Cheating (vrb). Women (n).
Photo by Ogo on Pexels Men cheat. And yes, women also cheat. It is not strange, yet… people raise their brows when they hear that a woman cheated. It is even believed that women cheat more than men and that it is a well-kept secret. They just don’t want to accept it or talk about it. Society expects men to cheat. People claim it is ‘natural’ for men to want to explore. They have sexual urges that need to be quenched. But women are also sexual beings. They have desires and want to explore as well. People do not want to think about women as sexual beings or as being sexually active and having multiple partners. Relationship experts say the motivation for both genders differs. “Men desire more sex or attention while women desire to fill an emotional…emptiness”. Both men and women, however, are sexual and emotional beings and men also have emotional voids they try to fill differently. A friend once told me about a traditional belief from a particular tribe in North Central Nigeria. The idea was that any married woman who cheats on her husband would die. She claimed she had seen it happen. I asked what penalty befell a cheating husband, and she said none. I was dazed. I will not wholly cast off these beliefs as a Nigerian and African. But then I wonder…the spirit or spirits behind this belief must be quite biased – and wicked if you ask me – to punish only women and not men for adultery. I believe that certain traditional and cultural beliefs are created by men to relegate and subjugate women and keep them in check. Another incident is of a woman narrating her ordeal during an interview. Her husband suspected she was having extramarital affairs because he saw a man at her business center. He reported her to the elders in the community and, since he didn’t have any evidence, insisted that she eats a fowl uncooked with its blood and feathers, and if she didn’t die within a year, she was innocent. This is one of the many sacrilegious practices in Nigerian and African societies. I recently read an article about a ceremony in a village in Rivers State where young girls are given certificates of womanhood for being virgins. This involved being ‘checked’ by older women in the community. Virginity before marriage is expected of a woman, while it is considered a plus for a man. Sadly, many women proliferate this idea. There is this silly expectation that if a man wants to be with you, he has other women on the side, ‘side chicks’ as they are called, and you should be grateful that he picked you out of the lot. If men are okay to cheat, then people should accept cheating women. Cheating is unique to relationships and individuals, not genders. Individuals in relationships who consciously decide to be together should be committed to one another.
Policing Childbirth and Risking Women’s Lives
Woman breastfeeding her newbornImage: Feature Shoot My first experience with childbirth was when my youngest sister – Sadiya – was born. I was seven years old then. I remember my mum trying to put on a brave face as she was aided to the car. In all honesty, I didn’t understand what was going on, but my aunts and uncles seemed to be in a panic. I can’t remember what my father’s demeanor was, but I know we didn’t see our mother until the next day when we were introduced to our newborn sister. There was happiness, excitement and an air of love all around. If my mother was frazzled after the birth, she didn’t show it or…I didn’t notice. I gradually began to see women around me give birth to babies and carry on with their lives. They didn’t pause to take a break or stop taking care of their families. Life just went on. Then sometime in 2013, I went to visit a friend in Garkida, Adamawa State. I was a serving corps member then and my friend – a doctor – had been posted to that community for his service to the nation. I went on his ward rounds with him and as usual, was depressed by the smell of the sick mixed with pungent anti-bacterial detergents and caped off by the stinky attitudes of nurses. But the most unnerving thing I saw was the sad look of dejection on the face of a frail woman who was carrying a child on her back, with a branch of leaves hanging from the side of the baby. Without being told, I knew something was wrong. I asked my friend if carrying her baby with the leaves like that was healthy, and if he could do something about it. ‘The baby is dead. The leaves is to let everyone know.’ I looked at the woman again and felt a wave of sadness wash over me. It wasn’t that she was crying; because she wasn’t. Beyond the air of brokenness around her, she seemed so stoic in her resolve as she walked out of the hospital and into the surrounding hills. When I asked my friend what was wrong, he explained. ‘She is a nomadic Fulani woman. From my experience with them, their culture demands that they give birth with the least fuss possible. When they go into labor, they usually look for a corner and squat. They then begin to push as quietly as possible until the baby comes. Many of them are so weak by the time the baby comes and it is not unheard of that a great number of them die in the process. And in many cases, the children do not survive either. In that woman’s case, the baby came out sickly; jaundice. If she had given birth in the hospital or had come in as soon as the baby was born, something may have been done to save the child. But they wait until almost nothing can be done and by the time they make the long trek to this hospital – which is the only healthcare facility that is in this town – the baby would have died.’ I was heartbroken. Not only did the baby not have a fighting the chance, the mother also had to trek a long distance after newly giving birth; when she herself had not even healed from the traumatic experience that she had gone through. And what was the cause? A culture that said Fulani women were strong; that these women should give birth at home; that giving birth should be done silently; and one that only sought the hospital when things had gone awry. The memory of that woman walking into the hills with her dead baby strapped on her back stayed with me for a while. Soon though, the thought of childbirth went to the far recesses of my mind. A few month later, I fell ill and had to be admitted to the hospital. It was a private hospital and by the time they were ready to give me a bed, there was only one space left; the maternity ward. Two incidences happened in my brief stay in the hospital that brought the childbirth conversation back to my radar. One woman came in about ready to pop. She kept pacing up and down with barely any sign of the contractions wracking her body beyond the occasional wince. Soon, she was called into the delivery room where she had the most quiet delivery possible. When I say quiet, I mean she didn’t scream, didn’t shout, and barely even moaned. The only time she cried out was when – in my opinion – she was being stitched up after the delivery. The nurse kept saying she was such a strong woman. Less than an hour after she gave birth, she was dressed and ready to go. As soon as she entered the ward, everyone started praising her; ‘strong woman’, ‘Hebrew woman’, ‘real woman’. Even though I was weak from the receding plasmodium in my system, I couldn’t help but give a small clap when everyone did. She smiled slightly, basking in what I had come to see was the ultimate praise. Hours after she left the hospital, people were still talking about her and how ‘strong’ a woman she was. But we didn’t stay on her case for long. Another woman came in to deliver her baby and she cried like hell. She shouted, screamed, yelled and any other word that connotes expressing agony. The nurse – same one who delivered the first baby – screamed right back at her. ‘Abeg no disturb us with shout here. When you dey fuck, you no shout. Now, you wan tear our ear. Abeg! No shout for us here. Na we cause am?’ I was desperately shocked. Why the hell was it okay to shout at that woman?! Why was it okay to insult her?! Did the nurse
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
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
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
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
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
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.
IDPs: Seeing Beyond the Statistics
All Images: Ramatu Ada Ochekliye A visit to the Internally Displaced People’s camp in Durumi, Abuja on May 28, 2017 was everything I expected it would be; emotionally draining. We partnered with Save OurWomen Foundation (SOW Foundation) for the #1Girl1Pad project, a project that saw us advocating for menstrual hygiene for girls and women in the IDP camp. The project entailed educating these girls and women about menstrual hygiene and providing them with sanitary pads to last them at least three months. As many know, May 28 is #MenstrualHygieneDay and globally, individuals and organizations design events to ensure more women get access to menstrual hygiene education and products. As soon as we got into the camp, we were surrounded by children excited at our presence. They smiled up at us with the true innocence of children; trusting that we were good even if we were total strangers. I quickly took out my camera. The children lit up when they saw it. I smiled at them and they smiled right back. They had already begun to take poses and I was not going to disappoint them. So I clicked. And clicked. ‘Say kiss! Say kiss!’ the kids kept saying. I thought I wasn’t hearing them well. ‘Say Kiss’? Were they trying to say ‘Cheese’? I smiled. Of course that was what they were saying. “Say Cheese”! And then I noticed something else. Almost all the children put up two fingers in the air when posing for the camera. I shouldn’t have been surprised…but I was. It seemed like in spite of all the problems these people were going through, popular culture still seeped into the camp and influenced the young people and children. Even the smallest child put up those fingers when the camera was pointed at them. And can you see those big smiles?! These children had a lot working against them but they were genuinely excited at having their picture taken. They didn’t even ask to see what the shots looked like. I could have been clicking the flash lights for all they cared. All they saw was a person with a camera paying attention to them. The simplicity of it all was almost my undoing. I turned away to focus on our reason for visiting. As we educated the girls and women about menstrual hygiene, we began to hear of some of the problems they were facing. One of the problems that I considered a sore thumb was the access to medical care. Most of the women and girls said they ‘managed’ their pain until it rode over because there were no doctors to help them. Again, I looked at the children – gathering at the door because they had been told the meeting wasn’t for them – and I wondered how they ‘managed’ their pain. Looking at them, you couldn’t tell they were going through anything. They were are as carefree and jolly as children are wont to be. We finished the education part and went into disseminating the pads we raised via donations. As we gave each girl and woman a package of pads and panties, the children returned, clamoring around us in the hopes of getting theirs. Older women shooed them away but the children returned as soon as the women’s backs were turned. They kept stretching their hands to get a package. Even though we insisted the sanitary pads weren’t for them, the children didn’t budge. He took a pose after I gave him the sanitary pads So I took a packet and broke it open. I gave two pads each to the little girls; even though it was clear they couldn’t possibly be menstruating yet. As I gave them the pads, the crowd around us thinned out and it was at this point I noticed a little boy in the mix, arms stretched out, face almost crumbling. He didn’t want to miss out what everyone else was getting. I told him I couldn’t give him because he is a boy. He crumbled at this point. I held his face and asked what he wanted to do with it. His reply was definitely my undoing. ‘For my mother.’ The tears were a second away from falling so I turned away into the boot of our vehicle and calmed my nerves. I breathed in deeply and willed the tears to go away. I took out two sanitary pads and gave him. He curtsied and said thank you. I knew I needed to take more deep breaths. Something distracted me and when I turned back, the boy was gone. It occurred to me that I had not asked his name. I was ashamed because until that moment, he was a statistic, a child in an IDP camp, one of many. I wished I had seen him as an individual, one with a story, possible fears and hopes and most especially, a name! I wished that I had focused more on him instead of getting shots of everyone around me. I wished I had dignified him by, at the very least, knowing his name so I didn’t have to refer to him in this post as ‘a little boy’. But he is a little boy, a child in an IDP Camp, one of many and to some, a statistic. And the longer he has to make do with the problems all the children and women in that camp are facing – problems ranging from rationed meals, poor access to health care, inadequate housing and privacy, little or no formal education and the indignity of depending on do-gooders for basic necessities – the more likely it is that he becomes an even worse statistic; one tied to crime, hate, unproductivity or even death. The children in Durumi IDP camp look better than most of those from the North East but let’s be clear, it is not in the slightest bit a ‘lesser’ humanitarian crisis. We owe it to ourselves to help out in whatever way can to alleviate the suffering of these people. It
