before long we’re hamming it up, hearing about how the closest thing to fresh milk in Nigeria is evaporated syrup in a can. Just as we’re about to score an invitation to come visit them in Amsterdam though, the four-wheeler arrives and Sayo whisks us away to the actual party. He looked like a real badass… until the ATV started to burn the backs of his calves, at which point he screamed “AHHH! OWWW! IT HURRRTS! OWWW! AHHH!” the whole way there, like a little girl. Schwarzenegger Swag? Check.

We pull up to Don’t You Worry Child blasting as a near-professional bartender double fists colorful concoctions, and jollof rice overflows out of a big yellow cooler that smells of Clorox, right next to the “Suya guy” that has somehow been transplanted from streetside to poolside. It was surreal, until I caught the giant eyes of bare-bottomed children peeking through the splintered slats of the fence. A sobering reminder that in this Coachella-esque bubble, we’re in Lagos, not Indio.

The second reality check came when Ogi urged us to hurry up and board the boats home, before the 6pm Pirate Curfew. Apparently, if you’re on the water past 6pm, the police shoot first and ask questions later. It sounded so...real at the time, after a few too many Stars, clearly. Didn’t stop Ewan, the German tourist, from pulling the Titanic move on the bow the whole way home. “This is the BEST DAY OF MY LIFE!” he yelled at the wind. Ok, buddy. I remember my first beer.

“Rally” is an enormous understatement. Showering required tremendous effort, and I failed to convince Anjarae to let me wear my bathing suit out. I remember sneaking away from the Domino’s pizza dinner to snuggle up in a corner on the couch, thinking I was invisible to the party going around behind me. And then being woken up with a shot of tequila chased with an orange slice dipped in Nescafe instant coffee on one side and sugar on the other. Is this a thing? But it worked, and we were off to further confuse our body clocks with Café Patron and Azonto-ing well into the early morning.

I’ve learned a lot here in Africa. But one think I’ve yet to learn is how to stop procrastinating. The Friday before we leave for Lagos, Anjarae informs me that Americans intending to go to Nigeria need a visa. And we haven’t had much luck with African visas in the past, you know? Trouble is, the Consulate General of Nigeria only processes visas on Tuesdays between 10am and 2pm (not including the two hour lunch break from 11-1pm), and it takes at least two weeks. Hashtag Winning.

We are having trouble figuring out how to squirrel our way out of this one. By Saturday lunchtime, we’ve given up and have decided to drink away our sorrows on the beach in Braamfontein. Because why would there not be a beach on a rooftop in the middle of the CBD? It feels like LA with the amount of silicone up here. After a few Grolsch beers (which go down like water, for the record) with Chemeli, Anjarae and I whisk Margot off to our next day drinking event – a braai at James’ new place.

We’re running around Wooly’s like it’s Supermarket Sweep. Clutching raw chicken chunks, as many bags as potato crisps as we can hold, and a small packet of mixed nuts, Margot is really excited to see how the “real South Africans” spend their Saturday afternoons. “Ooooh! I’ve never been to a bris before!” Eish.

By the time we put a dent in the Chenin Blanc(s), we’ve done the “Bada-ba-ba-ba”s of the whole A&A in Africa show, and James is laughing at how we’ve somehow failed this Nigeria trip, especially after booking it months ago. Depressed with depressants, we struggle to make it to dinner for Sijh’s birthday. But friendship first! So we saddle up and head into Sandton City for dinner, where Anj finds herself complaining to Uchenna about how big of a bummer this whole visa deal is. “Oh, my uncle works in the Consulate. I’ll get him to talk to his friend.” Ahh, NOW we’re talking…

Fast forward to Tuesday. My one day that is truly back to back with meetings from, let’s see, oh yes – 10-2pm. Convenient since those are the only hours of operation for the visa processing. So I’m just going to do the best I can. I rush to Illovo the second I’m out of class, printing out plane tickets, Sayo’s baby-faced passport, my bank statement showing my empty savings account (#nonprofitlivin’), and his letter of invitation. “This is to serve as a letter of invitation to the above named who is a friend of mine and resides at Flat 20, to visit me in Lagos, Nigeria on vacation…Yours faithfully, Oluwafeyisayo Folawiyo.”  20 what, Sayo? Super helpful. “As if I wrote it, McKee.”

After rushing to park in the Design store parking lot despite the berating guard, we’re forced to wait at the big green gate to be let in until our Invitee is ready for us. It’s like the Wizard of Oz over here. But just as the gate finally opens, the guard threatens me that if I don’t move my car…So I trade Anj and Anna my passport and stack of papers for two sets of keys, and I’m the new Nigerian Consulate Valet man. Turns out hopping curbs in Nugget to create parking spots is harder than it looks.

I’m sweaty from running cars around town as I beg at the Big Green Gate once again. CONSULATE GENERAL OF NIGERIA it reads, in block letters. And below the seal: Unity and Faith, Peace and Progress. I so badly want to make some progress right now. Just let me IN!

When I barge into the EXIT door and into the aircon of the lobby, it feels like I’ve reached the 4^th level of Super Mario Brothers. Now I’m just looking for coins. I find my way upstairs into the corner office where Anna and Anj are sitting across from our new best friend, a stack of three passports in his hand. People come in and out, dressed in caps and robes, and we can’t quite gauge whether this is actually happening or not.

He urges me to “get back to my kids” but I insist on staying with my paperwork just in case I need to sign (or don’t want to abandon my only really important possession at the Nigerian embassy). “If you need to sign, I’ll buy you a lawyer.” Alrighty then. When he hands our passports over to a lovely woman in a silvery blue gown, we know we’re in.

But our new best friend won’t have us sitting there in silence. “I have something I need you to read since you’re Americans!” he exclaims, as he gets click-happy and prints 6 copies of an article. 

“US consulate worker killed in Joburg.”  OoooK? And then we’ve launched into a debate over what a man could have possibly done to “earn the stabbing of a woman.” Um, I can think of a couple things. “Is the moral of the story to beware of beautiful women?” he asks us. Pretty sure there’s nothing about beauty anywhere in here, but we’ll let him go with it…until we get back our passports. “Are you going to take me out to the Sahara and leave me for dead since you are beautiful women?” he demands. Where did this go so wrong?

Passports in hand, it’s time to leave our new best friend. Anj and I go home to celebrate with chicken parm night on the roof and a delicious bottle of Chocolate Block. We’re going to Nigeria!

Now for packing. It’s Thursday and we’re doing our last minute shuffle for our flight in the morning. “Wait a minute, do we need anything for malaria?” Anj asks. Nah, probably not, I say. “Well, let me look up the map just to be sure.”

We just don’t learn, do we?

Monday morning. The fourteenth. I drove to school at 5:50, Rivers and Roads on repeat. 6:45am Meditation in Conference Room One. Doors slammed and mops sloshed, but it was easy to find my mantra this morning. Not here I am, but there you are.

Our 7:45am lesson was on Servant Leadership. I watched as my sleepy-eyed students struggled to stay awake through the four page article. We talked through the bullets. Is Servant leadership something you’re born with or do you develop it? What does it mean to be “sharply awake and reasonably disturbed?” Who are servant leaders you know? They were getting it, but barely. So I told them to put away the reading.

I turned off the lights and flashed up a picture of The Lawn at UVA. The Rotunda, the columns, the piles of firewood, the rocking chairs. “Who knows who Thomas Jefferson is?” I began. Yep, Ms. Alli's going crazy. Fueling their confusion, I talked through how he was also an incredible architect. And how he designed the Lawn at the University of Virginia, where I went to “uni.” I told them about the Lawn, lined with student rooms, and how the highest leadership honor at UVA was to be selected to live in one of those teensy bathroom-less rooms. Who needs aircon in August, anyway?

I told them about how I’d tried to President of this and Chair of that, piling positions onto my CV with my eyes on the prize – a (not-so-luxurious) Lawn room. "I’d thought I had a good shot – a really good shot, actually. So when I got that rejection email that January evening in 2008, I was devastated. I couldn’t believe it. If I hadn’t gotten it, who had? I was the P-res-ident of Kappa for goodness sakes! Chair of Student Arts Committee! Practically a 4.0 distinguished majors student! What else could you want, Thomas Jefferson!?!?" I winced in embarrassment and shame at my third-year self. My kids did, too. Guess those empathy lessons have been paying off, eh? They had expected me to tell them a success story.

But the success wasn’t mine. “When I found out one of my best friends, Sydney, got a room on the Lawn,” I told them, “I was totally confused. Wait a minute, what did she do to get a room? What positions had she held that had impressed the committee?” Even more wincing. "But Sydney wasn’t the one holding important positions. She had been doing things all along, sneaking out on Saturdays (while we were all still hungover in bed) to do community service, running programs none of her closest friends even knew about, really. Never asking for credit, for praise. She did it because she was truly serving others. The whole time. Not herself, not her resume."

They sat silent. “And I tell you this because Sydney is the best servant leader I’ve ever known. And it special that this was today’s lesson because one year ago today, we lost Sydney in a skiing accident.”

Breathe. “At her funeral, they described her in the most perfect way,” I told them. I tried to slow my shaking hands as I read the printout of the sermon. When Sydney walked into a room, it was not ‘Here I am’ but ‘There you are.’

Now that’s servant leadership. When the lights came on, my sleepy students were gone. They had gotten it. Class ended with a flurry of hugs. “Your friend sounds really special, Ms. Alli.” And in true Syd form, she’s still here, making us all better people. Whether it’s me or 17 year olds from across the African continent that she’s never met. She’s still inspiring us.

…

Two weeks later, and I’m still scrambling to do one-on-ones with each of my 21 students. Isaac and I are finishing up as he forks over his Sodexo dinner doused in gravy. “Anything else you want to talk about?” I ask. Making sure we’ve covered all the bases, you know. “No, Ms. Alli. I think that’s all.” But then he pauses, and I know he's got something else to say. “Ms. Alli, I just wanted to say thank you for sharing the story about your friend...Sydney, right? I wanted to tell you that I think about what you said a lot. The part about ‘Not here I am, but there you are.’ Like a lot, a lot.” 

And here she is again. 

Part of my new teaching role includes coaching our student enterprises, particularly leading up to next week’s “Board Meetings.” But I don’t know this until Ryan interrupts me filling out my Nigerian visa application on Wednesday afternoon (The “hair color” dropdown offers Black, Brown, Red, White... guess I’ll go with white?). “Alli, so you’re supposed to be coaching Ten50 right now…” What is Ten50? The on-campus hair salon for students, of course.

Ryan leads me to the lobby of the library, where Ten50 is meeting in their “salon.” The room – no, the closet – is painted red and black, a basin in the corner, with a shelf full of Relaxers and Olive Oil treatments. I’ve only ever seen olive oil in a kitchen. When I peek in through the doorway behind Ryan, Takalani just drops her chin, raises her eyebrows over the rims of her glasses, eyeing “Really, Mr. Ryan? Of all the staffulty coaches, you brought us the one white woman… with…white hair?” Ryan introduces me, their new “coach,” and the team members look down at the floor and then at me, and then at the floor again before continuing the debate of which kinds of hair to buy. You can BUY hair? Apparently, the South Africans have different tastes than the Nigerians, and we don’t even know what the Kenyans want. And then the debate over how to handle the “customer” whose hair started falling off after they used cold water post-relaxer (There’s no hot water pipe in the “salon”...). Hair falling off isn’t exactly a business booster. Yep, you guys are in trouble, I think, as I pick out a split end of my white hair.

Our BUILD curriculum encourages our kids to Believe, Understand, Invent, Listen and Deliver. Now, I was the student, and it was time for me to U. Big time. So I googled. I youtubed. Chris Rock’s documentary Good Hair was blowing my mind. “When you’re hair’s relaxed, the white people are relaxed. If your hair is nappy, they’re not happy.” 

I am starting to doubt whether this counts as valid market research.

Back at home, Anj can’t stop laughing at me. Of the sixteen SEPs I could have added value to, I get paired with the one that I have no frickin’ clue what’s going on. As part of my Understand phase, I decide I’m going to try wrapping my hair the way Anj does with her purple silk. So I shower, drying my hair into a big “white” mane, and then try to tame it by twisting it into a low bun before twirling my head in my coral and pink Marine Layer infinity scarf. I don’t think it gets any whiter than Marine Layer. One, two… five times. I look at myself in the mirror and – damn. I look as legit as this is going to get. Excited, I burst into Anj’s room to show off my accomplishment even though she’s undoubtedly sleeping. But shes not. She’s doubled over the toilet.

Laughing… but nothing about this looks funny to me. Until I look into the toilet and there is her Invisalign retainer, sunk all the way to the bottom of the bowl. Just another evening at 8 Pam Road.

When I wake up in the morning, I can hardly wait to unwrap my soon-to-be smooth locks. But instead, once I wiggle my scalp out of my scarf, I’ve unleashed a beast that looks more like Medusa than Marilyn Monroe. I think I’ll drop the scarf and stick to scrunchies from here on out. As I frantically try to straighten this mess, I open gmail to an email from Betty:

Alli I heard your giving black hair tips? lol seriously? Well here's some to pass along, they should try to deep condition their hair whenever they wash it which shouldn't be too often as we have dry hair. They should use minimal heat or gel on their hair because both cause breakage. If they have a relaxer they should wrap their hair at night or at least wear a scarf. If they have braids they should oil their scalp regularly. Just remember your hair is completely different from theirs, so don't tell them any of the things that you would normally do with yours like wash it every day or wet it&go. Also they should get trims every few months, black women are terrified of scissors near our hair even though split ends are way worse.

I don’t think this qualifies as part of my “coaching” role, but I have to learn somehow, right?

And now it’s Thursday, and my hair appointment (read: bonding experience) with Ten50 is coming up on Saturday. “Ms. Alli, about your, uh, appointment. We don’t want to… you know… blow anything up in the park, yet, you know? So we’re going to just stick to conditioning and maybe some curls. Sound good?” I was sort of hoping for legit braids for that night’s Kanye concert, but I guess “some curls” will have to do.