Shall I Compare You, Woman?
African woman.Image taken by Martin Kirigua for Pexels.com By Abigail Abby Abok Woman, Shall I compare you to a giant sequoia? You are stouter and more reverent. For trees once stood where skyscrapers now do And winds do strip forest of tough trees. You, most precious creature, flourish amidst the flaming fires of society’s limitations, Defy expectations And resist the pestilence of inferior classification. Shall I compare you to a cold glass of well-made Zobo drink in March? Or an ocean on Atacama? You are more nourishing and more satisfying. The spring waters of your love nurtures nations. You lose yourself so others can find themselves. Because you are, humanity lives on. Shall I compare you to the sun, moon or stars? You are all three by yourself. Giving life and light, Warming and soothing hearts. You enliven the dreary lives of men And dazzle them with your being You are a simple enigma. Men can’t fathom how you’re soft yet strong, Fiery yet calming. Woman, You’re so many things. In all your appellations; Mother, sister, daughter, wife, lady, friend or lover, Your incredible awesomeness is beyond words!
The Dwayne Project
Beautiful Space Wallpaper Image: Eliosh ‘Life’ scared the shit out of her. She knew that NASA and a host of scientists were really testing the possibilities of life on other planets. She also knew that for life to exist on any of these planets, they would have to be super intelligent and greatly evolved. That wasn’t what scared her. That last scene in the movie where the alien was freed from the sealed hatch was what did. ‘What if life (she smiled at the pun) imitated fiction? What if a single cell brought back from any of these planets could mark the disruption of earth’s stability and the extinction of human life?’ She imagined that like War of the Worlds, the aliens might be defeated by something as simple as earth’s atmosphere, but she knew that loads of people would have to die in the process. Seven billion people pushing on ten. What would happen if aliens got two? She sighed. Who was she kidding? Five billion people will definitely die. But would there be good aliens? Like Optimus Prime (before that evil Quintessa cast her metallic spell on him) or Curtis from Deen Koontz’s ‘One Door Away From Heaven’? ‘Arggghh! This is what happens when I watch horror films at night!’ She knew she would sleep fitfully. She just hoped she didn’t have dreams where Calvin chased her around for his late night snack. She pumped her pillows and settled in to sleep. Thirty minutes later and her mind just wouldn’t settle down. It was preoccupied with alien life and being in space. If she was true to herself, she would admit that she wanted to experience outer space. She didn’t want to just learn about these things from books, movies and her daily newsletter from Space via IFTTT. She wanted to feelthings in real time. Heck, she wanted to meet an alien. She jolted out of bed. ‘Girl, you are getting stark raving mad! Meet an alien?!’ She shook her head and laughed. As she settled back into bed, she wondered. ‘It would be really cool to meet an alien though. To learn their thought process, understand their existence.’ ‘Yeah. Just before it swallows you up in one gulp.’ Her rational mind countered. She laughed…and swore it was the last time she would smoke weed before watching a movie. With that, she fell asleep. *** People were whispering above her. Had her village people come to torment her? But she wasn’t feeling any tightness in her chest. In fact, she wasn’t feeling any fear. She just knew that she should be afraid…but wasn’t. She kept her eyes tightly shot, hoping they would go away, hoping they were not some criminals with guns ready to do her harm. ‘You can open your eyes now. We know you are awake.’ She did, sat up in bed…and shouted, ‘Jesus Christ!’ ‘Hahahaha…pay up. I told you they use that name for every emotion they are feeling.’ The cute one with the geeky look – glasses, white shirt tucked into brown Chinos trousers with a light blue cotton sweater on top – couldn’t contain his excitement. The older, seemingly more mature one who was dressed in all black denim and the newest Kobe A.D NXT 360, looked at her and smiled; or something akin to a smile. ‘Hello Ada Evans.’ She blanched. How do they know her name? ‘For the sake of this meeting, you may call me One. He is Two.’ ‘Hey! That was not the name we agreed on. Why do you like to be so…drab?’ Two was angry, very much like a teenager. Ada could have sworn he gave out some light in his anger. Her eyes widened. She looked away from both men to study her environment. She was on her bed alright but this wasn’t her room. And wherever she was couldn’t be real! The walls seemed to be made of pulsing Citrine, with light snaking through them and giving out warm, brown tones that had a surprisingly calm effect on her. It was weird because the light in the room should have been a mixture of gold and brown but it was…clear. How did they achieve that? How did they balance out the light? She looked up, trying to find the source of light. She shouldn’t have done that. The ‘ceiling’ (could she even call it that) was beige with rivulets of as many shades of brown as possible constantly intertwining to form a story. On closer inspection, she saw that the stories were from aspects of her life; the happiest ones. When she was playing basketball and scored her first three, when she first tasted Maltesers and let that chocolatey goodness melt in her mouth, when she finished her first short film, when she sunbathed in Seychelles… ‘Wait! That hasn’t happened!’ ‘We know. We also know that is one of your biggest dreams so we thought to throw that in so you could calm down.’ Ada was sure it was Two’s idea. He seemed so happy with himself. Their plan had worked though; she was calm. What type of sorcery was this? And where the heck was this place? ‘You are aboard the Athena. We heard your request to…’ Ada interrupted One. ‘What is the Athena? And where is this? Have I been kidnapped? And how did you get my bed out of my room?!’ She jumped out of bed and took a fighting stance. The floor felt…very comforting; like how she read a sheepskin rug should feel. ‘I have a black belt and you nerds don’t look like much! I will beat you guys faster than you can say Ava Duvernay!’ Two started to pacify her but One interrupted him. ‘You don’t have a black belt and
Women Do Not Fear Getting Robbed.
Trying to stop an attackImage: Vox They fear getting raped. Play this scenario in your head. It is late at night. The streets are poorly lit. The occasional car passes by but beyond that, it is quiet. There is a slight breeze teasing the earth and flirting with the skirt of a woman walking down the road. Her steps are brisk…increasing ever so slightly as she walks to her house just around the corner. She just wants to get home and off these streets. As she turns the corner, she sees a man lurking in the shadows. What do you think her first reaction is? Let me help you. Shock. Rush of adrenaline. Crippling fear. And hope that he is a friendly face. But almost instinctively, her hands go up to protect her breasts, not her purse. If he is a friendly face, she breathes a sigh of relief and becomes thankful that there is now a man on the road with her. Nobody will try to attack her. If he is someone she knows but doesn’t have a relationship with, the fear stays. She ponders why he is out late and whether he will attack her because she doesn’t say ‘hi’. She has to make a choice; either say ‘hi’ and deflect any possible attack or continue the status quo. Either way, she has to go past him on her way to her house. When she passes him, she will keep stealing glances behind until she gets home, constantly worrying that any footfall (real or imagined) is him springing to attack her. If however, the man is not someone she knows, the fear grows. Every step she takes becomes leaden with the choking fear that she will be groped, attacked or the worst, raped. How about this? Play this same scenario again, but change one thing. There isn’t one man lurking in the shadows; there are three, maybe five men. What do you think would happen? Even if the girl woman knows all the men, she would still feel uncomfortable walking past them on her way to her apartment. But if she doesn’t know them at all, she has two choices; feign a calm that she cannot possibly hope to feel and walk past them or dash into a run to up her fighting chance. When you think about it, you see that she has another choice; go back to where she is coming from. Even if it isn’t as dark and lonely, women don’t feel secure walking down streets. It is common place to see women cross the road to the other side when a group of men are coming. Why is fear women’s instinctive response to seeing a man or a group of men on the road? For one, men constantly attack women…and most of the time, these attacks are sexual. Let me give you an example. When I was in the university, I started a routine of running in the morning for an hour; from 5am to 6am. I would jog from my house off campus to the school field, do some laps and then walk home. I always ran with a male friend and didn’t think much of my safety. A week after we started, my friend said he wasn’t running because he had an early day. So I went on my own. I had not walked two minutes when a man came out of nowhere, grabbed my right breast and squeezed hard. Before I could snap out of the paralysis that held me bound, he ran off. I was so shocked that I couldn’t be angry. Two minutes away from my house! In another instance, I was returning from work late at night – which in the real sense was about 9pm – when a guy grabbed my buttocks and attempted to grope my breasts. When I challenged him, he said I wore a short skirt and so he had a right to do so. When I attempted to fight him off and saw I would lose, I ran away, spraining my ankle in the process. My view is that, even if I was wearing a hijab and face mask, I still would have been attacked because I was alone on the road at night. Many women have reported being groped and raped while walking the streets. And when I say reported, I don’t mean to any constituted authority because many of those people make such situations worse. Another dimension to this is rape during a robbery. A lady I know was about to get married and went to stay in a hotel with a couple of her friends. In the middle of the night, their room door bust open to reveal a couple of dangerous looking men. Seeing that the people occupying the room were all women in various stages of undress, the men tried to rape them. According to them, by some sheer act of faith, and I don’t mean fate, the police arrived just before they did. Someone I know wasn’t so lucky when we were robbed way back in 1998. She was pulled out from one of the compounds around us and raped by the men whose guns stayed pointed at us as we waited for some sort of help to come our way. Women who have been robbed on the highway also tell something similar. Armed robbers would attack buses plying our roads to various states and would only think of raping women, not necessarily robbing them. Even recently, armed robbers attacked a National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) camp in the Nigerian city of Port Harcourt and in the female hostels, it was reported that many women were raped. These men were not interested in their possessions. They were mostly interested in their vaginas and the power their guns (or whatever arsenal they have) avails them. Let us flip the scenario I described in the beginning. It is late at night. The streets are poorly lit. The occasional
Unsung Heroes: Mai Ruwa
Due to a failure of government to meet basic infrastructural necessities like constant power supply, running water, good health care and quality education for its citizens, many people are constantly having to provide these necessities for themselves. In fact, it has become quite normal for households to provide their own water and electricity and pay exorbitant fees for quality education and healthcare for themselves and their families. Personally, I can’t remember when we had water flowing from the tap from the water board. If I could put a time to it, I would have to say when I was an early teen. I remember this because for the longest time, we used to fetch water at our neighbors’ wells to fill the big drums that most big families had. And when these neighbors didn’t have water or there was short supply during the dry season, we were always prevented from fetching water. This continued until we dug our own well and became kings. Soon enough, many families started to bore holes in their houses and rig a system that stores and distributes water to them. It has become common place to see each house with its own ‘GP Tank’; typical case of a brand name replacing the generic name. As it is right now, the skyline of many houses are dotted with these water storage tanks. Drilling boreholes is not cheap. It costs anywhere from ₦150,000 to ₦2 million. In a country where 64% of the populace lives below the poverty line and is expected to take over from India as the poverty capital capital of the world (United Nations: Nigeria’s Common Country Analysis, 2016), where general unemployment rate is at a whopping 18.8% (Nigeria Bureau of Statistics, 2017 Q3 Report) and where the average person struggles daily, access to clean, safe water is an ever-constant issue. This means that though all households need water, not all families can afford to have boreholes installed in their homes. ‘GP Tanks’ for storing water pumped from a borehole. Image: Premium Times Nigeria This is where the Mai Ruwa comes in. The Mai Ruwa is a Hausa term which translates to ‘water seller’. The term can be used for a person who has a borehole and sells water to people who go to them to fetch or to one who takes water in 20-litre jerrycans to people’s houses to sell. In most cases, it refers to the latter. A typical Mai Ruwa starter pack is a trolley (or truck as they are popularly called), 12 to 14 jerrycans and an able bodied man with the simplest of clothes and worn out shoes. Unfortunately, I haven’t ever seen a female Mai Ruwa. Or should I say, fortunately. So this is one of those jobs that is strictly an all men affair. The job requires pushing a truck carrying around 300 litres of water from street to street calling out people to buy. In poorer neighborhood, they don’t need to scream as much; there will always be people willing to buy. But in richer neighborhoods – and by richer I mean middle class neighborhoods because no one in the upper class bothers about these kinds of problems – it is an uphill task selling water there. Most people in these types of neighborhood only buy water when they have gone days or even weeks without power supply to pump water. Or, if the pumping machine for the boreholes are bad. Which was what happened to me last me last week. I recently moved from a core ghetto to a slightly better neighborhood. The house was still getting some work done so there was barely any water in house. I knew I had to get a Mai Ruwa to supply me water until the problem was fixed. When I was in the ghetto, all I needed to do was walk out of my gate and find someone selling water. But in this new neighborhood, that wasn’t the case. Everyone in the neighborhood had their own boreholes and didn’t need the services of a Mai Ruwa. I had to walk a long distance to find out. By this time, I was already tired and sweating profusely. But I found one! When I told him where we were going, he said each jerrycan cost ₦30. I told him I only wanted 7. He agreed and we set off for the long journey to my house. Mai Ruwa pushing his truck down a hill. Unlike my Mai Ruwa, this seems much easier even though it is still a lot of work. Image: Wikimedia Commons Now here is what I didn’t tell you. My house is atop a small hill and the entire road leading to the house is rugged, uneven and bumpy. Walking up the hill is a chore. Now imagine what pushing a truck with 300-litres of water means. As the Mai Ruwa started climbing the hill, I knew it was going to be an uphill task. (You know I did that on purpose, right?). He pushed the truck in one direction and was shocked when the truck rolled back and nearly toppled over. He used all his strength to keep the truck aright and paused to assess the road. I could see the wheels of his mind working as he considered what path to take that would offer the least resistance. He took off his shoes and started again. The truck kept swerving and the contents nearly spilling. He had done this like five or seven times when I saw he was almost quitting. I knew I had to do something. If he quit, it meant I wouldn’t get any water. If I was to get water, I had to help out. So I offered. Again, I could see him contemplating. I can almost swear he was wondering what kind of help I could offer since I am a woman. But he was already sweating and puffing. You could tell that the work had taken a toll on him.
Wedding Messages Have to Change
Image: Yen I was at a wedding recently and as usual, was frustrated with the wife-centred message that came from most of the preachers at the event. A couple of things stuck out like thumbs dipped in palm oil and I knew I just had to talk about it. First, one of the preachers – someone you can tell is old fashioned – spoke a lot about the role a wife should play, which, if you attend many weddings, is submissive. I was not surprised by his message; I had heard it one too many times. What surprised me was a statement he made as he rounded up his message. ‘When you come to town, don’t go to your father’s house oh. Go straight to your in-laws’ house. That is your new home.’ I was shook! Before I delve into every emotion and thought I had when I heard this, I should mention the second thing that got me all hot and bothered. Another preacher, this time a more modern, cosmopolitan one, came up to deliver his message to the couple. He focused on what men and women need in a relationship. He said women needed; 1. Public Display of Attention; 2. Love; 3. Care…among others. For men however, he described their needs as; 1. Sexual satisfaction;2. Loyalty; 3. Peace…among others. I was piqued at his categories. Was he suggesting that men and women had differentneeds, especially when these broad categories were the differentiating qualities? I know there are exceptions to the rule but is there anyone that doesn’t need love, care, peace, loyalty? The public display of attention was iffy but only men need sexual satisfaction? I waited to have him balance out his message, to have him say that all these were human needs and not specific to gender. It didn’t come. I must say…I was disappointed with that. Maybe I expected too much but I hoped a more urban preacher would highlight on sexual satisfaction for women. You almost never hear any preacher talk about it. Female sexuality is not something that is brought up often in church settings. It doesn’t take much to see that many people assume female sexuality is a perversion; that women shouldn’t like, want or need sex; that sex should be something that women givemen and not something that should be mutually enjoyable and satisfying. This should be shocking in light of more biological information but damn! These thoughts don’t seem to be going away. Here is the kicker though! Women are sexual beings just as men are! Let me go and bit further. Women wantsex! And before your pulmonary vein bursts or an embolism occurs, I have to say this. Women. Need. Sex! Women want to be caressed, kissed, taken to sexual heights un-imagined, pleasured and satisfied as much as men do. And this is not just something that happens when women are ovulating or just because they want babies. I think that the way female sexuality has been portrayed as (best) an aberration and (worse) promiscuity, has made many women curb their needs to fit into the larger normative behavior of society. This has led to one too many sexually frustrated women who just lay there and go through the motions because it is respectable to be a wife and producer of the only end product of sex approved for the female gender; children. This is a problem in our society. It is so bad that I heard a story of a young couple who so loved God and each other that, though they dated for many years, didn’t have sex until their wedding night. The sex was horrible as the husband described it. He tried everything to spice things up. They even talked about it. But the girl had been so used to hearing that sex was a duty that she did just that. It was a chore to her and she wondered why her husband kept insistingon sexual satisfaction for her when only men needed that. In a marriage that is barely three years, the husband has already given up on sex except when she wants to make babies; which she isn’t ready for. If this woman had been taught that sex and female sexuality were as real as male sexuality and satisfaction, she would have been riding her husband and screaming like a banshee when he went down on her because it was okay to do that now that they were married; for those who subscribe to the sex-only-for-marriage ideal. I wanted the preacher to talk about these things. To mention how couples should make it a point of duty to please each other, satisfy each other, be adventurous with their lovemaking, give and receive head, role play, and in the rap artist Wale’s voice, have sex on the bed, floor, couch, more, more, more. I understand that the wedding banquet may not the place for in depth details of sex but just as it was easy to mention male sexual satisfaction, it should have been as easy to do the same for female satisfaction. Anyway, I was really disappointed that the message didn’t touch on that. However, that wasn’t as disappointing as the message on her in-laws’ house being her new home. To me, it seemed like they were trying to isolate her from her family just because she was adding a new one. I know that there is a possibility that it wasn’t the intention of the preacher but that is how it sounded. I am worried about such statements because a lot of factors could make going to her in-laws’ house bothersome. She may not like them or they may not like her or she may prefer the home she has known all her life rather than the one she is just getting. Even if she loves her in-laws and they absolutely adore her, she may not always want to be around them. And why should she ignore her family because she is
The Hopes of a Magazine…the Reality of a Blog.
I always wanted to own a magazine. I grew up reading Hints and Hearts until I was introduced to Reader’s Digest and Vogue. Who am I kidding? I used to read every magazine I came across; whether it was Sports Illustrated, Time, Watch Tower(yes! I read that!) or something really obscure. I spent time looking at the cover, the design, the layout before I even looked at the stories. And when I got to the stories, I would take just as much time to digest them and imagine my life in them. It was my desire to own a magazine. And a TV Station. And a film company. All while being a neurosurgeon and working with the United Nations to save lives. (I know! Overambitious!) My desire was so great that in my teens, I joined a gospel group – Crystals Family – where I was soon made the director of Da’scribes. Da’Scribes were the writers in the group. It wasn’t long before I was planning a launch of a magazine. I got people to send in pictures, stories, poems, song lyrics, jokes, puzzles and more in my quest to get content for the magazine. I spent hours on end designing prototypes of the magazine and even went further to interview people for our signature edition. It was all love and passion until it was time to produce. We realized that we were just a bunch of poor kids with big dreams. And bring dreams didn’t happen without money. We couldn’t afford to raise…was it ₦50,000 then… to get our copies out. Our inability to raise the money, plus our raging teenage hormones, got us easily burned out. The dream started to die; for many. Not for me though. That was my baby. So I kept the files, checking up on them every once in a while to remind myself that it could still happen. It was so bad that whenever I wanted to travel, I went with those files, believing that as soon as I ‘blew’, the magazine was going to go up. I am slightly ashamed to say that as I write now, those same files are right now in a bag on my wardrobe; beaten by time, slight mold and crushed dreams. By 2010, I knew the magazine business, especially the production of hard copies, was a dying trade. The quick uptake of the internet (read social media) meant that producing hard copies of readable material was like dancing in quicksand; you were going to drown in debt. I remember the first day I saw a Kindle with my friend Wuese. I was fascinated! What was this sorcery?! I could read a whole book from a device?! I was shocked. And then I wasn’t. Technology was taking over everything! And true to form, the magazines began to go online. Bellanaija was leading the pack in Nigeria for lifestyle. Linda Ikeji was replacing City People and all the other salacious magazines we used to turn to for gossip. Even the big names – Vogue, Elle, Ebony, O! – were all using teasers online to get people to buy their magazines. Newspapers? They followed suit! New York Times, Washington Post, even our Guardian, Thisday, Leadershipall knew that if they remained hardcopy issues, they were going to lose relevance and go bankrupt. I knew my dreams of owning a magazine, especially hard copy, had passed. So I joined the bandwagon and thought more about the online space than the paperback one. I started writing on Facebook until my friend Charles said, ‘Girl, you need to put your thoughts in a blog’. And that was how Shades of Us was birthed. The magazine was finally going to happen; but in a different format. I started out writing pieces about my frustration with how women and children were treated. Then I remembered how I used to write fiction during my boring classes to pass the time. And I thought to myself, why the hell not?! The first fictional story I wrote was corny for days. I wrote about love at a time when I wasn’t even into the love thing. And it was a hit! People connected to the story and shared their thoughts with me. They were surprised that a person who was so anti-mush could write something so mushy. It was funny because I knew I wasn’t feeling those emotions so I tried to live vicariously through my characters. As more people liked it, I knew that I was going to be doing fiction often. Anybody who has read my work can tell I have three voices; logical, eccentric and angry. That is because I write based on my personalities; Remimah, who prides herself on being a class act and always wants to be in charge of stuff; Ramat, who is deliberately fun and crazy and weird and all that nonsense and; Ada, who is the angry black woman. So when you see me use ‘we’ in a post, I actually mean me, myself and I. It is all fun and games until keeping up with the Joneses (I am talking to you Uche Pedro) leads to massive burn out. This is why I decided to open the blog. My friends Abraham, Kendo and Toks and my cousin Babiotos have all contributed to the blog. Like Olivia Twist, I want more! The goal is to post new content every day at 9:10am. It seems like a lofty goal but I know it is doable. So if you are interested in issues affecting black people anywhere in the world and want to share your perspective either in a story, article, news, rant, or whatever, please click here to submit an entry or send us a mail at shadesofusafrica@gmail.com. I think it is about time that Shades of Us really becomes ‘us’ away from just me, myself and I. Don’t you think so? And if you just want to read our stories, check out our various pages at 9:10am every day!
Unveiling the New Shades of Us
SZA with the moodCredit: Giphy Hello You! Let me formally introduce Shades of Us. I cannot believe that it has been almost four years since I started blogging and I never described in any post why Shades of Us exists. I have said it in a million and one ways but never formally said, ‘Oi! This baby girl is here and this is why she was conceived!’ But…that is about to change right now! Stay with me. (In Sam Smith’s voice.) Shades of Us is a media company discussing social issues affecting Africa, Africans and people of African descent, with a view to facilitating open, honest, unfiltered and unbiased conversations that leads to proper introspection, acceptance of strengths and weaknesses and change of perspective towards the greater goal of a new, refined, and stronger black continent and people. Shades of Us was founded on April 28, 2014, by Ramatu Ada Ochekliye (whoot whoot! That is my name!), to address dysfunctional social issues peculiar to black people living in Africa or descendants of migrants who may have voluntarily moved to other continents or who may have been forced, through human trafficking and slavery, to leave. Originally, Shades of Us was called Shades of Brown, with ‘…brown’ representing the convergent color of black skin tone and the earth’s richness. After much reflection, I knew the name had to be changed. First, because Shades of Brown was already popular in many countries and for varying products and services and secondly, getting my brand to stick out from that number was going to be nearly impossible. I discussed with my sisters and friends and we were at the point where using my name for was the most favored option. The reason was a no brainer; I was the only person in the whole world with my name, promoting the brand would be promoting myself and it would have just been easier to get the recognition I wanted. We had almost finally decided on this when I took a step and analyzed the name. I love my name to the moon and back but I wanted to create something that was bigger than me. I wanted something that could grow into a shared vision with the people who felt connected to my stories. So we brainstormed again and came up with Shades of Us. The founding principle of Shades of Us is the belief that all human beings are equal, have the same basic human rights and should be afforded the same respect and opportunities that guarantees the growth and development of each individual. Based on this founding principle, Shades of Us is subscribed to all thirty articles of the Universal Declaration of human rights and works towards promoting these rights for every human being but especially for every black person. Beyond the human rights declaration however, Shades of Us has adopted nine of the seventeen Sustainable Development Goals as focal points of the change to implement. These goals include no poverty, zero hunger, good health and wellbeing, quality education, gender equality, clean water and sanitation, reduced inequalities, peace, justice and strong institutions and being open for partnership for the goals. These goals translate to Goals 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 10, 16 and 17 of the sustainable development goals, which we believe should be the bible of development for all peoples of the world. Of these goals, we extol the virtues of gender equality and reduced inequalities more because we believe that they are springboards to achieving all the other goals we have adopted. We are especially biased towards the issues that affect women and children. This is because we believe that globally, black and brown women and children have been the most disenfranchised in all indices of human development and so, we believe that speaking and acting against societal norms and ills that predominantly affect women and children would redress years of inequality and the drawbacks associated with it. Phew! The last three paragraphs were so serious, right?! I almost felt like I was talking to the United Nations in a bid to get funding for the project. That is in the offing by the way. We have so much work to do! Anyway, you may have noticed I described Shades of Us as a company, right? Well…because it finally is! Whoot whoot! Dancing the gwara gwara! Our registration came through this month after months of debating whether this was the route we wanted to take or not. But…we cannot continue to put out all this original content and hope to get that paper if we are not serious! So… we knew we had to become a business so that we can grow. Even one of the religious scriptures talks about moving from milk to solid food in a parable about maturity. And a great prophet once said, ‘Jungle don mature’. We are that jungle! So our business is open! The question you may ask is, ‘what do you offer?’ The answer is simple. Storytelling. We tell stories for Africa. We mean this literally and as a pidgin statement of exaggeration. Of course we have various methods of disseminating our stories to engender discussion. 1. Blog:Primarily started as a site to air personal grievances, Shades of Us has grown to a magazine of articles, in-depth interviews, news and fictional stories from our writers – and again, that is me, myself and I with each personalities that has a mind of their own – and other writers. 2. Podcast: The Shades of Us podcast is called The Review. We discuss music and movies put out by black people and share our thought on whether they are great, good, subpar or horrible. 3. Video log: This is very personal because it is where we, as Africans say, ‘show ourselves’. And because we are expanding this year, we are introducing new aspects to the company. They include; 1. Films:
Long Distance (The Finale)
Two people in a long distance relationship are trying to find each other. An unexpected turn of events tear them apart when they finally do. And it keeps pulling them apart until…they find themselves here. This is the final story. There were three others before this. (Read here, here and here to understand the story…or continue on here 👇) Adon Kato heard the loud voices as she gradually slipped out of consciousness. Where was she? And why were they yelling? ‘You were my best friend! Why on earth would you ever think this is okay?!’ ‘Oh! So it is okay for you to leave her and be with someone else and I can’t be with her? In fact…what the hell are you doing here? Why are you here?!’ Adon could tell Isaac Okiemute’s voice, but who was the other person? Then the memories flooded in. Jason. Jason had been at her door. Jason had come to her. Jason was here! The pain followed. She moaned. Both men stopped shouting. She opened her eyes fully and saw that Jason was driving; pretty fast if her spinning head was anything to go by. If Isaac wasn’t holding her, she was sure she would fall; many times. ‘Are you okay? Are you in pains?’ Jason asked, a trace of uncertainty in his voice. ‘You don’t get to speak to her you bastard! It is your fault that she is here anyway!’ Isaac shouted. Adon caressed his hand. ‘It is okay. We will deal with…’ She couldn’t finish her sentence. Her face scrunched up in pain, and was followed through with a tortured moan. Adon clasped her belly hard and Jason turned in time to see her eyes roll back as she lost consciousness; again. *** Jason was scared! He pressed harder on the accelerator and prayed he didn’t get into an accident. He tried to ignore the fact that Isaac kept saying, ‘Stay with me baby. Stay with me.’ However, he couldn’t ignore the knot in his stomach. When was the last time he felt this much pain? He felt like dying every time he thought of his best friend with his girlfriend. Were they married? Of course they were; they were having a baby! And who was he kidding? He and Isaac had not been friends for a little over a year and the last time he had seen Adon was when she walked out of the hospital in Jos. His girlfriend? He wished! ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Isaac shouted, bringing him out of his musings. He realized he had passed the gate of the hospital. He pressed hard on his brake and watched the pandemonium that ensued as two cars tried to avoid him. By some sheer act of fate, none of the cars collided and he heaved a sigh of relief as he began to reverse. He didn’t care that the drivers of both cars hurled insults at him or that Isaac punctuated all their insults with choice words of his own. Jason focused on getting the car to the emergency unit and as soon as he got there, jumped out to help. Isaac pushed him out of the way as the paramedics rushed to handle the situation. Isaac followed the paramedics as Adon was wheeled into the nearest ward, explaining how they got there in the first place. Jason followed and tried to enter the ward but was shoved out by Isaac. ‘Nobody wants you here. Fucking leave!’ ‘I am not going anywhere. Unless Adon tells me herself that she wants me gone.’ Jason said, calmly. Isaac shoved again. And again. ‘Oh you want to act tough now?! You want to be Mr. Macho?! It is because of you that she is here in the first place! If you don’t leave this instant, we may just get into it.’ And pushed Jason again. ‘Don’t touch me again. I may respect you by keeping my hands to myself but I am not above getting into it. So…don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me. Again.’Jason growled; menacing, angry, ready to pop. Isaac smirked…and pushed him again. This time, Jason threw a punch that connected with Isaac’s jaw. Before anyone could intervene, they were engaged in fisticuffs. The hospital orderlies got between them and kept them apart just as a petite doctor walked in. She gave them the worst stink look they had ever seen in their lives. ‘First off, I will not have a bunch of grown men acting a fool in my unit! I haven’t slept in two days and I am just about to explode! So if you want to fight, go right ahead. But be warned, I will only permit that after Mijah and Umar here have tossed you out of this hospital. I do not have the time to deal with this nonsense, so which is it going to be? Fight club or a sense of maturity?’ Jason wiped the blood seeping towards his eye from the cut on his eyebrow and sat down. Isaac pulled out a handkerchief to stem the blood flow from his split lip. He went to the closest wall and leaned on it. Both men didn’t look at each other but it was clear that they were done fighting. ‘Okay then. For your sakes, I am glad you decided to borrow some sense. Now that I have your attention, we can proceed. I am Dr. Ameera Mas’ud. Which of you is Adon’s husband?’ ‘I am her fiancé.’ Isaac responded, giving Jason a pointed look and daring him to say anything. Jason looked away, willing the tears that formed in his eyes to go away. ‘Okay then. While I would normally have asked for a family member like a parent or sibling, you will have to do for now because we have an emergency on our hands. Due to the trauma of her shock and subsequent fall, there is fetal distress and we have to deliver the baby immediately. Thankfully, she is already
Running With a Purpose 2017
We are excited to announce that we will be attending the second Running With a Purpose Conference organized by Save our Women (SOW) Foundation in Zaria, Kaduna State, Nigeria. Running With a Purpose Conference is an annual forum designed to inspire school age girls to be the best version of themselves and aspire to contribute to national development. These girls are inspired by young women who work in various sector of economy, with an underlying message that ‘If she can do it, I can aspire to do same and better.’ This is one of the projects of SOW Foundation, a non-governmental organization that seeks to educate, enlighten and empower women. Victoria Kumekor, founder of SOW Foundation, sent this message out announcing Running With a Purpose 2017. Hello Friend, We must say thank you for your utmost support towards project 1GIRL 1PAD early this year. Running With a Purpose (RWAP) 2017 is here again and we are excited. RWAP is a yearly conference by SOW Foundation and this time, we are reaching out to 15 girls from 20 secondary schools across Zaria, Kaduna State, Nigeria. The beautiful thing is we need you to do this. Transforming society by empowering the girl-child to be the best version of herself is a key part that requires the unflinching support of people who desire a better world. This is why we seek your support to make this a reality. For more info, partnership, and support please contact me as we help a girl child be the best version of herself. Victoria Kumekor – +2348031126314 I hope to hear from you soon. Thank you for your continued support. We can’t wait for RWAP 2017! Thank you. We are excited about this year’s conference and we are proud of all the women at SOW Foundation. If you are Kaduna, support the movement.See poster below for more details.
Unsung Heroes: Trash Collectors
A while back, I wrote a series of tweets addressed to the Nigerian Federal Ministry of Environment about a refuse dump at a community in Abuja called Karu. The dump site served as the collection point for the communities surrounding it. If the dump site was located anywhere else, I probably wouldn’t have noticed enough to make an issue an about it. But…it was right there on a major road and in between houses, shops, schools, religious centers and banks. Most people have to pass that road to get from Nyanya to Jikwoyi, Kpeyigi, Kurudu and other areas beyond. And because these areas are some of the most populated areas in Abuja, thousands of people ply that road every day and see the refuse dump that kept getting bigger and bigger. Then the dump spilled beyond its boundaries and into the roads. The dirt and decaying substances were everywhere. And because the rains came in, puddles of really dirty water formed mini-lakes on the road. It was an eyesore. But beyond that, it stank to high heavens. Every time I had to pass through that spot, I had to breathe in as much clean air as I could, hold my breath and pray to God the driver of whatever I was in/on sped past as fast as he could. One time, we were caught in a traffic jam right at that spot. We were there for roughly ten minutes. I couldn’t hold my breath for that long. The first time the smell hit my lungs, I couldn’t be more repulsed. I wanted to puke! Desperately! But if I did, it would mean opening my mouth to the foulness that was the stench of that place. When I got home that day, I had to take a long bath to scrub the smell off my body. Yes, the smell was mostly in my head but having been there for so long, I felt like I had a cloak of the disgusting smell all over me. So I wrote a series of tweets asking the Federal Ministry of Environment and the Abuja Council to save us from that nastiness. About a week later, I was off to work when I saw large trucks at the spot with men clearing the refuse dump. I was so elated I forgot to breathe in the clean air I would need to pass through the spot. Because the men were clearing the refuse in batches, the smell was especially ripe that day. I drew in a nasty smell of rot and decay…and gagged. As I quickly covered my nostrils, I noticed that some of the men working at the site didn’t have their noses covered. How the hell were they comfortably breathing in that mass of horridness?! But more than that, why?! It got me thinking of a lot of the trash collectors I have seen in the many places I have been to. These men (and women) have to deal with some of the worst things in people’s garbage bags and cans. From rotten food to improperly disposed sanitary towels, these people come in contact with a lot of disgusting things when they collect trash. And because we don’t separate our trash into biodegradable and non-biodegradable, these people have to sift through all our trash to dispose of them. Most of these people usually have no face masks on when they work. And where they do, it is the flimsy faux surgical masks they use. Those masks in particular may be good for preventing dust particles from going to your lungs but it doesn’t prevent any smell from doing same. So technically, it makes no difference whether they wear a mask or not. Even more deplorable is the state of the local trash collectors who are not employed by the government or trash collection agencies. These are everyday people too poor to do anything else. So they get a wheel barrow or a mini-truck and go from house to house asking people to bring out their trash. These men have no protective uniforms or boots. They don’t have masks or hand gloves. All they have are their dirty clothes and even dirtier slippers. And because they mostly work in the ghettoes and poorer neighborhoods, the kinds of trash they have to deal with is even so much worse. To make matters worse, these trash collectors only earn minimum wage if they work for the government and not much better when they work for private corporations. Those of them who work in the ghettoes collect between ₦10 and ₦50 per house. So not only do they have to do a shitty job, they don’t get enough money to make it worthwhile. They also expose themselves to grave harm from the micro-organism found in and around trash. These micro-organisms can be disease causing or not. They stand in the trash, breathe it in, pick them up with their bare hands, and barely clean up properly before taking in food or water. I remember once when the trash in my house piled up because these guys weren’t working. The trash was an eyesore and the smell, horrible. My housemate and I would wait out for the collectors and even walk as far as our junction to find them. And when for a week we couldn’t have our trash emptied, we were disgusted by the sight that greeted us whenever we got back home from work. The day we finally saw a trash collector, we almost danced in celebration. We paid him way more than was necessary because we were reminded that they were an integral part of our sanitation and sanity. For the most part, we really don’t see these people. As long as we get our trash taken out, we barely recognize that these are people with needs, wants, aspirations, problems and what not. We get so engrossed in our lives that we do not see the danger these people put themselves in to ensure we
