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Her Death Sentence

Erica Hart Posed Topless to Show Other Black Breast Cancer Survivors that They are Not AloneImage: Pinterest Daniella Gyang woke up slowly from the unconsciousness brought on by the anesthesia. As she became more aware of the fading yellow curtains and the sharp smell of disinfectant, her brain registered the dull pain in her chest region, which prompted her to look down. The memories came flooding back. She had just had a mastectomy…on both breasts. She didn’t need to prompt the tears; they fell of their own accord. She felt her chest clogging as she remembered the series of events that led to her current position on the hospital bed at the National Hospital, Abuja. *** Daniella had seen a little lump on her right breast. She saw the lump by mistake while trying a new dress at her regular boutique. She pressed it and realized it didn’t hurt. She shrugged as she continued trying more new dresses. A month later, she noticed the lump was slightly bigger; but only slightly. And it had begun to hurt. Oh! It wasn’t a sharp pain or anything. It was more a discomfort than pain in itself. She wrongly assumed it was a boil. As she got out of the bathroom, she went to her sewing kit and picked up a needle. She went to the mirror, raised her hand and pierced it. That was the beginning of her problems. The resulting wound didn’t heal. In fact, it gradually began to expand and ooze out pus. The wound was an ugly mound that was a variation of rotten green and puke-like yellow. She went from hospital to hospital and the doctors kept treating her for her ‘wound’. They would clean, disinfect, dress it and tell her to allow it heal. For one year, the wound kept expanding and she kept getting treatment for it. As soon as the treatment was done, she would feel some sort of relief but after a week, the pain would return at a higher threshold than it had previously been. It got so bad that she had to leave her job because the smell from her breast was horrible and the flurry of perfumes she doused herself with couldn’t hide the smell that preceded her entrance to any room. It wasn’t until the injury had almost engulfed her right breast before she was referred to the National Hospital, Abuja. The doctors were shocked beyond words. ‘Why did you let it get that bad?’ was a question they constantly peppered her with. She couldn’t explain that she didn’t think it was serious and having discovered that it was, didn’t think she could afford a mammography. Quite frankly, she just didn’t want to be told that it was much worse than a stubborn wound. She wasn’t surprised when they told her that she had breast cancer and it had metastasized. They told her they needed to go to surgery immediately if they were, in anyway, going to try to save her life. As she contemplated what it would mean to have her right breast removed, the head Oncologist told her that he had more bad news. The cancer had spread to her other breast and even that one had to go. And to make matters worse, they were hoping they could contain the spread such that it didn’t affect her lymph nodes. She still had to undergo chemotherapy but their best option was to remove both breasts. She made her decision. She wiped her tears and told the doctors to cut them off. And though she felt she had just been given her death sentence, she was not going to let herself die if there was a chance for survival. They went to the theatre two days later. *** Daniella looked at the flat bandage wrapped around what would have been mounds of her C-Cup breasts. She felt more than physical pain as she imagined her chances of ever getting married taking a nose dive. She was 40 years old and had been single, not by choice, but by a combination of factors. Her parents died when she was eighteen. As the first child with four siblings, she had to go to work to prevent her Uncles from splitting them and complaining about raising them. She worked hard enough for four people and God blessed her work. She soon rose in ranks and had her business going very strong. She single-handedly sent her brothers and sisters through school, up to their Masters level. She paid for her sisters’ marriages and got them settled into their homes. Only her brothers remained and even they had good jobs to provide for them, she still remained a major source of income for them. As she struggled for her siblings, she got older and older and didn’t care about the many suitors who wanted her. When her disease started, most of the suitors dropped out of the race but Renda Njawe remained faithful in his pursuit of her. He had been with her all through the spread of the cancer and even through her surgery. When she woke up and didn’t see him, didn’t see any of her siblings, colleagues or church members, she knew that she was on her own. She didn’t feel mad about Renda leaving her; he was after all, a breast-man, a thing he had mentioned quite a few times. She could not imagine such a man marrying a woman without breasts. She was sad though that the family she sacrificed so much for could not even keep vigil after her life-changing surgery. She felt like she had wasted her life for people who continually sapped her energy and finances and who really didn’t care about her. The surgery didn’t even break her spirit as much as the loneliness wrapped tighter than her bandages did. Daniella sobbed in earnest and uncontrollably as she wondered what her life would look like from this point on. She cried until she fell back into

I Was Attacked…and This Time I Was Broken.

Me.Image: Tunde Raphael. It has been more than a month since I got attacked; precisely 42 days (at time of writing) since the attack. In this time frame, my life has changed. I used to live with this false sense of security. My carefree attitude was what got me by. My only worries were about family and career and almost nothing else. Quite frankly, I was almost never worried about my personal safety. After the attack though, things changed; drastically. Reading through my story, you would think I am strong. In fact, most people think I am a strong woman. I had friends who wrote to me extolling ‘my strength’. I also had friends who had faced worse situation telling me that they had drawn strength from my story. Many ladies who had been raped sent me private mails letting me know that they felt they were speaking out through my story. Overall, most people praised me for being strong. But am I, really? As the adrenaline ebbed away and the anger died down, I have had to deal with a host of other emotions. The first and most crippling is the fear that has been hounding me. Immediately after the attack, I could not walk out of my house without a knife. I kept looking behind me to ensure I wasn’t followed. One night, I came home from the office in a tricycle. It was really dark out; the only light coming from the tricycle. I gave the driver a N200 note, so he could give me N150. The driver gave me N100 instead. I asked him why he gave me that. He started shouting about how far my house was. As I was trying to explain what I usually pay, he switched off the tricycle and plunged us into deep darkness. My heart literally stopped. I could feel fear squeezing my heart and the pain was immense. I looked around and noticed a shape in the shadow and all I could think of was the moment I was attacked. I turned and walked away; the only reason I didn’t run was because my feet were leaden with fear.  The shadow was walking fast and each footfall I heard felt like ten to me. I imagined he was coming after me to attack me, to finish what they had started. I could feel the blood rushing in my ears and goose pimples breaking all over my body. I finally broke into a run and didn’t pause till I was firmly locked in my room. The shadow was just a passerby but my mind had not recovered from the sheer terror I had been subjected to. And yes, I left the entire money with the driver. He must have wondered if I was some crazy person whom he had been lucky to escape. Another incident happened one night a few days ago. We closed from the office just as it began to rain. The driver got to my street but couldn’t enter because it was flooded. I had to come down and continue the rest of the way on foot. My voice sounded strangulated as I begged the driver to wait until I got into my compound. He had to put on the headlights on full glare. I kept walking and looking back even though the full lights told me he was still there. As I moved farther from the bus, I kept shouting ‘Please don’t go. Please wait till I get home’. Thankfully, the driver was a sensible one and he waited until I waved from my gate before turning away. It was a short distance from where he stopped but it felt like I was walking a distance a mile away. Up until last week, I never returned home unaccompanied. My closest friends must really be feeling the pressure! Another emotion I have had to deal with is guilt. I kept blaming myself; I should have left the office earlier, I should have followed the instinct that cried out to me that night, I should not have won the dress, I should not have worn high heels, I should never have moved into the neighborhood. I kept going over and over the incident and wishing I could change just one card that led to this domino effect. I am a perfectionist and beat up myself when I don’t do well. Over and over again, I look at the scenario and somehow think ‘It was my fault. I brought this upon myself’. I haven’t been sleeping well either. There are nights when the slightest sound will get me bolting out of sleep. Nights after that incident, I would lay awake, hurdled in a corner in my room as I imagine if the attackers would turn up. I also imagined how many would come for me. I used to sleep with my knife close to me and my stove at the ready. I conjured this thought that if I was going to be attacked, I would bathe whoever came against me with boiling water and finish them off with my knife. No, this ploy didn’t give me any confidence. Rather, it reminded me how inadequate I felt and would feel in the eyes of any attacker. I was playing with a friend and colleague at the office when he boxed me into a corner. While I laughed, it dawned on me that if I was really attacked, there was almost nothing that I could do with a very determined attacker. All my statements about cutting his penis were almost impossible. The more inadequate I felt, the more fearful I became and furthermore, the more troubled and restless I became. To the question ‘Am I strong?’, the answer is no. I am not. I am afraid. I am weak. I was broken. But will I get better? Yes! I will. I will be strong. I will get past this flurry of negative emotions. With every breath I take, I will work hard to

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Dad, Mum…You Failed Us! (2)

Family Praying in a Church.Image: The Catholic Sun To get acquainted with the Jatau family, flip to the beginning; ‘DAD, MUM…YOU FAILED US!’ She returned with chilled glasses of orange juice for everybody. ‘I diluted yours Dad, Mum. Y’all are too old for such sweetness.’ No one but Oliver seemed ready to take their drinks.  Oliver gulped his and reached out to take Annabel’s. The look she gave him would have quelled a more sensitive man. He shrugged and reclined further into his seat. Elizabeth felt she could continue. ‘Mum, as much as you love us, you do not want us to have a mind of our own. You want us to look like you and act like you do. My personality is similar to yours but even at that, we are very different. The more different we are to you, the less tolerant you are of our views. You may have taught us to be strong women, but you only want us to be strong as long as we are not going against you. That is not fair mummy.’ ‘You asked me for my view before you divorced dad and that was the only moment I felt connected to you.’ Annabel continued immediately. ‘You spoke to me like an adult and when I told you I would rather have you alive than dead, I meant it. I am also glad that you did not wage a custody battle for us. You knew that, with the messed up constitution we have, you would not have stood a chance’.  Annabel gave a sign and her sisters came to her. They were now facing their parents again. ‘There are so many issues that we can mention but we will let them slide for now. This is the summary. Dad, you were not a good father to us. You were selfish, unbothered and inappropriate with us. Gosh! You used to bring your girlfriends to the house for sleepovers! You disrespected us and treated us no better than strangers. Mum, you took your anger out at us and sometimes beat us to the point of abuse.  We understand that you grew up in a different generation with different values and different ways of life but we have friends whose parents were in your generation and are completely different from you!’ After a quick breath, Annabel continued. ‘Dad, Mum…’ her sisters rallied closely around her. Robert stiffened. Something major seemed about to happen. Mr. Jatau looked up and looked at each of his daughters. For the first time that night, he also looked at his ex-wife. They shared a look and quickly looked away. Somehow, they knew that the next words out of Annabel’s mouth would shatter them…probably more than they could bear. The tears started flowing again from Annabel’s eyes. ‘…I am not getting married. There is no one coming in for any introduction. This was just a ruse to get both of you in one room to talk about this family.’ It was Oliver who reacted first. ‘What?! WHAT?! ARE YOU MAD?! ALL THE HUGE PREPARATIONS AND NOTHING IS HAPPENING?!’ ‘Shut up Oliver!’ both parents shouted. It was a sync that was long coming! Oliver shut up faster than a hat could drop. He mumbled a bit to himself and finally became quiet. Mr. Jatau looked sharply at his children and sat up straighter. A shiver of fear ran down their spines; all of them. They might all be grown up but they knew that no one messed with their father. ‘Can you say that again?’ His voice was quiet yet menacing. Annabel couldn’t find her voice. She was shivering and fidgeting. She looked at her sisters and Robert. Robert looked away. Sandra squeezed her hand and Elizabeth coughed. No one seemed willing to be the one who would dare respond. As Annabel fidgeted, Elizabeth cleared her throat and continued. ‘You know how in Africa, you don’t just marry the girl/boy, you marry the family? Well, you raised us poorly and worse, you put your business out there for everyone to see so, if we were to go by your history and African values, we are not a family that anyone would like to marry into.’ Drawing courage from Elizabeth, Annabel found her voice. ‘You messed up our lives. You refused to think of our future. Many men have come for my hand and turned away because their family didn’t want such a dysfunctional family as in-laws. So I only dated men who were as broken as I was so that I wouldn’t have to face the pain of rejection again. Our family is too warped to be good enough for any other African family. And that is why we are here today.’ She paused to fill her lungs. After exhaling slowly, she continued. ‘We grew up hating you; most especially me. I hated you dad, as much as I hated mum. I couldn’t stand you. As soon as I got an opportunity to leave the house, I left for good. I wouldn’t have come back home if Sandra hadn’t spoken to us’. She looked up at Sandra and smiled. She ruffled her hair and faced their parents again. ‘She might be the youngest, but she is the wisest of us all. She has been praying for the restoration of this family and when she came to live with me a year ago, she got me talking about this family. Soon, we invited Elizabeth and Robert and we started having family sessions to iron things out.’ ‘You might have hurt us but it turned out for good. We are all intelligent, independent girls who have learned to be the best to ourselves and to the world. While we suffered lack in the house, we never resorted to selling our values for our needs. We learned to make do with what we had and have. Most other girls would have thrown them self at any Tom, Dick or Harry to make ends meet. Not us! Our situation made us develop self-esteem that was far above what

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I Was Attacked…and I Refused to Be Broken!

I got attacked! This is a true story…and it happened to me. I live in a ghetto; a smelly, overpopulated area with mostly uneducated and unemployed young people. If you are wondering why I stay there, all I can say, it is not a matter of principle. On August 23, 2015, I went to church in the morning, hung out with some members of my department and our Head of Department’s family, went out to eat, went to the office, did my show, waited for the bus and then headed home. As I headed home, I reflected on what a wonderful day it had been. I noticed that the clouds were cooking up a storm. As my friend would say, ‘It was about to rain domestic pets’. When we got close to my junction, the driver asked me if I wanted to drop at the first one or the second one. I felt the first one would be better since the rain was about to pour. My friend asked if I was going to be okay. I said yes and alighted. The winds flirted with my dress and I bent down to pull it lower. I started walking home. Most people were running. I was in heels so I wasn’t going to run anywhere. It was dark and windy and I really didn’t want to fall flat on my face. So even though it had started drizzling, I kept walking. Soon, I was the only one on my street…or so I thought. I am very perceptive. I was three houses from my house when I felt a sense of impending danger. Even though I could not hear foot falls, I knew there was someone behind me. When I feel something like that, I usually slow down because I read that speeding up in such scenario is a demonstration of fear…and like animals, humans can smell fear. I looked back just in time to see my attacker bring his hand around my face. I moved away just as he caught my breast. Somehow, I did not feel any fear. Instead, I was consumed with anger. In fact, anger doesn’t describe what I was feeling. It was more like burning rage! It clouded every other reasonable emotion and I used my bag to hit the guy while still managing to swing a blow. He was caught off guard and he took a couple of steps back. Seeming to have been renewed, he came forward again and this time, I threw my bag, one of my phones, shoes and other things I was carrying to the ground. I pulled my dress up and spread my legs. I became a totally different person. I asked him to come and fight. He seemed afraid. I kept shouting that he should come. He kept going back and forth but not daring to come any closer. I had become a banshee and in retrospect, I wouldn’t have recognized me. I started calling my friends and he asked if I was calling anybody. I kept saying he should come in the crazy manner with which I started. The calls weren’t connecting so I knew I was on my own. I prepared to defend myself. Seeing that he wasn’t approaching, I hissed and started packing my things. That was when I saw the second attacker. This time, I knew I had to run! I could not possibly fight two people! I turned and started running but my turn was a bad one so I slipped and fell. Then, for the first time that night, I felt fear; real fear! I imagined what would happen if I remained there and with the active imagination I have, it was enough to spur me up.  Strength that could only have come from GOD came upon me and I got up and ran! I left all my things there; my safety my first point of concern. As I ran, I kept shouting at the top of my lungs ‘Neighbors! Neighbors!’. It wasn’t until I got to my house that I realized no one came out. As soon as I got to my compound, I started banging doors, telling them to come out. Only one man did as I ran back to the streets. He didn’t even bother to follow me. I went back to the spot where I fell and started gathering my stuff. I was pumped on adrenaline and I really just kept going. That was when the third attacker – who was much bigger than the first two – came out. I waited until I was done then started running again. The attacker followed me all the way to the front of the house and turned back when he saw people at the gate. I bust past my neighbors and ran into my house. I went straight to the kitchen and took my knife. The rage had returned and all I could see was red. When I charged out again, the first neighbor to respond had locked the gate. I was livid! I went into a rant, wanting to get out there, the rage fueling my movement. I had such murderous rage! I wanted to face my attackers and just bury the knife in them! My female neighbors came out and asked me to stay inside. After a few seconds, I went back into my house. That was when I started really thinking. The attack started at about 9:05pm and by the time I got back to my phone, it was about 9:15pm. In less than 10 minutes, I had been attacked by three men; an attack which could have been much worse if GOD had not given me strength to fight back and run. I learned some things from the attack. A) In the face of trouble, GOD gave me bravery I would never have had on my own.B) Your life can change in the shortest possible time, shattering your cocoon of safety and grand delusions of protection.C) I was three houses away from

Here Comes the Bride 2

Sad Muslim Girl.Image: Deposit Photos This series starts here. Catch up on it and enjoy the sequel. The number of people in front of her compound was daunting. Salamatu Yakubu smiled as she thought of that word; daunting. She had seen it in the newspaper at the principal’s office when she had gone to get chalk. She memorized the spelling and got her teacher to explain the meaning. As usual, her teacher had told her to find it out herself; urging her to search the dictionary starting at ‘D’ and then, the next letter. She couldn’t help but smile at how much she was learning, which was far better than her classmates and especially, than ALL the boys in her class. Her smile dropped when she got closer to her compound. There seemed to be an air of sadness hanging heavily around the entire compound. Her feet dragged, wanting to be spared the impending destruction to her little cocoon. Abubakar ran to her. He was her immediate younger brother and a real pest in her life. She was about to warn him to stay away from her when she saw his tear-streaked face. She squinted to see if he was trying to play a fast one but saw that for the first time in his entire 12 years of existence, he was genuinely sad. ‘What happened?’ she asked in English before remembering to switch off school mode for home. She asked again, but this time, in Hausa. ‘What happened? Why are you crying?’ Abubakar did something that shocked the shoes off her feet; he crumbled into a heap at her feet, put his arms around her and wailed. She dropped her school bag and bent to him. She was surprised by the flood of emotions that came over her. She held him until the teary fits wracking his body subsided. At that point, it didn’t matter that they had been taught not to hold members of the opposite sex or that their mothers were different. What mattered was that they had finally bonded over something she was still to find out about. ‘Ba…ba… Baba has died.’ he said. Salamatu flinched. She was not close to her father; had never been. That fact didn’t stop the temporary moment her heart clenched and the overwhelming that sadness came upon her. She gently pushed her brother away, picked her bag and started walking…walking away from her house…from the reality of her shattered life…from the end of what she knew. She didn’t know when she started running; running till her heart almost exploded in her chest. Her brain led her feet to the school library; her safe place. She paused long enough to check if there was anyone about before diving in. She went straight to the third row of books, the place farthest from the door. Unlike a true library, there were no sections with major headlines and easy access. The community was too poor to afford that. A corps member who had come in to serve was the one who built the library and got her church to donate books. Since she passed out, no new book had been added to the library and many were dog-eared from overuse. Salamatu sunk between the shelves and took the fetal position. She began to cry in earnest now. Her life was over. She was in deep trouble. And yes, she wasn’t crying that her father was dead. In fact, he had been her biggest problem since she started to understand what her life was about. She hated him and quite frankly, was glad he was dead! *** Mallam Suleiman Yakubu was an average farmer. He did what everyone else did; planted crops in season, worked his farm, harvested and waited for the next season to begin planting again. That was his life; simple and straightforward. He had four wives and so many kids popping out every 10 months, that at the last census, the number of his kids present at the count was 40. Thankfully, he had more boys than girls who could help in the farms and ensure that food was never a problem in his house. He was very religious; studying the Holy Qur’an at least twice a day. He said his five daily prayers on time and lived according to the tenets of Islam. He was also against everything Western. He hated Americans and Israelis – even though he had never met any of them – and he was against everything they stood for, one of which was formal education. He had sworn never to send any of his kids to the so called ‘school’. The school had sent many entreaties to him and even the local community leaders had asked him to send at least one child. They had all received the same answer; NO! His boys had to be on the farm most of the time and his daughters had to be prepared for marriage. He was not going to let anyone corrupt any child of his with Western ideas. His kids had a healthy fear of him. They cowered in his presence…well, almost all of them did. His daughter, Salamatu, was defiant. She was the only child of her mother and was very stubborn. She refused to be afraid of him. In one incident, she shocked him by questioning why they needed to pray five times daily. When he told her she must do so because he said so, she told him that if he had said because Allah said so, she would have accepted it. She went further to say that his word was not absolute, as he was but a man. He remembered how he beat her to unconsciousness. That was not the last time either. She found ways to rile him up with her constant questions and opinions. If Salamatu had not been a spitting image of him, he could have sworn that she was not his child. She questioned his audacity to marry off his

A Glimpse Into Child Abuse And Marriage

Young girl holding a child.Image: UNICEF Australia Zireme Azimba remembered the first time she came to Yola. She was brought to the city from Galabje, her small village in Toungo, Adamawa State. Before then, she had never imagined leaving the routine of her home; waking up at dawn, sweeping the compound, cooking, farming, cooking again, and on weekends, laundry at the small stream. Her Uncle Golfa, whose wife – Daufe – had just put to bed, came to take her from her parents to help with house chores. When she got into Yola, she was surprised at how ‘developed’ it was. She had never seen tarred roads before and definitely had not seen such tall buildings. Quite frankly, that was the first time she had been in a car. Yes, she had been 9 years old but no one in her village had a car. She hid her excitement though. She didn’t want to disgrace her mother. As she entered her Uncle’s house, she held her nylon bag close to her breasts; mounds that were just starting to show signs of womanhood. She was doe-eyed as she stared at her new house. The house was a two room apartment in a very crowded neighborhood. She was shown where to keep her belongings and immediately put to work. Her uncle worked in a bakery and had to be out of the house as early as 5am. She had to be up at 4am every day. While his meal was cooking, she would take his bath water to the bathroom and iron his clothes; with an electric iron if there was ‘light’ and charcoal iron if there wasn’t. Then she would serve him his meal at about 4:45am. As soon as he was done, she would gather his plates and the ones from the night before to wash. When she had placed them outside, she would go in to carry baby Desmond and see if he needed a change of diaper or something else. After that, she would do the dishes, sweep the house and then wake her Aunt Daufe from her snore-fest called sleep. She would then wash Desmond’s and some of her Aunt’s pee-and-poo-stained clothes. She would then be sent to the market to get food stuff for dinner or to grind grains. Since her uncle worked in a bakery, he usually brought dough home in the afternoon for his wife to fry. This allowed him to make some extra money on the side. As soon as Aunt Daufe taught Zireme how to fry the dough, she stopped doing even that. Zireme would fry until about 6pm, allow it to cool for about 30 minutes, package them, and then start cooking dinner. The only free time she had was between 8pm and 10pm when she was allowed to watch television. The routine would begin again the next day. This continued until her Aunt took in again. As soon as Aunt Daufe realized she was pregnant, she stopped even holding Desmond. Zireme just clocked 10 when her aunt took in again. She became mini-mummy to Desmond. Her aunt only held Desmond when she needed to feed him. As soon as she was done, she would quickly hand him over to Zireme. While Zireme was doing all the work, her aunt would be watching Telenovelas, Indian and Korean series, Africa Magic and the likes. She only went out when there was no power supply. As soon as the power was gone, Aunt Daufe would take her bath and head to a friend’s house to gossip about Catalina and Consuelo. She would only rush home when she felt her husband was close to returning; and only to make sure that Zireme had prepared dinner. By the time Zireme clocked 15, Aunt Daufe had given birth to three more children. The small house where they stayed was cramped with people, clothes, furniture, and other household materials. The older kids had to sleep in the living room with Zireme while the younger ones slept in the bedroom with their parents. Soon, Zireme noticed a pattern. There were days when her uncle and aunt would ensure all the kids slept in the living room. Those days were usually accompanied by sounds of a creaking bed and grunts that were unmistakably her uncle’s. This awakened something warm in Zireme which she could not explain. It always made her feel weird but she learned to pretend she didn’t hear it, even though the wetness in her pants betrayed her. In the six years since she was with her uncle, she went home to Galabje thrice. The first time was filled with ecstasy and excitement because she had not seen her friends and family for months. The first day was her happiest but that was it. She soon began to resent the ‘local’ behavior of her friends and the pittance called food which her parents ate. Worst of all, there was no TV! She had no inclination of what was happening with Ishika on her favorite Indian series. By her third day, she was all but fed up! She needed to go back to the city. The second time she went home, she kept sulking and frowning, hating her farm work and the poverty of her home so much that she nearly exploded. The last time she went home, which was three years ago, she told her mother that it was expensive bringing her home and as such, she would not come home again for a long time. Her mother understood; she always understood. She had learned that poor people had no choices so she nodded her head and patted Zireme. As she turned away, Zireme saw the look of absolute pain in her mother’s eyes and though she would have felt a twinge of guilt three years before, she didn’t feel anything. Her village is just too ‘local’ for her. When Zireme clocked 15, her aunt started looking at her funny. She seemed to really notice her. And every time she

Buharu’s 33-Man Delegation To The US: The Absence Of Female Representation

President Muhammadu Buhari and his Delegation to the United States of America pose with former President Barack Obama at the Oval Office.Image: Sahara Reporters. President Muhammadu Buhari is back in the country from his four-day official trip to the United States of America and in my view, just in time to be reminded of certain campaign promises he made which ensured his victory. The President was in Washington, USA, on Sunday, July 19, 2015 with an entourage of 33 men. The delegation was literally made up of men; and if that doesn’t sink in, it means that his delegation to the United States of America was entirely devoid of a woman. This rubbed me some type of way. So many thoughts ran through my mind as I tried to look at all possible angles for excluding women from a delegation of such international importance. Many people who know me think that I am overly critical of President Buhari so I tried to be as balanced as possible in my analysis of his decision. I will admit here that in the end, my original perception of the decision to exclude women did not change. I decided to make it a topic on my radio breakfast show. At the end of the show, I felt it was a tie between my listeners. While many said there was no reason why he should have taken any woman on the trip, an almost equal number believed that at least one woman should have been a part that pivotal bilateral discussion with the United States. As a result of that, I decided to write again to the President, with the hopes that, unlike Senator Shehu Sani, he would care about my opinions; even if he did not directly seek my vote and even though I did not vote for him. Here is why I think there should have been female representation in that 33-man delegation to the United States:       1.      The delegation seemed to represent most of the major demographics and sectors of the nation with just one exception; women! Looking at the list holistically, it seemed like the North East was represented by Governor Kashim Shettima of Borno state and he doubled as a representative of the region most affected by the insurgency of the Boko Haram sect. On the other hand, Governor Adams Oshiomole of Edo state represented the South-South region. Governor Abiola Ajimobi of Oyo state represented the South-West, Governor Umaru Tanko Almakura of Nassarawa (North-Central), Governor Rochas Okorocha of Imo (South-East) and Senator Hadi Siriki of Katsina (North-West) ensured that the six geopolitical zones of the country were represented. That being said, the economic sector was represented by the Governor of the Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN), Godwin Emefiele. There were ambassadors in that delegation (Paul Bulus; G. B. Igali; and Lawal N.B. Kazaure), a representation of media in the person of Femi Adesina, the special adviser to the President on Media and Publicity and of course the representation of the youth, which was by the son of the president, Yusuf Buhari. Religion was also represented by Pastor Tunde Bakare and the Malam Garba. The list also had top civil servants, representatives from the National Security Adviser and representatives from economic policy and foreign affairs think thanks, according to the PM News dated July 12, 2015. They delegation seemed to be devoid of JUST one demographic; female representation. That should have been a reason to get women on that delegation. 2.      POPULATION STATISTICS Index Mundi put the entire population of Nigeria at 177,155,754 people. As at 2013, the World Bank put the female population of Nigeria at 49.10%. If we factor in 49.10% of the figure given by Index Mundi, we have the total number of females in Nigeria at 86,983,475. That is an almost equal number of females as there are males. In one meeting, former President Barack Obama had four women on his team. The Nigerian delegation didn’t have one.Image: The Guardian.       3.    WOMEN HAVE BEEN EASY VICTIMS OF THE INSURGENCY Since the insurgency, women and children have suffered as much – if not more – than men. This has been documented by Wikipedia in the ‘Boko Haram Timeline’ article. Some of the more tragic stories are seen below; a)      In 2013, the National Emergency Management Agency (NEMA) was reported to have said ‘Borno was hit, with about 1.3 million people – MOST OF THEM WOMEN, CHILDREN AND THE ELDERLY (emphasis mine) – in need of aid’; b)      In February, 2013, an attack on polio vaccinators left 9 women dead; c)      Four months and a day after that attack, precisely June 9, 2013, 9 children were killed in Maiduguri. On the same day, 13 students and teachers were killed in Damaturu; d)      Less than a month after the preceding attack, more than 42 people were killed by Boko Haram gunmen in a Yobe School. This happened on the 6th day of July, 2013; e)      The attacks continued on September 29, 2013, in schools in Yobe, with one in Gujba College, where more than 50 students died; f)       In 2014, the attacks of children came in early on February 25. The attacks happened at the Federal Government College, Yobe State. 59 students were massacred; g)      And the story that really made Nigeria an epic failed state was what happened on April 15, 2014; the kidnap of 276 female students from Chibok, Borno State. 216 girls are still in captivity 466 days (as at post) after they were kidnapped. Though this was the most important story to the international community, there were much more women kidnapped, raped, married off to members of the insurgent group and killed. The rescue of about 256 girls from Sambisa Forest, the Boko Haram stronghold, was a clear testament to that; h)      Between June 20 and 23, there were attacks in Borno State where at least 70 people were killed and 91 women and children kidnapped; i)        And finally, on November 10, 2014, 46 students were killed

We May All Be Bigots!

Four people holding quote movies.Image: Pexels. Bigot (noun) big·ot ˈbi-gət {Merriam Webster Dictionary} : a person who strongly and unfairly dislikes other people, ideas, etc. : a bigoted person; especially : a person who hates or refuses to accept the members of a particular group (such as a racial or religious group) Bigotry [big-uh-tree]. Noun. Plural bigotries {Dictionary.com} 1. Stubborn and complete intolerance of any creed, belief, or opinion that differs from one’s own. 2. The actions, beliefs, prejudices, etc., of a bigot. As I scrolled through my timeline on Facebook on the 28th day of June, 2015, I came across a post which made me do a double take. I scrolled back up and reread the post. On a normal day, I would never have dropped a comment on that post; but I did. The reason I went back to that post was because it was about one of the most trending topics that week. It was a post about the Supreme Court of the United States’ landmark decision on legalizing gay rights to marriage. This is the post. “#‎SameSexMarriage Well, what else do you expect of a hypersexual society where nudity and sex is the norm and ‘do-do-do’ right from kindergarten to old People’s Homes? They got bored and/or tired of their preordained opposite sexes! And if this rule that allows same sex marriage is not reversed, soon they may get bored of their same sex spouses and may end up dating/marrying animals too. Tir!! May Allah SWT preserve our Iman in sticking to our opposite sexes as spouses. Beautifully and/or perfectly as below…..” The picture above accompanied the post. Reading it, one line caught my attention; the line about a ‘hyper-sexual society’. I was surprised that the author of the post believed that homosexuality was only as a result of a hyper-sexual society. Since I had (in the past) discussed certain issues with this author, I felt that we could rub minds. So I posted this; “ME: Do you know that there are Arabians [sic] marrying transsexuals? Do you know that there are homosexuals in countries where nudity is not found? Where they wear Nikkab and Kaftan only? Do you know the effects of sexually repressing society? Evil persists everywhere, whether a society is hyper-sexual or having repressed sexuality.” When I posted this, I waited to hear his reply. I got one, but it wasn’t his. “BOY 1: I find ur logic pretty twisted…….may be we shud stop “repressing” armed robbery as well! In fact we shud live without code of conduct and allow our animal instincts dictate how we live. “Repressing”!!!” When I saw this, I was like ‘Hol’ up! Urhhh…..what is he talking about?’ Then I replied; “ME: @BOY 1….lol. I am glad you find my logic ‘twisted’. While you may not care about freedom, I am glad you realize that there is evil everywhere…or I hope you do. Maybe you should acquaint yourselves with the number of closeted homosexuals in countries that have….how did you put it…’code of conduct’? Covering up hasn’t prevented men (and women) from being evil; flirting, having multiple partners or even deviating by having sex with children, animals and the likes. So, while I may be ‘twisted’ in my logic, I do realize that society is innately evil and nudity or the absence of it does not make one society any better than another. Get knowledge and be balanced in your ideologies…or quite frankly, take a dive.” Okay…I agree I was a bit harsh. I could blame it on BOY 1 commenting when he didn’t understand what I was saying, but I wouldn’t. It wasn’t long before BOY 1 returned. “BOY 1: Take a dive?………not a chance. But besides dat, if fredoom [sic] were absolute we wouldn’t be having prisons don’t u tink?” To which I responded; “ME: @BOY 1…Freedom is never absolute. NEVER! I’m just saying that people should be balanced in their analysis. Quite simple if I dare say.” “BOY 1: Balanced kuma? (‘balanced again?’ for none Hausa speakers) Am [sic] lost…….” I realized I needed to douse the tension, so I responded with something I hoped will make him laugh. “ME: I pray you get found.” To which he sent a smiling smiley face. Now, as we were having this conversation, the author of the post had not said anything. But that changed after a while. AUTHOR: Yusuf Jnr Interesting! I have missed a lot’ooo….just where have I been all these while?  ‘Ramadan tinz’. Yeah……it should be just that. OK, where do I begin? Tomorrow is another day In-Shā-Allah….am gonna cool off and come back a little calmer. From his response, I had a premonition that we weren’t going to ‘rub minds’. While he was cooling off, another friend of his came to the party. “BOY 2:  Something Ramatu something, you made your point. Now who said “Arabians” (I think you meant to say “Arabs”) were saints? Arabs are humans and there are sinners among them. But get this clearly, no ‘straight’ government in this world would do this. America is gay. Well, now technically they are. And whoever finds this post offending could be the opposite of an arrow…If you know what I mean. Lastly, before you sing your narrow minded song about civilization [sic], and America being civilized [sic], zip it! I don’t see si.vi.ly.za.shon as sky scrapers and extreme atheism. Si.vi.ly.zay.shon is simply what it is…dunce. think about it, Summun-bukmun!” I am sure you can imagine the look on my face when I read this post. ‘Who the flying French was this guy?’ I asked myself. He even refused to recognize my other names because they didn’t sound like what he believed, instead using ‘something’. What a laugh! I was talking about something, and he was saying something else. And since he felt he needed to correct my mistake, I was quite surprised he made some of his own. Then I saw the words ‘dunce’ and ‘summun-bukmum’. Dunce I know; the latter I didn’t. So, Google to the rescue! When I typed in the phrase,