I Have an Idea About Prison(er) Reforms
Image: New Stage We have all heard the stories of prisons in Nigeria; dinghy, overcrowded, desperately inhumane and busting at the seams with more people awaiting trial than convicted felons. Personally, I have not seen any of it. The closest I have been to a prison was sometime in 2003 when I stumbled onto the grounds of the one in Ungwan Sunday, Kaduna State, because I thought there was a masquerade parade going on there. Yes; weird story. And no matter how I explain it, it is still weird, so…let me just skip that. What I would never forget were the shouts from men calling me to come back. I didn’t understand what the fuss was about and so, didn’t respond. In my defense, I didn’t know it was a prison either. I kept on going in until I met a warden who said, ‘young girl, go back. Or… do you want to be raped?’ I didn’t need anyone to tell me to turn back at that point. But, I digress. As I was saying, I have never seen the insides of any prison in this country. But I have heard the stories. The first one that comes to mind is the juvenile prison (Borstal) in Kaduna State. A classmate who had been so… ‘stubborn’… was sent to one. Before this happened, he had become a bit of a terror to the school and neighboring communities. He fought people, beat up others, threatened to abuse girls and was generally feared. Even though I feared him too, we were cool. (Not surprising anyway. I gravitated to all the ‘bad kids’ when I was younger. Can you guess why?) Anyway, teachers who punished him in school would watch him laugh in that menacing way that foretold doom and you could bet that they would almost always get attacked on their way home. He was threatened with being locked up in Borstal, an institution whose reputation preceded it. The sound of that name (even today) sends an involuntary shudder down my spine. He, however, couldn’t be bothered. When he was finally sentenced to time at the facility, there was palpable fear among the rest of us and the stories were used to scare us into behaving better. Years later when I finally saw that classmate and was contemplating whether to take a detour or not, he caught my eye and the option was made for me. We got talking and I saw that he was such a changed young man. It almost felt like he had been replaced by aliens. My fear for the institution deepened. Side note: He is a warden at the institution now. Also, not surprising. Then I heard about the ‘world famous’ Kirikiri prison; more like read about it. The instances of abuses I read about shocked my young mind. I couldn’t wrap my head around such cruelty. It is said that people go to Kirikiri to become even more hardened criminals. Imagine a correctional facility that makes people worse than they were when they went in. Which brings me to this question: are Nigerian prisons correctional or punishment facilities? In my opinion, the latter. Technically, prison sentences should serve as punishment for crimes committed against individuals, a group (or groups) of people or the State defining the crime according to the law. But, prison sentences should not just be about punishing individuals; it should also be about reforming them. I think this should be the biggest reason why prisons exist. In Nigeria, I cannot say for certain how much reformation is happening in the prisons. This is not to negate the work of non-governmental or not-for-profit organizations aimed at reforming prisoners. For the sake of this article, I am focusing on the role of the government in correcting and reintegrating former felons into society. Reading about the history of Nigerian prisons, you would see that before 1968, Nigerian prisons weren’t always this punishment-only centers they are today. Yes, when the idea of having justice systems made up of the police, courts and finally prisons was first established around 1861, they served mainly to please the colonial masters and their interests. There wasn’t much regard for Nigerian lives and, why would there have been? We were a slave territory and the ‘masters’ had all the power. But between 1934 and 1955, two men – Colonel V. L. Mabb and R. H. Dolan – brought about a new order to the way prisons in Nigeria were run. Dolan was especially instrumental in putting up structures that recognized that prisons needed to be as much about correcting and reintegrating individuals into society as they were about punishing them for their crimes. Here is an excerpt about Dolan’s work as found on the Nigerian Prisons website. ‘He also made classification of prisoners mandatory in all prisons and went on to introduce visits by relations to inmates. He also introduced progressive earning schemes for long term first offenders. He also introduced moral and adult education classes to be handled by competent Ministers and teachers for both Christian and Islamic education. Programmes for recreation and relaxation of prisoners were introduced during his tenure as well as the formation of an association for the care and rehabilitation of discharged prisoners. But above all, he initiated a programme for the construction and expansion of even bigger convict prisons to enhance the proper classification and accommodation of prisoners.’ Dolan had the right idea, which is similar to the one that I have. So, let get to it. The official national prison population in Nigeria is 73,995 people. If I know anything about statistics and data in Nigeria, then this figure is the most conservative figure the government could put out without looking bad. Which means that there are way more people in Nigerian prisons than the government is letting on. This has been corroborated by many sources who report cases of overcrowding in the prisons, with facilities stretched far beyond the numbers they were created for. Take Kirikiri prison for example. Its capacity is built for 1,056 inmates. As at March 2018,
(Mis)Diagnosing Depression
Photo by Ian Espinosa on Unsplash I was at a literary event recently when the conversation swung to depression. It started when a man presented a poem about this state of mental health and suggested that ‘a smile, a hug, and some love’ could get people out of their depressed state. For the most part, the poem resonated with people because it was relatively well written and delivered, and being a sensitive topic, people could relate; or so I assumed. While I was processing the words of poem, someone mention that it was important to note that depression was not ‘having a couple of bad days or being sad. It is a clinically diagnosed illness and must be treated that way.’ In the past, I would have nodded my head in agreement. I understood the sentiment and the need to be sure that people weren’t misdiagnosing depression when in the real sense, they were briefly unhappy or in a funk. But, my idea about depression changed a while back. Before I get into what caused the switch, let me share a train of thought that I followed through as I listened to the debate. Have you ever had a blinding headache? Those things can be the worst! You can’t think, you can’t sleep, you can’t eat, you think you head is about ready to split, and if it is really bad, you are almost crippled from the pain. When you go to the hospital, the doctor may diagnose a headache, migraine or something worse. In essence, the doctor is affirming what you already feel. You know the intricacies of the pain you are feeling. What the doctor does is to give you a ‘fancy’ name for what you are dealing with, and hopefully, a medical solution. So, let us say that you don’t go to the doctor. Do you still have the symptoms? Yes. Can you tell that you are in great pain? Yes. Do you know that something is wrong with you? Yes. What you may not know is the technical term for what you are going through, but you knowthat something is wrong. In some cases, you know that if you can just sleep, you may be better for a bit. In other instances, you know that seeing a medical personnel and taking some drugs can help you get better. And while you may want to take that option, you know that sometimes, there are a number of factors that may prevent you from seeking that help. So, you sleep. Or eat. Or rest. Or just lie down because you know that it would get better…until the next bout comes up. In this case, does the absence of a medical diagnosis negate the existence of your headache? I think the answer is no. The same is true for depression. People who are suffering from depression know that there is something wrong with them. They knowthat the gnawing emptiness they are feeling is a symptom of something bad. They understand that those panic attacks are not normal. They realize that their appetite – whether they are eating very little of way too much – is a sign of something troubling. They wish they didn’t have to sleep so little…or so much. They get that their complete lack of desire for anything, and sometimes, their only desire which seeks to end it all, is a product of a situation that is…bad. They know this. They also know about the days when pretending to be fine is the wall they need when their entire essence is crumbling apart. They understand the need to reach out, and the countering need not to be a burden. They can taste the fear of not knowing whether they would be understood or dismissed, or the hope that someone would see through their façade and help them. They also remember all the times when the voices in their head tells them, ‘didn’t I tell you? Nobody cares about you.’ They know this. What they may not know is the fancy name for what they are feeling. A little over six years ago, I began to feel sad and unhappy about my life. I didn’t seem to be making much progress for the timelines I set for myself and I started having this feeling that I was failing at this thing called life. It was a gnawing feeling that seemed to be here today and gone the next. However, I noticed that, with each session, the sadness seemed to take deeper roots. It felt like I was in quick sand and while I was only ankle deep, I couldn’t get out. As the years wore on, I continued to descend into the abyss until it got to a head a little over two years ago. I lost my mind. I started having repeated panic attacks, and once, when I could feel my heart closing up and my lungs refusing to draw in enough air, I thought I had come to the end of the road. When it passed, I felt empty. For one week afterwards, I didn’t have a shower. My bedroom was a dumpster; filled with plates from days before, wraps from junk food, bottles and clothes strewn everywhere. I was listless and couldn’t feel anything beyond the overwhelming emptiness of what was my life. I was depressed. And guess what? It started with a couple of days of sadness. It started with some unhappiness. It started with days when I was in a funk. Which is why when people say, ‘depression is not having a couple of sad days and being unhappy’, I shake my head. Only a person having those feelings can tell you what they are feeling. Only a person having those feelings can tell you how deeply lost they think they are. Image from Twitter It is important to note that people who are depressed do not share the extent of their listlessness with other; one, because explaining it is hard, and two because, there is
BMI, Beauty Standards and Fat Shaming
Girl working Out.Image: Health Magazine I have a problem with Body Mass Index (BMI) as a measurement of health. Almost everyone has heard the acronym; BMI. And while many have an idea what it is, let me start my arguments – and yes, they are arguments – with the definition of the term. ‘BMI is a person’s weight in kilograms (kg) divided by his or her height in meters squared.’ This is one way to define it. Simple, huh? But don’t be fooled. This seemingly simple definition is anything but. However, this isn’t the time to jump the gun. So let me layer on the science of it. BMI can also be calculated using other variables like pounds (instead of kilogram) and with some calculators, it can be computed using feet and inches instead of meters. The main components are weight and height. For the purposes of this article, I will use kilogram to meters (or feet and inches) for my measurements. Let us get into it, shall we? For a little over a hundred years, BMI has been used as the standard of body measurement since Adolphe Quetelet, the Belgian Mathematician, Astronomer and Statistician, developed the unit of measurement. It seeks to measure whether a person is underweight, normal, overweight or obese. Right now, the formula for calculating BMI is; BMI = weight (kg) / height (m2) And generally, it is accepted that: A BMI of 18.49 or below means a person is underweight; A BMI of 18.5 to 24.99 means they are of normal weight; A BMI of 25 to 29.99 means they are overweight; A BMI of 30 or more means they are obese. Until sometime last year, I accepted this measurement as truth. I studied Biochemistry and I remember thoroughly enjoying the nutrition classes because we dealt with things like BMI. I was especially happy about it after I learned how to help malnourished babies get back to ‘normal’ weight. Those were the aspects of Biochemistry that made me love the course. But recently, I had a run in with a loud-mouthed doctor when I went to the hospital with my mum. She had suffered a heart attack. The doctor stabilized her and after she had taken the drugs he gave her, she stood up and went into the restroom. As soon as my mum was out of earshot and we were alone, the doctor said something to the tune of, ‘if you don’t want to suffer what your mother is suffering, you need to lose weight quickly. Can’t you see that you are too fat?!’ (And yes…that was almost verbatim). At first, I feigned laughter because he was a much older man and I was worried about my mum. And then I wondered why he was making the comparison because my mum is way slimmer than I am. He persisted. ‘Climb the scale there. I am sure your BMI will confirm what I am telling you. You are too overweight!’This time, I didn’t laugh. And because I am not one to suffer a fool gladly, I made sure I spoke pointedly at him so that he would get the message. ‘I am not your patient. Your job here is to get my mum better; nothing more. Can you KINDLY focus on that?’ I am sure he hadn’t been spoken to like that in a while. He kept quiet and waited for my mum to return. When he was done with his duties, my mum and I left. It wasn’t until later that I heard he told my mum I was a rude child. It gave me so much pleasure to have put him in his place. But… I digress. That day, I was so mad at the doctor. I saw what he did for exactly what it was; fat shaming. The man didn’t really care about my health. He didn’t have my medical history nor had he engaged me in a conversation to find out about my lifestyle. All he saw was a fat girl that he thought he could talk to in whatever way he felt he could. I wished I hadn’t been so ‘respectful’ of him and had given him a proper tongue lashing. And the more I thought about it, the angrier I became. But then, the anger passed. I looked at myself and admitted what I already knew; I am fat. My BMI says I am obese. But the question I asked myself after reacceptingthis fact was…am I healthy? This question prompted another. ‘If BMI used just weight and height to classify people into normal (which is translated to mean ‘healthy’) and obese (which is translated to mean ‘unhealthy’), could the unit of measurement be more about aesthetics than it was about health?’ I decided to pursue the thought. With almost 8 billion people in the world ranging from the shortest person – Chandra Bahadur Dangi who is just 54.64 cm – to Robert Wadlow who is said to have been the tallest person in the world (standing at 8 ft 11.1 in), there couldn’t possibly be a ‘normal’ height for people. This also meant that there couldn’t possibly be a ‘normal’ weight for people. As I processed these thoughts, I wondered: if you can’t have a normal height or weight, how can we have a ‘normal’ BMI? Because, what may be normal to a 5’9 man weighing 70kg may be underweight for a 7’1 person of the same weight, and overweight for a 5’4 woman of the same weight. So…if there was no constant in all this, how could the BMI be accepted as the appropriate unit of measuring ‘normal’ health? To process this thought further, I started doing some basic mathematics in my head. It was too stressful for me, so I found a BMI calculator that used the kilogram to feet and inches ratio. I started to calculate BMIs for a
The Male Identity Crisis
Man staring intently.Image: Pexels Most of us have probably heard that a woman’s identity is tied to a couple of things; her beauty, skin tone, demeanor, chastity or purity, and ultimately, her ability to use these qualities to square herself a husband and bear ‘his’ children. This can be further expanded into the duties she is supposed to play in these roles of wife and mother; roles defined as the epitome of her womanhood. And we all know that those duties are many, unreasonable and often times, downright wicked. But these roles are so firmly woven into the fabric of society that choosing a different path almost always results in backlash, shaming and in some cases, physical and sexual abuse. Very few people expect a woman’s identity to be tied to her intellect, career, goals and aspirations, or achievements. It why women are constantly asked about their husbands or children; regardless of what other achievements they have outside of that. So…yeah. Everyone has an opinion about what a woman’s identity should be to be considered ‘complete’. But…have you wondered what a man’s identity is connected to? I believe that men’s identity is tied to two things; the size of their account balances…and the size of their penises. Yes; I said that! And…I will say it again! So, let us really get into it, shall we? I was having a conversation with a ‘friend’ when he told me he was interested in a girl. Looking at him, and looking at the girl, I didn’t think he could get with her. It was not that he wasn’t good looking – because I genuinely believe everyone is good looking – but, this girl was a stunner. She seemed like the kind of girl who spent at least two hours every morning putting on her face. She smelled of class, money, and exotic fragrances. She carried ‘designer’ bags that were so good, they almost looked real and she generally had this air of you-can’t-get-me-even-if-you-tried thing about her. Honestly, I didn’t think my ‘friend’ had a chance; and I said so. He laughed in that overly confident way that men do when you present them with a challenge. ‘Forget all her paparazzi. She hasn’t seen life like that. I have set up a budget of N100,000 for her. I will take her to a really expensive restaurant, so she can have a taste of my kind of cuisine. When she sees how much I am willing to spend to give her a good time, there is no wayI will not knack.’ Yes; desperately sexist and misogynistic. Anyway, I called him out and told him spending money wouldn’t get him the girl. Again, he laughed and went, ‘Ramat, there is no girl that will see my car, see my house, go out with me and not be impressed. When she knows I can spend that money, she has no choice but to trip.’ I wanted to rile him up, so I asked if he was okay with knowing that a girl would only be interested in him because he was flashing money. This time, the laughter was snarky; I had hit a nerve. ‘See ehn Ramat, girls only like two things: money and big dick. And I have both. So, after I spend on her and knack her, she will definitely fall in love.’ I know you are probably as turned off by his crudeness as I was, but I remember laughing at him and telling him to keep wishing. I was so sure he wouldn’t get the girl. But…he did. Turns out his budget impressed her, and she became interested in him. While it wasn’t the first time I had heard a man make that statement and follow it through, it was the first time I has seen that level of brashness displayed by a guy whom I would never have considered a ‘catch’. There were aspects of him that were great, as with most people, but he wasn’t the oozing-with-Idris-Elba-sexiness kind of guy. But all that didn’t seem to matter. Soon enough, I was introduced to his many girlfriends, with each seemingly hotter than the last. One day, a girl came to see him with meals prepared for his week. I smelled her before I saw her and by God, I was mesmerized. This lady was so gloriously beautiful! Her look was the arresting kind; perfectly done hair, makeup, and nails, shoes, clothes and bag to the nines, and an entire aura of sexiness about her. If I thought the girl he budgeted N100,000 for was sexy, this one definedthe term! I am even going to go as far as saying that I felt like a dull glow in the presence of that much aura of sexiness. He quickly introduced her as his girlfriend and being his ‘wingman’, I acted like she was the only one in his life. Yes, I know I used to be disgusting too. But as soon as she left, I couldn’t hide my awe: how in the world did he get a girl like that?! He laughed as he told me his money made him all the more appealing. The opening line of Mayorkun’s ‘Bobo’ quickly came to my head. I was beginning to see that truly, ‘na money be fine bobo’. And judging by how big a hit the song became, it wasn’t hard to see why men totally connected to it. Still talking about that same ‘friend’, a time came when he made some poor investments. He lost a lot of money and was, for the first time in his life, really and truly broke. At about the same time, he got into an accident that totaled his car. He was lucky to have come out of the situation unscathed. For almost 6 months, he was in the dumps. He had to use public transport and learn all the inglorious aspects to it. I watched him shrivel into a shell of himself; ‘my guy’ was struggling.
Poor People Work Harder…for a Whole Lot Less
Men watching from a gate.Image: The Daily Maverick I live in one of the poorer communities in Nigeria’s capital city, Abuja. Like most of the communities surrounding it, Jikwoyi is a densely populated area. Because most things – accommodation, food, clothing and transportation – is much cheaper than other areas in the Federal Capital Territory, it is not unexpected that there are more people who live around these areas and places like this. One of the first things you notice about the neighborhood is that it pulses with activity and life; almost like a hive. People are always busy. Activity starts as early as 5am; earlier in fact. People who want to beat the eventual daily traffic jam leave as early as possible. And trust me…you don’t want to be in that traffic situation. So as early as 5am, you begin to see lots of cars heading out to town. Because the number of buses allocated to our part of town isn’t nearly enough to cater to the number of people in the area, many private vehicle owners pick up people as they head out to their ‘8-4’s or ‘9-5’s. It is an opportunity to make an extra N500 or N1,000; depending on the size of the car. Shop owners also begin to open up for the day’s activities. Most notable are people whose businesses are in the food sector. They may not be catering to the early birds – unless they sell things like Akara, puff puff, massa or other such fried foods – but come 9am, most of the rush to head out would have begun to slow down and people who work in the community would need to eat. And when school is in session, students pile the roads on their way to getting an education. They need to be catered to by provision store owners who sell biscuits, drinks, sweets, and other pacifiers children take these days. Or it could be to provide books, pencils and pens, or other necessities for school. Soon after, other businesses open up for the day and Jikwoyi becomes a full hub of activity. It is not hard to tell that the soul of the community is driven by work. What is surprising (to me) is that this work doesn’t seem to let up until late at night when I return home, which is usually between 8 and 9pm. In fact, if anything, it seems to pick up at night. Lights blazing, open grills, loud noises as cars jostle to pass the narrow roads, hawkers and street vendors calling out their ware and people generally conversing in louder tones because of the racket of everything else that is going on is how you would describe Jikwoyi at night. The sounds of chaos and the smells of all sorts of food mixed with putrefying drainages and gutters greet you as soon as you return to the community. Jikwoyi at night is bedlam. But it doesn’t end there. There is an active night market scene in Jikwoyi. You can buy almost anything at the Jikwoyi Market from between 6pm and 9pm when some people begin to close up shop. So if you had a craving for Ogbono soup at 7pm, you wouldn’t have to worry about satisfying your craving because, not only are there a myriad of restaurants that sell the soup, the market will be open if you are the type to want to cook yourself. I learned that many people who owned shops in the market – and the entire stretch of shops that are at the Jikwoyi junction and surrounding areas – are also those leaving the community at 5am to do their day jobs. To make this clearer, many people in this community leave for their offices in the day time and return home to their businesses to make a little extra cash before they go home at around 10pm (or later) so they can wake up again and set out for work at 5am the next day. For these people, the rat race seems a bit unending. In spite of all these, neighborhoods like Jikwoyi are home to some of the poorer people in Abuja. It is a mix of the extremely poor, people just above the red line of poverty and the aspiring middle class hoping for one move away to wealth and knowing that they could also be one move away from poverty. These types of neighborhoods are replicated everywhere in Nigeria and many parts of Africa. But it gets worse. Neighborhoods like mine are only considered ‘poorer’ neighborhoods because they are in the Federal Capital Territory and because they pale in comparison to the suburbs at the city center. In reality, there are many more neighborhoods with people living in extreme poverty than there are neighborhoods like mine. And the people in these neighborhoods have to do even more to survive. It is not hard to see that these are some of the most hardworking people in the community. They have to be up earlier and usually not by choice; they have to deal with some of the worst traffic as they leave for work; they juggle at least two jobs, with very little increase in income; they come back home through even more traffic at the end of the day; then they come home to their businesses in a quest to make even more money. In spite of all the work and time they are putting into their day jobs and night time businesses, many people in these types of neighborhoods will never get out of the poverty that they are mired in. The big question is…why? For one, the economy isn’t helpful. Inflation means that the prices of goods and services is constantly going up. This wouldn’t be so bad if salaries are increasing concurrently. But they aren’t. Which means that you have to spend more out of the steady pay you are getting. Think rent, water, electricity, feeding, healthcare, spousal and
Why Do Men So Easily Harass Women? (2)
Image: We Are The City As I washed my pile of clothes over the weekend, something that happened weeks ago came into my thoughts. I was on my way home from work when I realized I didn’t have enough cash for transportation for the rest of the week. I decided to go to the ATM. At this point, I was already bone tired and my heavy backpack was making me even more weary. When I was done withdrawing some cash, I looked in front of me and remembered that I could do with some groceries. There is a mart directly opposite the bank I use so I crossed the road and went into it. After maybe 10 or 15 minutes, I was done. Adding the grocery bags meant that my already sore body was even worse off. I just wanted to get to my house, shower and fall into bed. As soon as I got out of the mart, an Okada rider in front of the bank whistled loudly at me, beckoning me to come use his bike. Now, it is almost normal for Okada riders to whistle at their customers, even though many are replacing whistles with a ‘Going?’ or other variations of the question asking whether a person wanted their services. Back to the rider. By this time, there were two of us who wanted to cross the road to the other side; a man and me. The Okada rider kept whistling and even though it is almost customary, I was offended by it. It wasn’t just that he whistled, it was also how he did. There seemed to be a disrespect to how he did that was off-putting. But I was too tired to even care. The man and I crossed the road and we both went to stand a few feet from the Okada man and his bike; him to the left and me to the right. ‘You dey go?’ the Okada man asked me. I did not answer. ‘Come make we go now.’ Again, I did not answer. I noticed that though the man and I stood close to him, he continued to direct his conversation only to me. By this point, I hoped another Okada would show up quickly, so I could be on my way to my house. Almost like the Sky Spirits heard me, two Okada riders came towards us. The man and I stopped them and without waiting to discuss the price, the man hopped on one and was gone. I asked mine how much he would take me to my house. ‘N200.’ ‘N150.’ I countered. The rider agreed. I gave him my grocery bag to hold while I climbed the machine. It was as I was climbing that everything went south. The Okada rider who had been whistling – and whom I ignored – started to shout. ‘Why are you holding her bag? Give her the bag! She no wan pay better money. Give her the bag make she hold am.’ I was shocked at the vitriol. What was this man’s problem? My Okada rider and I ignored him. Again, he continued to shout. By this point, I was mad. Normal me would have shouted right back at him but I was tired. So I asked in my calmest voice, ‘How is this your business?’ My question seemed to irk him some more and he started raining insults on me. ‘Carry your wahala dey go oh! Nonsense. You no wan pay money dey give am you bag. Give her the bag jare!’ I told him to learn to mind his business and again wondered why he felt it was okay to shout at me for absolutely no reason. If I hadn’t been the one he was shouting at, especially knowing I had not said a word to him prior to asking how it was his business, I would have assumed that he had quarrelled with the person, especially as he kept shouting, ‘carry your wahala dey do. Nonsense.’ What was the wahala? Standing on the road and minding my business? Refusing to use his services? What?! By this time, I was settled on the bike and we were about to head off. You will not believe that this man raised his hand to as if to hit me. This time, I dropped all decorum and shouted. ‘Touch me and collect slap.’ The man started laughing as we zoomed past him. He had thought to rile me up and seeing me get angry seemed to make him happy. He continued to laugh in his loud tone until we were too far from him to hear him anymore. My natural instinct was to tell the rider carrying me to stop so I could really go into it with the man. While I would not have fought him, I would have ensured he got a good tongue lashing. I was livid at the harassment, especially because I didn’t do anything to warrant that behavior. Oh! I know that he was probably unhappy that I didn’t use his bike and when he kept speaking to me, I didn’t respond. But there were two of us who didn’t respond. Why did he think he could act a fool towards me? Why did he think he was entitled to my response? The answer is simple; I am a woman. I can bet my last cash that he would never have responded to the man in the manner which he responded to me if I had been the one to leave first. This harassment of women by men has become so commonplace in our communities that it has become an endemic. I have written and spoken about it one too many times and nothing seems to be happening. If anything, the number of times I get harassed have increased. I talked about how women do not fear getting robbed, as most robberies come with a side of rape. I have talked about why men so easily
Accomplices of Sexual Harassment
(Very) Angry WomanImage: iStock Photos On the morning of March 19, 2019, I shared one of my older posts asking why men so easily harass women. Between 5:03pm and 5:30pm of the very same day, I would get sexually harassed by a stink-breathed, uncultured excuse of a human being. But let me get back to 5:03pm. I was standing at my junction waiting for a taxi for my trip home from work. I had just looked at the time when a bus slid to a stop close to me and said it was going in my direction. It was one of these clean coaster buses that is usually used as official buses or by transport companies for interstate travels. I got into the bus and saw that it was almost full; I and the woman who entered right after me took up the remaining seats. I moved to the rear of the bus where there were three men and the only space available for me. I sat in between them, with two men on my right and one on my left. As soon as I sat down, the clod on my left said, ‘Fine girl, how are you?’ I responded with a ‘well done’, took out my ear piece, wore it and started listening to radio…but not before the idiot said, ‘I have been greeting you and you cannot answer.’ I repeated my ‘well done’ and again, he goes, ‘why can’t you answer when I am talking to you?’ Seeing that he was moving mad, I decided to ignore him and listen to my music. Thankfully, by this time, I already had my headphones affixed and Sage was regaling me with urban hits on the Urban 96 show. The man kept talking to me, but I ignored him. I started preparing a video for my social media platforms and when I was done, I realized that it was around 5:12pm and…the bus driver was asking for our fares. I took mine out and gave to the guy next to me on my right. I got back to my phone to check my Twitter timeline. Obviously, the stupid idiot on my left said something to me, which I didn’t hear. He then went on to tap me on my upper thigh to get my attention. I take out my earpiece. ‘Have you paid?’ he asked. ‘Yes.’ After which I wore my earpiece again. Then he started to rub my upper thigh and I moved away from him. He did again, and I moved even more. Now, normal me would have asked why he was touching me but I gave him the benefit of doubt because he seemed to be reaching for wallet. When he paid his fare and tried to touch me one more time, I give him a stink look and moved even further away from him; in the small space that was afforded me. Seeing my reaction, he started tapping my upper thigh, asking why he was talking to me and I wasn’t responding. At this point, he was becoming obscene and people were looking back to see what the ruckus was about. I took out my earpiece and said, ‘Can you let me be, please?!’, making sure to let the edge into my voice so he knew I wasn’t joking. The bloody fool then raised his voice and said, ‘What is the meaning of the fact that I am talking to you and you aren’t responding? Why aren’t you responding to me?’ To which I replied, ‘Must I talk to you?’and the disgusting excuse of a person lost his damn mind. ‘Who do you think you are that they cannot talk to you?! I am talking to you and you are busy pressing phone. Is it this phone that you are pressing that makes you think they cannot talk to you?! Is your phone bigger than mine?’ To which he proceeded to bring out his phone and show everyone who was looking. Let me not forget to mention that as he asked each of these questions, he punctuated them by poking me with his finger; again, on my upper thigh. By this point, I had already put my earpiece back on to shut him and his putrid breath from assaulting my senses but I had also reduced the volume of the radio. I was getting angrier by the second and I was about to bust. Even though I was tethering on the edge of going ham on him, I remained quiet, feigning an interest in my phone when my instinct was begging me to slap him and damn the consequences. ‘Even ajebo girls that grew up in VGC I dey talk to talk more of this one.’ This elicited laughter from some of the men who were on the bus. I raised my head from my phone and darted burning sulfur at them. The others looked away in what may have been unconcern or maybe, embarrassment. Oh! Did I forget to tell you that there were 9 men and 3 women (including me) in the back of the bus? This brings me to the reason that nearly tipped me over the edge! While I was mad at my harasser, I had already figured out that he was a classless, disgusting, uncultured, uncouth, and vile piece of shit. What had me swelling up were the well-dressed men on the bus who laughed instead of checking the blatant nincompoop for his stupidity; the ones who looked away instead of speaking up against his nasty behavior; the one who said, ‘You can tell she is a small girl. She just has body’ to my hearing because he assumed that I would not do (or say) anything to him; and the women who looked at me and turned away. They were, in my opinion, accomplices to my harassment; all of them! I realized that they repulsed me almost as much as the fool who had harassed me. And because this
Public Restrooms Need to Change
Image: Sarcasm I am constantly baffled when I use restrooms in public spaces that have only tissue paper. But let me backtrack a bit. Growing up, I was taught to clean myself with water any time I peed or pooped and this was followed by a strict rule to wash my hands afterwards. This was common practice for my family and many families that I knew. So if I went to the toilet 20 times on any given day, I would clean myself with water 20 times. As we got older, the concept of cleaning ourselves with tissue paper began to be mainstream but again, we were taught to use the tissue paper to dab ourselves after we had washed with water. It wasn’t until I got to the university that I saw people use tissue papers as their primary cleaning option. I was shocked. So many questions ran through my head; how did they do that? Were they truly clean? And if not, were they comfortable walking around with traces of pee or poop on them? And then finally, I wondered if their nether regions smelled? There is a flip side though. The way I was looking at these people like they had alien parts sprouting out of their heads was the same way they were looking at me. I got asked some questions that expressed their shock at my choice. “Do you use your hands when you wipe down with water?” “Which hand do you use? And do you eat with that hand?” “How can you stand touching your feces?” “Isn’t it disgusting?” And they really were disgusted! So it made me wonder; was their option so ‘wrong’? Well…there are times that I have no option than to use a tissue paper. It has always felt weird. And worse, I have always had to deal with an itch every single time I have used this option. It may be psychological (or not) but that has always happened. As a result, if I have to poop when there is no water, I would rather hold it until I can find a toilet with a bucket or a water shower that I can use to wash. If however I have diarrhea and just have to go, I always feel bad afterwards. I use so much tissue that you have to wonder whether I am trying to clean the oil spillage in the Niger Delta. Even at that, I never feel clean. I am not the only one on this boat. In fact, I have heard of people who take off their clothes every time they poop and have full baths afterwards because they don’t want any remnant of feces on their bodies. The thought of carrying even the smallest remnant of feces on our bodies is why we have decided that the tissue option is not for us. Back to my opening statement. It is surprising that many hotels, restaurants, clubs, schools, offices and other public places do not have toilets that cater to people like me. So if we have to use the restrooms in these places, we have to wonder whether we can risk holding it in (which is totally unhealthy) or risk getting itches that may (or may not) be the start of an infection. This is why I think that ALL public places should have both options for people who use their facilities. Ensure that you have running water as well as an abundance of tissue papers. If you cannot provide a detachable toilet tap (or a bidet as it is called) in your toilet, then get a bucket and bowl in there. Or a small kettle. First, it ensures all your customers are satisfied and second, you wouldn’t have to deal with the possibility of having urine/feces on the seat, the door and every other place a person might touch if they do not wash their hands afterwards. And if are like me and don’t know what options you may have when you want to use public toilets, do yourself a favor and go in there with a small bottle that would suffice. We can’t allow ourselves suffer in a clear case of Mohammed refusing to go to the mountain. Here 👇 is what I think an ideal toilet in a public place should look like. What do you think? An ideal restroom with options for cleaning one’s self.Image: Becoming Peculiar
The Nigerian Police and the ₦50 Note
Corrupt policeman collecting N50 bribe. The Nigerian Police… Hmm. I really think that we should discuss the things that are happening on our roads, especially as it affects motorists who have to deal with the policemen stationed at various checkpoints along these roads. I live in the one of the towns on the outskirts of Abuja. Something you should know about neighborhoods like mine is that they are usually heavily populated in comparison to the city center and the suburban areas. Of course the reason is that they are more affordable than the expensive collection of towns that is at the heart the Federal Capital Territory of Nigeria. It was to these neighborhoods that Okada riders were confined when Nasir El Rufai, the then Minister of the Federal Capital Territory, placed a ban on them in 2006 as part of his design to make Nigeria’s capital city more cosmopolitan. As a result, thousands of Okada riders had to stop plying the city routes. While many of us are thankful that we still have this option for transportation – which is about the only means of transportation that can go into inner communities and regions with horrible roads – there is something that is happening that makes it harder to use the option. I will use my neighborhood for this example. If I have to return home late – and by late I mean any time after 9pm – I usually would have to take an Okada from Nyanya to my house in Jikwoyi. It is a pretty straight forward road which should take about 10 minutes on an Okada. Here is the thing though; as soon as it gets to 9pm, five police check points prop up close to the Karu mosque, CBN and Phase II Junctions in Jikwoyi. These check points should basically be considered three but you will soon understand why I said they are five. Any Okada rider who has to take a passenger to Jikwoyi would have to consider if he ready to deal with the policemen at the Karu mosque and CBN junction. And if they are to return to Nyanya, they would have to deal with the policemen close to Jikwoyi Phase II, and the opposite sides of CBN junction and close to the Karu mosque. Why is this a problem? Well, the later it gets, the more likely the policemen would stop the Okada rider for any and every infraction; real and imagined. To get out of these problems, the Okada men have to be ready with their ₦50 notes to prevent a lengthy conversation or even an arrest. Where the Okada rider isn’t cooperative with the ₦50, they are asked for all sorts of vehicle identification that is not in the purview of the police to request. And because a lot of these Okada men know that they are unable to provide the documents required to ply the roads, documents I have come to realize are constantly changing based on who is asking, they chuck the N50 they give as the sacrifice needed to continue plying the roads and getting their daily meals. In essence, if they are lucky, they pay ₦50 and where they are not, which is most likely the case, they would have to pay as much as ₦250 to get their passengers to Jikwoyi and back to Nyanya. The direct result of this is that, as soon as it gets late, transport fares for Okada rides go up. Usually, it costs ₦150 to get from Nyanya to Jikwoyi. With the possibilities of having to pay ₦250, the average Okada rider would ask for ₦300 to take a person there. No matter how hard you ask, they wouldn’t budge. Where they do, they never go below ₦250. Okada riders are not the only ones who suffer this. You can be sure that Keke riders, and even drivers of cars are constantly being stopped by the police for their ‘token’. Now, I am not averse to the police ensuring that Okada riders (and other motorists) obey the rules. What I cannot stand is the deliberate attempt to box these motorists into situations where they are forced to give at least ₦50. I have seen police men ask for documents that no one in the car or keke I was in had ever heard about. I have seen police men delay Okada riders for minutes on end with the threat of arrest and even cold blooded murder. Or worse, deliberately letting those who break the law continue to do so because of the “opportunity” each infraction would afford them. Many of these police men are themselves drunken, disheveled louts in comparison to the men and women they stop on the roads. But their uniform gives them so much power. It is so bad that even when people are not guilty, they get their ₦50 ready when they approach a check point. Let me give you an example. One Friday night, a couple of us had gone out for drinks. We left the spot at almost 2am and headed for my friend’s house where we were going to sleep. Close to the Banex Junction in Abuja was a police checkpoint. Soon as we got there, we were stopped. They asked the routine questions about where we had been and where we were headed to. One of my friends joked with them and brought out money to give them. I was livid! Soon as the money exchanged hands, the police officer became friendlier and waved us on. Again, I was livid! I asked why she paid the money and she said she just didn’t want any problems. We were girls, we were out late and all sorts of things could wrong. I understood the logic but I was still mad. The friend who was driving said he knew he had all his papers and that he wouldn’t have paid anything but like I said, I understood the logic. We have heard of
Announcing: ‘Quick-E’
One of the best things about Africa is how diverse the people, cultures and traditions, food, clothing, values and beliefs, and what makes us African is. From the horn of Africa to the swamps of the Niger delta, we are as different a people as the topography of our regions are. Despite our difference, it is safe to say that we are the most beautiful people on the planet! That been said, it is sad that many of us never bother to learn about our differences and the interconnecting things that unite us. Even more, as European, Middle Eastern and American cultures diffuse into ours, we seem to have the perfect excuse to be far removed from our heritage. I am guilty of this. My father is an Idoma man from Otukpo in Benue State, Nigeria. My mum is Ebira, from the town called Okene in Kogi State. When asked what tribe I am, I usually just say I am a Nigerian. As expected, I am usually asked again what tribe in Nigeria I am from. Again, I respond with the ‘I am a Nigerian and that is all that matters’ line. I know it is an ideological stand point but I have seen the effects of fixating on tribe rather than people in Nigeria. So I refused to be identified by my tribe. I have been to my father’s village once and only passed through my mother’s village on many road trips to the Southern part of the country. I also cannot speak either of their languages. To be fair, I understand my mother’s language but cannot speak it properly while I am completely hopeless when it comes to my father’s language. We all spoke the English language (and Pidgin English when our parents were not around) and that was fine by me. I grew up on American television and for the longest time, I wanted to live, eat, dress and talk like an American. I rarely wore African or African themed clothes. And though Nigeria’s English is based off our colonizers – the British – I always spoke with the twang of the American. A little over five years ago, I started to get more attune to the beauty of our continent. As I learned more about the people of Africa, my appetite for even more knowledge increased. I wanted to know why we acted the way we did, what informed our choice of clothing, how many trials we had to go through before perfecting thatcultural dish, what rules applied to men and women, how children learned values, what triggered wars, how diseases were treated, how wealth was distributed, the gods! Oh the gods! I wanted to know it all. But…history books can be so long (and sometimes so painful to read) and the thought of going through a million history books was not something I relished at all. I wanted an education and I wanted it quickly. So…a thought crossed my mind. Why don’t I ask people to teach me about their cultures and traditions in small bites?! As the thought developed in my mind, I remembered something I used to watch a lot on an East African channel – I think it was eTV – where they did these one minute videos that started with ‘Did you know…’ and proceeded to share little information about various aspects of East African cultures and traditions. I used to LOVE those nuggets! And I felt that I could do that too! For almost a year, I have been sitting on this idea because I want the delivery to be perfect, to be awesome and to be eye catching. I spent so much time worrying about the package that I forgot to just focus on the content. If anything, eTV just had the written content on their screens and it was a hit. So I didn’t need to waste all this time figuring out what I wanted the content to look like rather than what the content was about. Anyhoo, I stopped worrying about it and decided to just do it! So today, I am super excited to announce the newest thing on Shades of Us. I am calling this one…Quick-E. Quick-E is short for ‘Quick Education’ and they are a series of one minute videos looking at various aspects of African cultures and traditions. These videos will help us understand a little bit about our African brothers and sisters and their heritage. What I hope to achieve with this is that, by educating us on simple things that makes us the way we are, we can learn to tolerate and understand each other in the promotion of a united African people and sustainable peace in our communities. Now, this is not something I want to do alone. I want you and me to be part of this project. ‘How do you come in?’ may be your next question, to which I will scream in delight and give you a virtual hug. But, on a serious note though, I want you to be a part of this project by sending me a request to do a video about your tribe. An example could be, ‘Hey Ramat! I absolutely love Quick-E and learned so much from the last couple of videos. I am an Idoma person and I would love you too do a video about our food. Our traditional soup is called Okoho and we usually eat it with any ‘swallow’ which we call Ona. I will be excited to see my request accepted. Thanks boo!’ When I get a request like this, I will immediately do a research and put together a video that is like the first edition that I have attached in this post. Exciting, yeah? I know I am excited and I am super eager to learn from all of you. PLEASE be a part of this really awesome thing and let us get to know about our heritage! (PS: I will mention everyone who
