A Culture of Animal Cruelty
Sad Dog Image: Petfinder Have you seen where dog meat is prepared? It is the epitome of cruelty and wickedness. The dog is tied in a sack and kept in a circle of men wielding sticks. Once they are sure that the dog cannot escape its confinements, these men begin to beat the dog until it dies. I witnessed this one day and nearly threw up from the sheer cruelty of it all. The cries of the dog were enough to break me, but these men were unperturbed. They kept striking, drawing rivulets of blood that seeped out of the sack as the screams of the dog became weaker until all was eerily quiet. In all honestly, I didn’t watch till the end. I couldn’t. Those cries tormented me. But I couldn’t leave. I was out with a friend who ate dog meat and he wanted his ‘delicacy’. Before then, I had been repulsed by the fact that people ate dog meat; and I told him as much. When I got to see how dogs were killed before they were prepared, I felt even worse revulsion. How could people do something so disgustingly cruel to animals? People who don’t eat dog meat may say that they are not part of the abuse. And they would be right. But…many of us abuse animals in one way or the other. Even me! So…I also began to think of the other ways that we abuse animals. Let me give an example. Roasted catfish is one of my favorite delicacies. I make it a point of duty to get some at least once a month. One day, I decided to get the raw fish and prepare myself. When I got to the market, it was to see that they kept the fish in just enough water to stay alive. And because there were many fish in the tub, you could tell that they were struggling to be alive. Suffocating would be the most appropriate term. I didn’t think too much about it for a minute until the fish I selected was taken out of the water and a big stick was used to hit its head. I was appalled! Was that how catfish was killed?! Was it the same with the fish joints where I bought mine? I felt bad. I shouldn’t even get started with the way we treat cows; but I will. You should see how they are transported across States lines. Necks bent at awkward angles, legs tied under their bodies in positions that must be uncomfortable, and even cases where other animals and food are piled atop them are usually common place. Then imagine all those distances they have to walk because their herders prefer the nomadic style of cattle rearing instead of the ranch method. And by God, we still insist on killing these animals by slitting their throats and letting them bleed out. In fact, Christianity and Islam instruct the slaughtering of animals as the way to kill them. Proponents of these religions believe that the most humane way to kill an animal is to slaughter them. The Bible (Deuteronomy 12: 21-24) and the Dhabihahin the Islamic Tradition place emphasis on slaughtering the animal and letting the blood of the animal drain to the ground. There are more requirements in Islam that must be met but for the most part, these religions agree that slaughtering is the ‘best’ way to kill animals. But…is this true? There are many schools of thought about this. Research has shown that many animals – like chickens for examples – die as much 2.5 minutes after being slaughtered. That is a lot of pain for an animal to deal with, no matter how stupid chickens are supposed to be. And quite frankly, unfair to the animal. Personally, I think animals should be stunnedbefore they are killed. I think that is the most humane way to kill them. But I understand the draw of religion and why it is important to do as a deity demands. The bigger question is whether we should even eat meat knowing how animals have to die. I am not going to lie…I love meat. It is an important of all my meals. I enjoy the feel it brings to any meal it is in. In fact, I consider meat or fish the reward for eating a meal. This is why I believe that when animals are killed as humanely possible, it is fine to eat. It is also why, in addition to my other reasons, I will eat not dog meat. I have an aversion to swine so that isn’t even up for debate but fish…how do I handle my dilemma with their inhumane killings and my unending appetite for them? I think that is the big question for me, and my role in this mess. Thankfully, in this part of the world, we do not kill animals for sport – even though we let people come here to do so – and cases of animal fighting for gambling purposes are few and in between. But there are way too many ways that animals are treated poorly in our communities. Not only are they fed poorly or starved, they are also caged, flogged, and even poisoned. I once saw a video of a guy who caught a rat and tied it spread-eagled to a bottle. Then the guy stuck a burning cigarette in the mouth of the rat such that whenever it tried to breathe, it inhaled huge gulps of smoke. The guy laughed hysterically, as did the thousands of people who liked and retweeted his video. I was appalled that people didn’t see it for what it was; a culture of animal cruelty. And it is a culture alright! And speaking of poisoning, this is where I am part of the problem. Apologies please. I genuinely hate rats. I think after snakes, they are the most horrible animals. They are able to creep into just about
A Culture of Filth
Image: Baastrop If you follow me on Twitter, you will (probably) notice that every week – and sometimes, almost every day – I talk about people who litter the environment with either their urine, feces or other waste products generated from their daily activities. From my tone, you can always tell that I am constantly angry at the unsightly result of our improper waste disposal and management. I wasn’t always this concerned about the environment. In fact, I used to be a huge part of the problem; okay…maybe ‘huge’ is stressing it too far. What I can admit is that I used to toss trash into the streets, gutters and running water and even burn plastic and other waste materials. Not only was I contributing to the dirt in the streets, I was also polluting the air. It is no surprise that at that time, my bedroom used to look like a tornado was constantly running through it. You wouldn’t call me a ‘clean girl’ for anything. My mother would fuss, and discipline, and it never seemed to work. As I got older, I got better…but not by much. Then in 2006, something happened to change my entire outlook on waste disposal. I was fresh out of secondary school and looking forward to a life as an undergraduate. I applied to Ahmadu Bello University for my first and second choice and when it was time for the Post Unified Tertiary Matriculation Examination, or what we simply called Post UME, I was excited to go for the test, and prove why I should get into the school. After a really stressful day of getting lost, struggling to find myself in a sea of people, writing the exam and wondering how I was going to get back home, I decided to have a snack; I had not eaten all day. I bought a sausage roll – Gala – and a drink and sat down at the Social Center to eat. When I was done, I picked up my empty bottle and sausage wrap and crossed the road towards Amina Hostel. As soon as I crossed, I looked around and dropped my empty bottle and wrap on the ground. Just as I did that, my eye connected with a guy who was looking directly at me. I stopped. You know how they say you can shoot darts with your eyes? Well, this guy was shooting grenades! Without one word uttered, I could feel his disapproval, disappointment and anger at my littering. It was in that moment that I really took in my surroundings. There were waste bin every 100 metres and the school environment was clean and the lawn perfected mowed. In fact, there was one waste bin right in front of me. But I hadn’t seen it. I want to blame the stress I had been under but in all honesty, I may not have used it regardless. Remember that I have established that I was the type of person to toss things out into the street, right? Well, my bottle of fizzy drink – and its accompanying sausage wrap – was the aberration to what was a well maintained, really clean environment. It felt like I had insulted the ground – and faculty – of the school. I was awash with embarrassment. Why did I have to openly disregard this beauty that was so carefully put together? Why did I have to show myself like this?! I imagined what the guy must have been thinking about me. I need to put out a caveat though; I wasn’t attracted to the guy. I didn’t want to be liked by the guy. It wasn’t like I wanted to impress him. But the look which he shot me was rife with silent disapproval and judgement. I felt that he had seen into my soul and concluded that I was destructive to the earth. I imagined him thinking me ‘local’, ‘unsophisticated’ and maybe even a ‘village girl’. I was ashamed of myself for not being a better a person. And because of the insecurities I had already been feeling in the new…different environment, I wished I could go back in time and undo my act of sacrilege to the hallowed grounds of the university. To salvage the situation, I acted like I had dropped the trash on purpose. I opened my bag, pretending to look for something and then, bent down to pick them up and toss them into the trash can. With that, I walked away with my shoulders squared, head held high and lips in a defiant pout. But…not before I stole a glance at the guy and saw the beginnings of a smile on his face. That day, I made the choice to stop indiscriminately disposing waste. If I cannot dispose my waste in a proper way, I put it in my bag until I can. The ripple effects of that stink look stayed a long time with me and made me want to be a better person; first to myself and then to my community. I started to clean my house more, keep the ‘tornado’ at bay and generally, act better. As expected, the more concerned I was about my environment, the less tolerant I was of people who littered and worse, peed and pooped in public spaces. Having mentioned that, I have a confession to make. Sometime in 2013, a friend and I went out on a date. I remember drinking from a packet juice and taking some water with the snacks I had. When we returned to his house and I was about to set out for mine, he asked if we could extend the night by taking a stroll. I agreed. Before we left however, I asked for some water and I downed the 60cl sachet that he brought. I felt like peeing, but the pressure wasn’t much. So, I ignored the call and we went out. We took a stroll through the neighborhood and talked and
What Happened to Kainene?
I was sitting in the bus when a thought came into my head. ‘What happened to Kainene?’ For those who may think me crazy, let me explain who Kainene is and possibly, why she came into my head today. One of my all-time favorite persons in the world is Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. From the moment a friend walked up to me and said I needed to watch a TedX Talk titled, We Should All Be Feminists, I have been enamored of her. Prior to this time, I had never heard her name and I didn’t know that she authored books. Or if I am more truthful, I didn’t read African authors at that point in my life, so I didn’t know who was in the scene. When I heard that great (GREAT) speech, I was blown away by the very essence of who she was and, I wanted to guzzle everything she had ever put out. Thankfully, not long after that, I heard one of her books – Half of a Yellow Sun – was going to be adapted into a film. I was excited! At that point, I had not read the book, and though I usually prefer books to their film adaptations, for some reason, I wanted to see the film first. So when it got out, I immersed myself in the film. I was introduced to Olanna and Kainene, twin sisters who had returned to Nigeria after studying in the United Kingdom. Through the story, we see how the lives of five people – Ugwu, Odenigbo, Olanna, Kainene and Richard – are changed as a result of the Nigerian Civil war which happened from 1967 to 1970. This brings me to what happened to Kainene. At first, it seemed that Kainene was ‘unfazed’ with the war that was leaving a trail of death and carnage all around her. Then, seeing first hand just how brutal the war was, she put on a more humanitarian persona; which was translated in her running a refugee camp. Due to the lack of food and drugs, she decided to go into ‘enemy’ territory and trade with them for the basic necessities which her people desired. That was when she disappeared. No one knows what happened to Kainene; till today. Kainene is a reminder that so many people who lost loved ones during and after the war do not have closure. Let me explain this. If someone you love dies during a war or a crisis or an accident or anything bad that you can think of, you may possibly have a body to grieve over, or a gravesite to put in that person and the memories you shared. You can begin to heal every day and in time, their memories become less painful. Your mind tells you that you can only grieve so much before you have to stop. That is the finality that comes with death. But if they just disappear, with no hint of whether they are alive or not, you remain in a state of perpetual grief. You continuously wonder if today will be the day they walk in the door; if they would reach out; if they are held against their will; if they have eaten; what they have eaten; how they look; if they had children; if they were doing well; and every other thing that your mind can possibly fathom. If you take a cup of water, you wonder if they have water where they are. If you laugh, your mind wonders if they can laugh and torments you for daring to. Every day, every hour, every second of every year that they remain ‘unfound’, you lose a bit of yourself and your sanity because there is no closure. I once read of a story of an old woman who sat a certain couch everyday staring at the streets in front of her house. When her children asked her what she was doing, she said she was waiting to see if her brother would return home. He had been in the soldier in the civil war. She did this until her children had their own children; until her grandchildren wondered if grandma was losing her mind; until she could barely see the road in front of her house. Still…her brother never returned and the day she believed he was not going to come back, she died of a broken heart. So why did I think of what happened to Kainene? It was more about a group of other girls far, far away from Kainene’s Nsukka. I was thinking of the Chibok girls and every other person that has been kidnapped by the insurgent group, Jamā’at Ahl as-Sunnah lid-Da’wah wa’l-Jihād, or as they are commonly called, Boko Haram. Beyond that, I was thinking of family members who had been separated by the insurgency; families who didn’t have phone numbers and couldn’t contact themselves. I thought also of internally displaced people whose loved ones were scattered about in different IDP camps, with no hope of reaching them. It made me ask myself, ‘how were these people doing?’ Kainene is a fictional character. Yet, I am constantly wondering what happened to her. Imagine the people with the real Kainenes in their lives; people searching for answers about their loved ones; people wondering what horrors said loved ones are going through; people holding hope up that one day, they would return home; and people who will die with that hope never becoming a reality. These people cannot heal because their loved ones have been separated from them without the necessary closure they need to move past the pain. Where is this all heading to? For starters, the security situation in Nigeria is becoming more severe, with daredevil abductors taking up citizens at their whim. Many of these victims will return home. Many will not. And for people like the Chibok Girls, or Leah Sharibu, or any number of women, girls and children who may have been abducted,
Long Distance: When the Fairy Tale Ends
Image: Raw Pixel It starts with a long distance relationship that wasn’t working. Adon and Jason try to make things work and just when they think they are in a good place, Jason has an accident that makes him fall in love with Amara. When he returns to his senses, it is to find Adon is with child. For his best friend? The answer shocks him. He tries again and somehow, they end up together again. And then reality strikes. Jason looked at Adon as she slept. She was beautiful! Like the first time they shared a bed, he marveled at how innocent she looked when she slept. She wasn’t the strong woman who could take on anything and anyone who dared to cross her. No. When she slept, she became…normal. He smiled…and let his gaze trail down the length of her body. She had filled up after the birth of their child. He paused. When he promised himself to her a little over two years ago, he didn’t know how easy it would be to love a child that wasn’t his. He thought he was going to struggle to find affection for Karla. But from the moment he held her in his arms, he knew that he loved her; almost as much as he loved her mother. One of Adon’s breasts had escaped the top of her bustier and he felt the stirrings of desire beginning to harden him. He wanted her; bad. But he knew it was a bloody waste of time. Frustrated, he got out of bed and headed to the bathroom. He was tired of cold showers and bloody getting himself off. His resolve had gone to shit and if things didn’t improve soon, he was going to have to seek satisfaction outside his home, his bed and the warm body of his wife. *** Adon heard him go to the bathroom. She knew what he was going to do. She remembered the first time she heard the grunts from the bathroom. She remembered how ashamed of herself she had been, how inadequate she had felt. And every time she heard the familiar thud of the closing bathroom door, she felt worse. Not today. This time, she was pissed the hell off. Not at him of course. At herself! Why couldn’t she get past this?! It had been more than three years?! Why couldn’t she let herself accept another man, even one she so desperately loved? Well today, it ends. She got out of bed and went to the bathroom door. She knew if she knocked, she would lose steam. So she opened and barged in. *** Jason was shocked at the intrusion. He had been scrolling through porn sites looking for something to excite him and nothing was working. Tonight, he knew the only release he wanted was inside Adon. He was sick and tired of getting off by himself. He hated how he felt whenever he did that and he just wanted to be with and ease into the woman he loved. The woman he loved was right in front of him, breasts about to bust from her transparent bustier, hair a mess, and a determined expression on her face. He raised one eyebrow as she dropped her panties. Before he could so much as get up, she was on his lap, kissing him with a fervency like he had never seen. Jason didn’t even need to think about it. He kissed Adon right back. *** Adon was breathing hard. So was Jason. His was more labored, but he didn’t get up from atop her body. Every time he drew breath, Adon could feel him become angrier. She didn’t want to cry, but the tears had a mind of their own. As soon as Jason felt the tears on his shoulders, he pulled away from Adon. He thought of the crazy frenzy with which he took her from the toilet seat to their bed. He thought of slowing himself down, even though he wanted to bury himself in her immediately. He had gone through the motions; caressing her, kissing her all over, watching her spasm with pleasure as his tongue worked its magic. And then he saw himself, hearing her beg him to take her, placing himself above her at the entrance of her core, preparing to go in gently…and meeting the same thing that had been happening since they got married two years ago. Her body stiffened and she wouldn’t let him in. And like the previous times, the more he tried to get in, the tighter she became until she was in excruciating pain. Adon pulled the covers around her as she watched him pull on his boxers. ‘Baby…’ ‘Don’t. Just don’t.’ Adon got off the bed and went to him. ‘I can take the pain. Please, just do it. Baby, pl-‘ She stretched her hand to touch him. He turned to her in rage. ‘And do what?! Rape you?! Is that what you want?!’ Adon stepped back, appalled. Jason turned away from her and pulled on a sweatshirt. He quickly pulled on pants and slipped his legs into some trainers. Adon hadn’t moved. She watched him through the haze of tears as he walked towards the door. ‘Baby…’ He stopped, refusing to look at her. ‘I am sorry Adon. I can’t do this anymore.’ And he walked out of the bedroom. It was 1am in the morning. Adon felt her heart stop. *** Jason didn’t return home for a week and Adon was beside herself with worry. She didn’t call him though. He didn’t call her either. She consoled herself with the knowledge that if something had happened to him, someone would have contacted her. So Jason was fine. Which meant that he stayed away because
Keeping up Appearances
A memory came to my head a few days ago and stayed with me. It was sometime in early 2013. I was serving Nigeria as a corps member in Yola, Adamawa State, under the mandatory National Youth Service Corps program for fresh graduates. I had been deployed to the Government Girls Secondary School (GGSS) and a lodge was made available for corps members like me. There were just two girls (from my batch) who were assigned to the school. We joined two other girls who were a batch ahead of us, bringing our total to four. Technically, there were two lodges; one for men and the other for women. Ours was a four bedroom flat that used to be the Principal’s quarters. As years went by and the building began to crumble because of lack of use, it was converted into an abode for female corps members. Since there were four of us at that point, each of us had our own room. Now let us go to the memory. That year, I had become deeply religious and immersed in learning more about the Christian God. I was carefully cutting out things from my life that I felt didn’t glorify Him. This meant that I was trying to do right, speak right and generally, live right. It was so bad that I even cut out songs that weren’t gospel music from my life. Anyone who knows me knows that it was one of the hardest things I had to do. Anyway, I didn’t just want to do right. I wanted to be seen to do right. I didn’t join conversations that tore people down or promoted what I termed vulgar. I stopped partying and began my descent into near reclusion. I continued to have male friends but I made sure it was knownthat it was just platonic. In the past, I would have given people the illusion that I was involved with all my male friends. It gave me a thrill to see people wonder what I was about. But my new way of life meant that I didn’t want to be perceived as that person anymore. It was at this point that I met another corps member. He was a young man who was, for lack of a better phrase, a ‘bad boy’. Let me call him Wale. You see, among ‘believers’ then, if you smoked cigarettes and weed like Wale did, you were termed a bad boy. To make matters worse, Wale only listened to rap music with explicit lyrics, and was constantly downing bottles of codeine-laced cough syrup. If I had met him before my ‘journey to spirituality’, he would have been my type of person. We would have hit it off and being just peachy. At that point however, I didn’t want to be friends. And worse than that, I didn’t want to be seen as his friend. But he didn’t get the memo. When I stopped visiting or communicating as often, he decided to take up the responsibility. He would call, text and visit. He would be talking about the music I was tryingto remove from my life and wondering when we could go out to a club for drinks. Sometimes, I would try to avoid him and at other times, I would just go with the flow. It was during one of these visits that he told me he was having problems with his landlord and didn’t know what to do. I was worried because, as ‘gangsta’ as he showed he was, I knew he was from a privileged home and he didn’t have a lot of experience handling things by himself. I asked what he was going to do and he said he would figure it out. One night about a week later, he arrived at my door unannounced. I asked if all was well and he said he had been kicked out of the house where he had been staying. He had hopped from place to place and was at a loss as to where to stay. I went into panic mode and began to knock on doors at the male lodge asking if they could put him up for a couple of days. The male quarters were already cramped and many said they couldn’t. One guy however, who (incidentally) was one of the nastiest persons I had met in a while, said he would take him in; even though I had been loath to ask. The next day, I asked Wale what he was going to do about his situation. The fact that he didn’t serve in our school meant he couldn’t stay for long. Also, we were expecting new corps members. His problem had to be solved by his own place of primary assignment. It was while discussing this that I realized he had burned bridges at that place of assignment. A lot of it was hinged on his habits but the most part was because he was a bit of a loner and his people skills were almost nonexistent. In about a week, the guy helping him out decided he was done. He had assumed (correctly) that my friend was from a rich family and thought it was his opportunity to fleece him. When Wale had given away almost all he could without going under, the horrible corps member kicked him out of the house. This happened at about 9pm. Wale came to my door to let me know what was happening. I was worried. I knew no one else would take him in. And then it occurred to me that I had my room, which was big, had two mattresses and could be his abode for the night. However, as soon as the thought came to my head though, a part of me said no. Almost immediately, my brain went into overdrive. What would happen if he slept in my room? For one, I would
P I E C E S by Arunsi Othniel Fortune
Image: Mwangi Gatheca for Unsplash I know what it’s like being in your head. Dark, cold, happy. I know what it’s like being in your soul. Lit, warm, dead. I know, what it’s like to see right through your eyes. Because we’re both blind to a reality where I had to sail across seas to find you, sinbad. Heh, see I know that you’re scared. You’re frightened by the waves and how much they’ve Caught you, drowned you and made you lost, captain. Where’s the depth of the deep, within the darkness of The shadows and the castles you built so steep? What happened to the kid who learned how to ride a bike, The one who stained himself with dirt, the one who cried. Not because of pain but because of attention. Now you shed less tears and carry more hurt, you speak your heart less and feel your thoughts more. Where’s the child, this silver tongue, the one I know? Is he lost, is he dead, is he out with the figures cast by the light in a Dark room? Who knows the captain and his crew? I know you, I know how your head is spinning like the compass in your possession. I know you, I know that you still see the greater good to all of this. You’re in a wilderness of waters in an island of your soul, Within the very fortress you built to keep you, out of my reach. Why can’t you see I won’t leave? Why can’t you see I won’t stop? Why can’t you see that we both, us, together, aren’t whole in our separate individualities. Of a puzzle, pieces. Still to be like the triskellion, One-half of each other, we both are our own trinity Forging each other like lakes of hot coal in a shed of iron How much more, how much farther my Lord? But I am your Lord and you are my servant As you are my Lord, for I am your servant! Incomplete without the other, Ingenious if we stand together You must be kidding me, how are you a parent? Why is it so apparent, you must be really virtual I must be really stupid, you are so many things I’ve come to sit with Kings. How come you sit with me? I have the crown on me, but you wear me on you. You… Have got to be lost. How come you call me home? When I don’t want to answer, when I can’t accommodate you Even if I do give directions, how come I’m North Why do you look up to me? Simply put, I’m the very piece of you that went missing inside you. If you’re going to bleed me, cut your heart, we’ll die faster. After all it’s the same grave but not the same grounds. Your heart’s a safe place but not a safe house In the end, you’re my end: Pitiful. Othy If you cannot see the audio controls, your browser does not support the audio element
I Thought I Was a Witch…
Children Accused of WitchcraftImage: SAFE CHILD AFRICA. I remember when I thought I was a witch. It was sometime in the year 2000 or 2001. My parents were strict and required us to stay at home always; unless absolutely necessary. They also didn’t encourage us to have friends or people over at the house. Maybe it was because of their strictness or the fact that we were always indoors but, my house became the hub for our friends and neighbors when they weren’t around. And yes, we had so many of them; especially me. When my parents were out, our friends would come over and we would have all sorts of craziness in the name of fun. If my parents knew just how many people came to our house and caused havoc when they were out, we would have been flayed. This is not to say that we weren’t caught once in a while. But they didn’t know just how bad it was. It was during one of these visits that a friend came to beat me in the house. Funny story. Omoh (fake name alert) and I were closer than most of our other friends. The group used to call us ‘husband and wife’. For some reason which I cannot remember now, we had a fight and stopped being friends. Then I heard that he was trying to tarnish my reputation and spreading lies about me. I got so mad and began to write a letter. By this point, I had just learned words like ‘scalliwag’, ‘nincompoop’ and the all-purpose French word, fuck. I peppered my letter with those words – and others like them – in what I thought was a take down of his entire existence. When I was done, I gave the letter to the same friends who brought the tale to me. Turns out my words struck a million nerves. He was so mad! What I didn’t know was that the letter had been read aloud in front of the rest of the group and with each ‘big word’ they saw, the guys would fall all over themselves, regaling in laughter. And then they would check the dictionary for the meaning and upon discovering what it meant, would break out in even bigger laughter. By the time they were done reading that letter, Omoh was in a rage. I had barely been told he was coming to beat me when he burst into my house brandishing a belt. He asked me to repeat myself if I dared. I was scared out of my skin but I was never one to show it. So I went, ‘I have said all I wanted to say to you. If you didn’t understand it, that is your concern.’ Wrong move. I felt the sharpness of the belt eating into my flesh just as the rest of the group decided to intervene. Maybe most people didn’t think it wouldn’t get to that or they wanted to see me get beat, which I think is what really happened, but the delay in their response sent me into a rage. I reached for him, hoping to throw a blow; even though I was not a fighter. I remember that the biggest guy in the group held me back as the others held Omoh. As I was kicking and throwing blows, I kept saying, ‘You don’t know me! I will show just who I am. This is the biggest mistake you have made in your life and you will so regret it. Get ready to face who I am.’ There was nothing I was going to do. I knew I was bluffing but I kept going. Heck, I couldn’t even tell my parents. They would have continued the beating from where he left off. But I was livid and kept going. In a way, I was thankful that I was held back. If they had let me attack, I most definitely would have run away. The fight was eventually broken and everyone went their way. I heard that Omoh planned to still beat me up in the streets whenever he saw me. I was scared of what would happen to me when I didn’t have other people protecting me. I know that I talk a big game but honestly, I don’t know how to fight; then or now. So when my mother sent me the market two days later, and I had to pass through his house, I was scared out of my wits. When I passed by on my way to the market and nothing happened, I was relieved; for a little while. I think the fear doubled when I was returning because I kept imagining him jumping out of nowhere to descend on me. When that didn’t happen, I finally breathed a sigh of relief when I got home. I was free! I had barely let out that sigh when another friend came in. ‘Oh girl! I dey fear you oh! Wetin you do Omoh?’ Even though he said it in a joking tone, I could tell that he was a bit wary; of me. I looked at him and wondered what he was about. ‘Omoh is sick. He has been lying in bed since that day that he beat you. What did you do?’ I looked at him and hissed. ‘He must be joking.’ I thought to myself. But he wasn’t. The rumor had spread that I had cast a spell on Omoh, which was why he was sick. It was then that it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen any of my friends since the fight. They were actively avoiding me! I felt so bad. So I included every one of them in the anger I was still smarting from. It wasn’t until the next day that a delegation of friends came to plead with me to forgive Omoh. I was shocked. What were these people saying? What could I possibly have done? ‘Remember as you were
The 30th Chapter
I am 30 years old today! Whoot whoot! For the first time in a long, long time, I decided I was going to celebrate my birthday. Honestly, the last two years took its toll on me emotionally, financially and physically! Whewww! So, yes! I am in a celebratory mood this year. To give a glimpse into my mind and why this chapter is different, let us go down memory lane to the last couple of months in 2016. It was a really bad time for me. A misunderstanding with my mum began the start of an estranged relationship that lasted into 2018. Growing up, I learned not to speak back to adults; even when I felt they were wrong. It used to hurt me so bad when adults would do something that offended me and I couldn’t do or say anything because you know…adults. So while many people saw me as the girl who said her mind (usually in a shout), with older people, I was a girl who kept quiet. So when my mother and I were having a conversation and I felt something she said was wrong, I snapped. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t talk back to her. I just got up and left. And the silence began. You know how you keep saying you would fix things and pride keeps telling you to wait and then waiting become days and days become weeks and weeks become years? Well, our ‘fight’ lasted for nearly two years until something happened to force us into the same room. I will get to that soon. Also in 2016, I made a decision to walk away from the relationship with the people I considered my best friends at that time. A little context is necessary. My friends and I had been friends for nearly 15 years at that point. Well…15 with one and 10 with the other. We were peas in a pod. I loved those girls like I loved myself and I knew I could do just about anything for them. In fact, I considered them my sisters. Even though I didn’t keep in touch often, I hoped they knew that I was always there for them. A couple of events which happened from late 2014 to the time in question made me feel like our relationship was one sided. And at that time, I handled my anger and hurt by internalizing the problem. So rather than call anyone I have a problem with and have a proper conversation expressing my angst, I would begin to pull away from them. I would let silence become a chasm between us until coming back becomes almost impossible. And you know what happens in that time? All the offences become even more glaring; things that would normally not offend me begin to have double meanings; and worst all, the hurt and pain I feel rises to a crescendo that bursts at the top of it, leaving me quite unreasonable at the end. When I got to this point, I wrote a long note telling my friends I was done with the friendship and I wished them the best in life. Then I waited. Today, I can admit that I hoped they would try to fight for me. I can admit that I hoped I was wrong and they would set me aright and tell me how it was all in my head and they loved me as much as I loved them. But none of that happened. Instead, they really got into how I was a ‘horrible’ person and how they also had things they wanted to get off their chests. I was shocked! By the time the conversation was over and the friendship severed, I was left shaking. I was so hurt that for the first time, my first reaction to a problem was not anger; it was raw, unadulterated pain. I remember crying so much that day. You know how they say losing a friend is so much worse than losing a lover? Well, I had definitive proof of that. And even though I had felt great sadness before, I fell into a state of paralysis that was the start of what became a deep depression. But I will get into that in a bit. When my job search wasn’t yielding anything good in 2016, I became very antsy. I am my work and when I do not have work, I genuinely lose my mind. I already had a lot going on and what would have been my solace – burying myself in work – was no longer available to me. Oh! I had my blog and what not but I didn’t have a source of income, which meant that I needed to depend on people for my daily needs. Look! The worst feeling I can ever have is being dependent on anyone. It literally feels like my skin is being pulled out little by little with hot tweezers. I hate being broke and worse than that, I hated having to ask anyone for money for things like sanitary pads; which were about the only things I asked for when push came to shove. If jobs weren’t readily available, I knew I had to re-strategize. So I applied for an internship in different development organizations. I knew many organizations did not pay their interns well (if they paid them at all) but I was fine. If whatever I got could handle my transportation and feeding allowance, I would be fine. What was more important to me was that I learned structural advocacy so I could take my activism to a point where I could begin to get grants to execute projects. Towards the end of 2016, one of my applications came through and I was invited for an interview in Abuja. A week or so after that interview, I was told I had passed and I was to start in the new year. I was excited! It was a
How Can We Help Poor(er) Women?
A Page from Tom Paulson I was heading home on November 6, 2018, when my sister called me to get her some juice. It was about 8:50pm and I was really tired. I told her I wouldn’t do it but when I got to my junction, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to get her the juice. It was as I was walking to the provisions store that I saw a woman sitting on the side of the road, with her legs spread out and her hand scratching her head. She was dressed in mis-matched Ankara clothes and she had a look of utter defeat about her. At first glanced, she looked like she had some mental problems; the kind that could not be corrected. And because of how she sat, I didn’t immediately see the children by her side. When I got closer, I saw that she had one child pressed to her body. And behind her on the staircase of the shop closest to the one I was going to, were two other children sleeping on the bare floor. They were covered in dust from rolling on the ground. It was heartbreaking to see that the children couldn’t have been older than 5. I slowed down to really look at her…and then I walked past. I concluded that she may have lost her mind and I didn’t want to be chased down for not minding my business. So, I went to the shop and got my juice. When I got out of the shop, I looked in the direction she sat and saw that she was still there. At this point, I knew that I couldn’t leave her – with those kids sleeping on the road – without doing anything. It was also at that point that I saw that there were two other children with her, bringing the total number to five. Those children, and the utter helplessness of their situation, convinced me to take the risk and walk up to her. ‘Madam, wetin happen?’ I asked in pidgin English. She looked at me and turned away. And looked at me again, as if deciding whether to talk or not. ‘I need help.’ She responded quietly. ‘Where is your house?’ I asked. She pointed in the direction I had come from. I asked again, prodding her to say more. ‘Phase 1 side.’ Those were the only words she said. And hearing that, I made my first mistake. ‘Ha ahn! Why you allow your children sleep for road like this? E no good now. See as them lie down for bare ground like this. E no good at all. Oya…stand up.’ I remember exactly what I said because I feel so ashamed of it afterwards. She looked at me as I spoke to her and I could tell that she was equally ashamed to be in that situation. She started to gather her things as I opened my purse and took out money. N500. By this time, a crowd had begun to gather, and I didn’t want to be seen giving her money. So, I quickly thrust the money in her hand and said, ‘Oya…get up and go home.’ And I walked away from the crowd that was sending blessings my way as they gathered around her. I saw some other people giving her money and one man even flagged a Keke for her and her children. The woman was on her feet at this point and that was when I saw she was pregnant; probably in her third trimester. I realized I had fucked up. I mulled over everything that happened and when I finally got home and relayed the story to my sister, she confirmed what I had been feeling. I should have done more. I had prejudged the woman ‘crazy’ before even reaching her. If I hadn’t, I would have seen that she was just a really frustrated woman who was going through a lot. I wouldn’t have waited to get into the shop before making my mind up to talk to her. And when I finally did, I let the crowd rattle me because I am not comfortable with helping people in the eye of the public. But what is worse is that, everything I had learned in the last two years about solving problems flew out of my head when faced with one. Rather than just give her money, I should have asked a few more questions after she said she needed help. What was wrong? Why was she on the road? What kind of help did she need? Did she have a job? A business? Anything? What skills did she have? Were those all her children? Did she have a home to go to? Did she have a partner? What did he do? Where was he at that moment? Was she running away from him? I know that there are even more questions that I could have asked. The answers to these questions would have better informed how I helped her rather than just giving her a little money. Knowing about the underlying issues that drove her to the road at night with five children and one on the way could have presented me the opportunity to offer her a job or begin to look for someone who could. But I gave her N500 and left. N500 which was my juice money. N500 which could solve some of her problems for that night and drive her back to the road again the next day. I am ashamed of myself and how I reacted. I wish I could go back in time and undo my reaction. I wish I had been more perceptive and patient when dealing with her. I wish I had ignored the crowd and treated her as someone with full agency, rather than some I could tell what to do. I wished I hadn’t been more focused on aesthetics rather than her humanity. Because right there is the crux of the matter! I was more concerned about how the situation looked that I did not
Three Course Meal by Tonton Nelson Raymond
Lot of these guys talk much about how “shawty look like a snack” But I think you look like a three course meal. It doesn’t matter if I do, or don’t mind A little belly fat is still fine God is a tattoo artist and stretch marks are his design You’re not just a barbecue, you came with sides. Peeking out of your hijab These things are hard to hide And as I get ready your order, filled with the green like vegetable soup I want a partner that will nurture me like a mother Amala thick girl who will complement me well We’d be the special of the heavenly cook Such a match means that I hit the shot, I put the ball through the hoop. If I’m tea leaves, you’re hot water. You draw out all of my potential And we form something new Move my kinetic, putting the static in motion If I am the Earth, you are the oceans So it is you that keeps the skies blue Evaporate to condensate and make rain fall. You water the dry lands of my soul. Lot of these guys talk much about how “shawty look like a snack” But I think you look like a three course meal. It doesn’t matter if I do, or don’t mind A little belly fat is still fine Besides I’ve always liked plus sized So I think you look really good like that You look take-away, a single serving of you can’t just finish like that You leave enough with me to take back Enough knowledge from the conversations A linger of your perfume An after taste of our kiss And lipstick on my shirt collar A voice in my head when I get home whispering “call her” They don’t know what they are missing You’re a cake and I’m passed the icing I know what is in the filling I’ve experienced a feeling that is filling Lot of these guys talk much about how “shawty look like a snack” But I think you look like a three course meal It doesn’t matter if I do, or don’t mind A little belly fat is still fine God is a tattoo artist and stretch marks are his design You’re not just a barbecue, you came with sides. Intelligent ones Physical ones Historic ones And some of which you are shy. But they’d swell out of a cassock Peek out of your hijab All that beauty will leak out your frame They’d ooze out of your mind. You know why? Cos true beauty is hard to hide Tonton, 2018
