I Thought I Was a Witch…
Children Accused of WitchcraftImage: SAFE CHILD AFRICA. I remember when I thought I was a witch. It was sometime in the year 2000 or 2001. My parents were strict and required us to stay at home always; unless absolutely necessary. They also didn’t encourage us to have friends or people over at the house. Maybe it was because of their strictness or the fact that we were always indoors but, my house became the hub for our friends and neighbors when they weren’t around. And yes, we had so many of them; especially me. When my parents were out, our friends would come over and we would have all sorts of craziness in the name of fun. If my parents knew just how many people came to our house and caused havoc when they were out, we would have been flayed. This is not to say that we weren’t caught once in a while. But they didn’t know just how bad it was. It was during one of these visits that a friend came to beat me in the house. Funny story. Omoh (fake name alert) and I were closer than most of our other friends. The group used to call us ‘husband and wife’. For some reason which I cannot remember now, we had a fight and stopped being friends. Then I heard that he was trying to tarnish my reputation and spreading lies about me. I got so mad and began to write a letter. By this point, I had just learned words like ‘scalliwag’, ‘nincompoop’ and the all-purpose French word, fuck. I peppered my letter with those words – and others like them – in what I thought was a take down of his entire existence. When I was done, I gave the letter to the same friends who brought the tale to me. Turns out my words struck a million nerves. He was so mad! What I didn’t know was that the letter had been read aloud in front of the rest of the group and with each ‘big word’ they saw, the guys would fall all over themselves, regaling in laughter. And then they would check the dictionary for the meaning and upon discovering what it meant, would break out in even bigger laughter. By the time they were done reading that letter, Omoh was in a rage. I had barely been told he was coming to beat me when he burst into my house brandishing a belt. He asked me to repeat myself if I dared. I was scared out of my skin but I was never one to show it. So I went, ‘I have said all I wanted to say to you. If you didn’t understand it, that is your concern.’ Wrong move. I felt the sharpness of the belt eating into my flesh just as the rest of the group decided to intervene. Maybe most people didn’t think it wouldn’t get to that or they wanted to see me get beat, which I think is what really happened, but the delay in their response sent me into a rage. I reached for him, hoping to throw a blow; even though I was not a fighter. I remember that the biggest guy in the group held me back as the others held Omoh. As I was kicking and throwing blows, I kept saying, ‘You don’t know me! I will show just who I am. This is the biggest mistake you have made in your life and you will so regret it. Get ready to face who I am.’ There was nothing I was going to do. I knew I was bluffing but I kept going. Heck, I couldn’t even tell my parents. They would have continued the beating from where he left off. But I was livid and kept going. In a way, I was thankful that I was held back. If they had let me attack, I most definitely would have run away. The fight was eventually broken and everyone went their way. I heard that Omoh planned to still beat me up in the streets whenever he saw me. I was scared of what would happen to me when I didn’t have other people protecting me. I know that I talk a big game but honestly, I don’t know how to fight; then or now. So when my mother sent me the market two days later, and I had to pass through his house, I was scared out of my wits. When I passed by on my way to the market and nothing happened, I was relieved; for a little while. I think the fear doubled when I was returning because I kept imagining him jumping out of nowhere to descend on me. When that didn’t happen, I finally breathed a sigh of relief when I got home. I was free! I had barely let out that sigh when another friend came in. ‘Oh girl! I dey fear you oh! Wetin you do Omoh?’ Even though he said it in a joking tone, I could tell that he was a bit wary; of me. I looked at him and wondered what he was about. ‘Omoh is sick. He has been lying in bed since that day that he beat you. What did you do?’ I looked at him and hissed. ‘He must be joking.’ I thought to myself. But he wasn’t. The rumor had spread that I had cast a spell on Omoh, which was why he was sick. It was then that it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen any of my friends since the fight. They were actively avoiding me! I felt so bad. So I included every one of them in the anger I was still smarting from. It wasn’t until the next day that a delegation of friends came to plead with me to forgive Omoh. I was shocked. What were these people saying? What could I possibly have done? ‘Remember as you were
IDPs: Seeing Beyond the Statistics
All Images: Ramatu Ada Ochekliye A visit to the Internally Displaced People’s camp in Durumi, Abuja on May 28, 2017 was everything I expected it would be; emotionally draining. We partnered with Save OurWomen Foundation (SOW Foundation) for the #1Girl1Pad project, a project that saw us advocating for menstrual hygiene for girls and women in the IDP camp. The project entailed educating these girls and women about menstrual hygiene and providing them with sanitary pads to last them at least three months. As many know, May 28 is #MenstrualHygieneDay and globally, individuals and organizations design events to ensure more women get access to menstrual hygiene education and products. As soon as we got into the camp, we were surrounded by children excited at our presence. They smiled up at us with the true innocence of children; trusting that we were good even if we were total strangers. I quickly took out my camera. The children lit up when they saw it. I smiled at them and they smiled right back. They had already begun to take poses and I was not going to disappoint them. So I clicked. And clicked. ‘Say kiss! Say kiss!’ the kids kept saying. I thought I wasn’t hearing them well. ‘Say Kiss’? Were they trying to say ‘Cheese’? I smiled. Of course that was what they were saying. “Say Cheese”! And then I noticed something else. Almost all the children put up two fingers in the air when posing for the camera. I shouldn’t have been surprised…but I was. It seemed like in spite of all the problems these people were going through, popular culture still seeped into the camp and influenced the young people and children. Even the smallest child put up those fingers when the camera was pointed at them. And can you see those big smiles?! These children had a lot working against them but they were genuinely excited at having their picture taken. They didn’t even ask to see what the shots looked like. I could have been clicking the flash lights for all they cared. All they saw was a person with a camera paying attention to them. The simplicity of it all was almost my undoing. I turned away to focus on our reason for visiting. As we educated the girls and women about menstrual hygiene, we began to hear of some of the problems they were facing. One of the problems that I considered a sore thumb was the access to medical care. Most of the women and girls said they ‘managed’ their pain until it rode over because there were no doctors to help them. Again, I looked at the children – gathering at the door because they had been told the meeting wasn’t for them – and I wondered how they ‘managed’ their pain. Looking at them, you couldn’t tell they were going through anything. They were are as carefree and jolly as children are wont to be. We finished the education part and went into disseminating the pads we raised via donations. As we gave each girl and woman a package of pads and panties, the children returned, clamoring around us in the hopes of getting theirs. Older women shooed them away but the children returned as soon as the women’s backs were turned. They kept stretching their hands to get a package. Even though we insisted the sanitary pads weren’t for them, the children didn’t budge. He took a pose after I gave him the sanitary pads So I took a packet and broke it open. I gave two pads each to the little girls; even though it was clear they couldn’t possibly be menstruating yet. As I gave them the pads, the crowd around us thinned out and it was at this point I noticed a little boy in the mix, arms stretched out, face almost crumbling. He didn’t want to miss out what everyone else was getting. I told him I couldn’t give him because he is a boy. He crumbled at this point. I held his face and asked what he wanted to do with it. His reply was definitely my undoing. ‘For my mother.’ The tears were a second away from falling so I turned away into the boot of our vehicle and calmed my nerves. I breathed in deeply and willed the tears to go away. I took out two sanitary pads and gave him. He curtsied and said thank you. I knew I needed to take more deep breaths. Something distracted me and when I turned back, the boy was gone. It occurred to me that I had not asked his name. I was ashamed because until that moment, he was a statistic, a child in an IDP camp, one of many. I wished I had seen him as an individual, one with a story, possible fears and hopes and most especially, a name! I wished that I had focused more on him instead of getting shots of everyone around me. I wished I had dignified him by, at the very least, knowing his name so I didn’t have to refer to him in this post as ‘a little boy’. But he is a little boy, a child in an IDP Camp, one of many and to some, a statistic. And the longer he has to make do with the problems all the children and women in that camp are facing – problems ranging from rationed meals, poor access to health care, inadequate housing and privacy, little or no formal education and the indignity of depending on do-gooders for basic necessities – the more likely it is that he becomes an even worse statistic; one tied to crime, hate, unproductivity or even death. The children in Durumi IDP camp look better than most of those from the North East but let’s be clear, it is not in the slightest bit a ‘lesser’ humanitarian crisis. We owe it to ourselves to help out in whatever way can to alleviate the suffering of these people. It
Dear Parents, Here Is Some Much Needed Advice
Image: Parent Pump Radio Dear parents, First, congratulations on having that child or those children. It must have been nerve-wracking going through the process of carrying and birthing your children. It should even be scarier trying to raise those kids to be stellar individuals who you can be proud of. Well done indeed. Having said that, there are some things you need to learn if you are to be a wonderful parent. This has nothing to do with changing diapers or effectively calculating sleeping and eating pattern. No; let the books educate you on those. This has to do with developing your children’s personalities and temperament. 1. You are your children’s FIRST ROLE MODELS; While this is self-explanatory, it begs to be explained. You need to show your children how to be responsible by doing your share of house chores and contributing your share of the finances. Let them know that whether they are boys or girls, they each have duties and responsibilities to the family. If you do not, your boys will learn to expect women to take care of them and your daughters would think their lives should revolve around taking care of their men. Do not hit your spouse or be violent in any way to them. Of course there are days when you will quarrel and have heated arguments but as much as you can, do this away from the children. Let them learn to respect each other because you respect each other and yourselves. Don’t go about fighting each other in public when you can sort out your issues privately. Don’t go teaching your children that it is okay to be deliberately taunting and nagging and rude. It is not a good look for anyone. Get a job, or a business or an advocacy organization and spend your time on more meaningful things than house chores while watching Telemundo, ZeeWorld or Super Sports. Teach your girls to aspire for more than being a kept woman who depends on her husband for every single thingshe needs. That is no way to live and that is no way to raise your daughters. It is also no way to raise your sons who might grow up to expect women to depend on them for all they need. Teach your children that marriage is a partnership, with each partner contributing time, energy, and financesto the process. 2. You are the first to BUILD YOUR CHILDREN’S SELF-ESTEEM AND WORTH; Many parents are okay telling their children that they are ‘stupid’, ‘foolish’, ‘a dunce’ or even more derogatory terms. This is wrong! No child is stupid. They may do stupid things but that doesn’t make them stupid. Understand that each child is different and learns at their own pace. Don’t force your children to all excel at mathematics when one may love French more. Find out what each child is capable of and reaffirm their self-worth by making them better at it. Also, you need to let your children learn to do things by themselves. You should allow them try to solve problem without needing you there. These problems could be algebra or bullying. What you should do is tell them that you trust their abilities and their decision and help them understand that sometimes, it is okay to be wrong. There are parents who tell their kids that they are ugly or too black or have long or wide mouths or slit eyes or are too fat and stuff like that. Well…don’t! These seemingly simple utterances go a long way in cementing your child’s self-worth. As they grow up, these words will make them feel insecure in a society that thrives on insecurity. And when your kids are insecure, they become susceptible to all sorts of vices to make them feel better about themselves. 3. Your child should NOT HAVE TO EARN YOUR LOVE; It is a known fact that parents do not love their children equally and have favorites but never show your children that! Love each of your children as equally as you can and better than that, your children should not have to earn your love. It is unnatural for children to do things to make you love them. Loving them should come as naturally as breathing. This means that you shouldn’t threaten to withdraw your love when they do wrong and even worse, tell them as some parents do, that they wish the kids were never born. How is a child to feel loved when these are done? How is a child to thrive? And yes, some children can be very trying but that is no excuse to make them work at getting your love. You should be able to understand the dynamic nature of each child and use that dynamism to make your relationship with them better. 4. Your child should respect (NOT FEAR) you; Most African parents thrive on instilling fear into their children. Their children are not allowed to have opinions of their own and must cower when these parents talk. Well guess what? They are your children, not your slaves or puppets! When children fear their parents, they hide things from them and in some instances, hate them. Such children cannot wait to leave their homes and when they do, they almost always never return. They will also keep communication at the barest minimum because no one likes to constantly have to face their fears. Respect is very different from fear. It is respect that will make a child do what you ask. And this respect has to be mutual! That you brought that child into the world is no reason to be disrespectful to them. You must treat them like fully functional human beings who have a right to their own thoughts, opinions and ideologies. The plus side to this is, if you respect each other, your children and other people you meet, your children will most likely pick your ideologies as theirs too. 5. Tell your children YOU LOVE THEM; African parents are
Here Comes the Bride 4
Picture from: THE FEMINIST WIRE Bimbo Omotosho woke up wanting to pee. She went into her bathroom and when she returned, sat on her bed and stared at the night light. She wasn’t sure she could fall right back to sleep. ‘Maybe a glass of milk would help’, she said too herself. She looked at her bedside clock and saw that it was 2am. Her mother always snapped about having late night snacks and Bimbo really didn’t listen. When she was hungry, she ate. She had a stash under her bed which helped her cravings. Bimbo bent down to pull her goodie bag and was shocked to see it empty. There was a note from her mother saying, ‘I was born way before you and I know all the tricks you can possibly pull young lady. No more unplanned snacks!’ Bimbo was mad! Why did she always do that?! Well then, she had to find another way. Bimbo knew her mother slept like she was in a coma but like most people in a coma, you never knew what would make her start. So Bimbo opened her door as gently as she could and, thanking God for the plush carpets that lined most of the house, tip-toed past her parents’ room and downstairs. She prayed her father didn’t wake up but knew that even if he did, he would most likely help her get her milk and share a cookie. When she got to the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of milk – the real stuff and not the 2% milk her mother always insisted she drank – and took out one cookie from the jar. Her best bet was to eat it in her room. As she closed the fridge door, she could have sworn she heard a moan. She shrugged it off as a figment of her imagination and set out to her room. As she passed her maid’s room, she heard the moan again. This time, coming in slightly louder. She was scared but curious and in the end, curiosity won. She kept her milk on the floor and oh so gently turned the doorknob. With his back to her, her father was naked and kissing their maid; who was also naked. They were running their hands all over each other but what was more disturbing was the fact that a similar scene was playing on the television. Bimbo stood there, cookie in hand, transfixed as she watched her father, their maid and the actors they were copying. She may be eight years old but she knew what she was seeing was wrong. However, she couldn’t avert her eyes. She was so transfixed that she didn’t hear her mother walk up to her, gently pull the door close and point upstairs. Bimbo didn’t need to be told to go to her room. She ran to her room, locked her door and laid on the bed. The screams began, followed by the crash of glassware. Bimbo buried her head under her pillow and soon enough, fell asleep; cookie in hand. The glass of milk remained where Bimbo dropped it, unbothered by the destruction that went on for hours. *** The divorce was quick. Turns out Bimbo’s mum took a couple of pictures that could ruin her husband, the very respectable Pastor Biodun Omotosho, senior pastor, Live Church, with a congregation of over ten thousand people. After her crazy tantrum, she piped down and made her demands. She would keep Bimbo, the house, two cars and a steady allowance to continue living as she was used to. In return, she would not publish the pictures to his loving flock. She would also pretend she was the one who got tired of the rigors of marriage to a ‘man of God’ so his impeccable reputation remained untainted. He jumped at the offer, promising to do all she asked. In less than a week, a joint statement was released and as expected, Bimbo’s mum was labelled the bitch! She wasn’t worried because in truth, she married Biodun for his money and wasn’t into all that religious stuff anyway. To ride out the drama, she took her daughter and went off to Canada. In all these, no one spoke to Bimbo about what she had seen that night. Even when she tried to bring it up, her mother shut her down by saying, ‘You did not see anything! And next time, when I say don’t do something, you better obey me! In fact, this is all your fault! If you had obeyed me, I wouldn’t have known…just forget it. You did not see anything.’ But how could bimbo forget it when every night she went to bed, she kept seeing the actors doing things to each other? *** As Bimbo grew, she realized what she had seen her father do that day was have sex and what was playing on the television in her maid’s room was porn. As she became more internet savvy, she spent time finding and watching porn, and erasing her internet activities. It wasn’t as if anyone cared. Her mother was too busy dating rich men to be bothered about what her daughter was doing online. Bimbo started craving sex like she wanted food. As soon as she became a teenager, she wanted to practice what she had been watching for four years so she could find out if all the feelings she got from watching porn could be felt in reality. She began to make moves with the boys in school but they were all so scared. They kept acting like she would eat them. Bimbo knew that if she was to satisfy her urges, she had to aim higher; older. It was no wonder that the moment she saw Ricardo Esteban, her mum’s newest boyfriend, she knew he was the one she wanted. Ricardo was a tall, ripped bodied, dark-olive skinned hunk of a Columbian millionaire and it wasn’t surprising that her mother was dating him. She told
Dear Future Family: Letter to My Husband
Man Proposing with a diamond ringCulled from: SALON Dear future husband, Here are a few things you need to know if you want to be my one and only all my life. Hey Meghan Trainor, get out of my head! First off, I am a whole, complete and full human being. You do not ‘complete’ me, or make me ‘whole’. I am not half a human being who needs to be completed. I hope you also know that you are a whole, complete and full human being too. I am not in your life to complete you either. I was created for a purpose for which I have taken time to search and understand. Guess what? That purpose is not marriage! Marriage to you will be a PART of my life and not the entire essence of it. This means that whether I marry you or remain single, my life will still be fulfilled as long as I live my purpose. So if I decide to marry you, it will not be because marriage will make my life more fulfilling or meaningful. No. And if you haven’t found the ‘why’ of your life, you better keep that ring to yourself. Be rest assured that I will not marry someone whom I have to help find his way. Find the reason for your existence and THEN talk to me. Society doesn’t think my identity matters. They either want me to bare my father’s name or bare your name. It is like the concept of my identity threatens the faux power society wields. Well, I have decided to give my middle finger to society. Taking your name is not compulsory. I love my name! I love my identity! So forgive me darling for wanting to hold on to my name. I mean, it doesn’t change the fact that I am your wife whether I take your name or not. Chimamanda Adichie isn’t less married because she didn’t take her husband’s name. Same with Beyoncé. I hope you can understand why I want to do this. The best qualities I bring to you are NOT my virginity, ability to cook nor how long I can pray. The best quality I am bringing to the table is the quality of my mind. I am not an ornament. I have a fully functional brain with my own thoughts, views, ideas and ideologies. I say what I think, whenever I feel. While I admire the quality of your mind, I will not shelve my ideas or views for yours. Your ideas are not better than mine because you are a man. They should be better on merit. And when they are better, I will admit it and respect yours but I will not accept the premise that the quality of an idea is based on which side of the gender divide one falls in. You are the head of our home but that doesn’t mean you are the master cum slave driver. We have one Master whom we both must defer to and HE is neither of us. So let me put this out there; I will not do ALL the house chores! That house is OUR home so we either work together to keep it or we don’t even bother walking down that road. If you want a wife to take care of all the home chores, that woman is not me. I will have no option but to bid you farewell and send out my best wishes to you. Let’s talk about sex baby. (Salt-N-Pepa, it is 2016. A new track won’t hurt!) Sex is a beautiful expression of a lot of things and could mean anything at any given time. I KNOW about sex; a lot! Knowing about sex doesn’t make me a ‘whore’ as popular belief says. Hey society, how come when a woman knows about sex she is a whore but when a man does he isn’t? We will break you society! Mark our words! I am not going to act naïve to feed your ego. I will actively partake in the pleasure giving and taking that is sex. There will be role playing games and oh-so-crazy adventurous things we will do in the bedroom (and on the couch, on the table, on the bar, on the floor. You can meet me in the bathr…wait Young Jeezy! Let me finish this!). If this doesn’t go well with your ego, you can go to moon and rest. You will not be missed; at least, not by me. My love, you know I like me some adventure. There are time I would want us to eat out, stay in a hotel, travel around the globe, try new things and basically be as much fun as possible. Even when we get older and can’t be jumping up and down, I still want us to find small pleasures that make memories worth keeping. I can honestly take care of myself. I believe in working hard for everything I need and then working some more for the things I want. I won’t marry you for financial security. My brain is capable of making me as wealthy as I want to be and all that independent of you. Don’t think you are doing me a favor by telling me about the money you are making. You may be Jay but you better believe that I am Bey. You can expect that I will bring in my own slice of the bacon which should be a naira for naira match of what you are bringing in. While I expect us to gift each other things over the course of our lives, don’t worry about my clothes, underwear, skin products, hair and makeup. I’ve got this. I also want you to know that I will buy houses, cars, bonds, businesses and other things I consider assets; and in my name too! Don’t fret. I expect you to do the same. When we have children, the onus of raising
Dear Future Family: Letter to My Husband 2
Man Proposing with a diamond ringCulled from: SALON Dear future husband, Here are a few things you need to know if you want to be my one and only all my life. Hey Meghan Trainor, get out of my head! First off, I am a whole, complete and full human being. You do not ‘complete’ me, or make me ‘whole’. I am not half a human being who needs to be completed. I hope you also know that you are a whole, complete and a full human being too. I am not in your life to complete you either. I was created for a purpose for which I have taken time to search and understand. Guess what? That purpose is not marriage! Marriage to you will be a part of my life and not the entire essence of it. This means that whether I marry you or remain single, my life will still be fulfilled as long as I live my purpose. So if I decide to marry you, it will not be because marriage will make my life more fulfilling or meaningful. No. And if you haven’t found the ‘why’ of your life, you better keep that ring to yourself. Be assured that I will not marry someone whom I have to help find his way. Find the reason for your existence and then talk to me. Society doesn’t think my identity matters. They either want me to bare my father’s name or yours. It is like the concept of my identity threatens the faux power society wields. Well, I have decided to give my middle finger to society. Taking your name is not compulsory. I love my name! I love my identity! So forgive me darling for wanting to hold on to my name. I mean, it doesn’t change the fact that I am your wife whether I take your name or not. Chimamanda Adichie isn’t less married because she didn’t take her husband’s name. Same with Beyoncé. I hope you understand. The best qualities I bring to you are not my virginity, ability to cook or how long I can pray. The best quality I am bringing to the table is the quality of my mind. I am not an ornament. I have a fully functional brain with my own thoughts, views, ideas and ideologies. I say what I think, whenever I feel. While I admire the quality of your mind, I will not shelve my ideas or views for yours. Your ideas are not better than mine because you are a man. They should be better on merit. And when they are better, I will admit it and respect yours but I will not accept the premise that the quality of an idea is based on which side of the gender divide one falls in. I do not believe you are the head of our home. We are partners in a relationship that is equality. Having said that, I understand that equality is also about sacrifice and compromise and I am willing to be reasonable for the greater good of our partnership. There are days when you should lead and there are days when I should. We need to play to our strengths and capabilities. So let me put this out there; I will not do all the house chores! That house is our home; so we either work together to keep it or we don’t even bother walking down that road. If you want a wife to take care of all the home chores, that woman is not me. I will have no option but to bid you farewell and send out my best wishes to you. Let’s talk about sex baby. (Salt-N-Pepa, it is 2016. A new track won’t hurt!) Sex is a beautiful expression of a lot of things and could mean anything at any given time. I know about sex; a lot! Knowing about sex doesn’t make me a ‘whore’ as popular belief says. Hey society, how come when a woman knows about sex she is a whore but when a man does, he isn’t? We will break you, society! Mark our words! I am not going to act naïve to feed your ego. I will actively partake in the pleasure giving and taking that is sex. There will be role playing games and oh-so-crazy adventurous things we will do in the bedroom (and on the couch, on the table, on the bar, on the floor. You can meet me in the bathr…wait Young Jeezy! Let me finish this!). If this doesn’t go well with your ego, you can go to moon and rest. You will not be missed; at least, not by me. My love, you know I like me some adventure. There are times I would want us to eat out, stay in a hotel, travel around the globe, try new things and basically be as much fun as possible. Even when we get older and can’t be jumping up and down, I still want us to find small pleasures that make memories worth keeping. I can honestly take care of myself. I believe in working hard for everything I need and then working some more for the things I want. I won’t marry you for financial security. My brain is capable of making me as wealthy as I want to be and all of that is independent of you. Don’t think you are doing me a favor by telling me about the money you are making. You may be Jay but you better believe that I am Bey. You can expect that I will bring in my own slice of the bacon which should be a Naira for Naira match of what you are bringing in. While I expect us to gift each other things over the course of our lives, don’t worry about my clothes, underwear, skin products, hair and makeup. I’ve got this. I also want you to know that I will buy houses, cars, bonds, businesses and other things I
Dad, Mum…You Failed Us!
Mrs. Jatau saw the light on her phone before it began to ring. She was almost sure it was her first daughter calling. She was not wrong. ‘I am just putting the last touches to my makeup. I will soon be there’, she rushed before her daughter could say anything. ‘Okay Mum. We are waiting for you.’ Annabel responded as she dropped the call. Mrs. Jatau sighed. She could not put it off anymore. She took her keys and purse, sent a prayer to heaven and left her house. She was going to her daughter’s wedding introduction. *** ‘Daddy, come out of your room now! Ha ahn! Do you want the guests to come in and wait for you?‘ Sandra all but shouted. She was the last child of the Jataus’ and had grown up when their parents had gone soft. She could say anything to them; which was slightly different from her four elder ones. ‘I said I am coming now! Go away and leave me alone.’ he responded in his rich tone. ‘Daddy, if you are not out in two minutes. I will break your door oh!’ She returned, pouting her lips and stamping her feet. She may be 20 years but she was all child. ‘If you like, burn the house sef. I will only come out when I deem fit. And I can see that mouth that you are pushing up. I have always told you that it makes you look like fish…a Tilapia.’ Sandra laughed and walked away. Mr. Jatau sighed. He could not hide in his room anymore. He admitted he was scared. But if he remained in his room, that would be awfully rude to the guests he was expecting. Though he had never had a good relationship with his oldest daughter, this was not the time to completely ruin what was left of it. He sucked in air into his large tummy and opened the door. The sooner he got over this, the quicker he could go to the club house and share some laughs with his cronies. He walked down the stairs to his living room. *** This was the first time in 18 years that the entire Jatau family was seated in one room. Oliver, the first child, was reclining in one of the sofas. Tall, buff and selfish, he managed to look like a king. The three daughters sat together on the sofa, with Robert, their adopted brother, sitting in between Annabel and Elizabeth while Sandra sat on the floor. The sitting arrangement was such that both their parents sat opposite them. Mr. and Mrs. Jatau managed to sit as far apart as possible without looking like they were trying to do. Annabel sighed. She cleared her throat and began. ‘Dad, Mum…before our guests turn up, we have some things to tell you. I will start and my siblings will join in.’ She looked from one parent to the other and then her sisters. Her parents were trying all they could not to squirm but it was not working. It was as uncomfortable for them as it was for her. She sucked in her breath, stared at the floor, and started talking. ‘Today is exactly 18 years since you got divorced.’ The finality in her voice had a ring of judgment to it and it got the desired effect on her parents; guilt and shame. Even though they had been divorced that long, Mrs. Jatau maintained his name because in Africa, you are better off with a ‘Mrs.’ attached to your name. ‘I will start with you, Daddy.’ This time she looked straight at her dad. He dropped his head and put his arms between his thighs; the classic pose he took when he was insecure, sad or contemplative. Annabel knew she had to get the edge off her voice. ‘Daddy, you were never nice to Mummy…well, not never. But in most cases, you weren’t. I grew up seeing Mummy pick up the slack when you should have been taking care of us. You were more a man-about-town, spending for other people, than you were in catering to your family’s needs. Mummy never let us go hungry, even if you never brought in any money’. That was Elizabeth’s cue. ‘Daddy, all through our stay in school, you never paid school fees on time; sometimes paying the first term fees in second term. We got to be known as one family that alwaysdefaulted in fees. It was so bad that one teacher came into the class to drive students who had not paid school fees and as soon as he entered, he said “Elizabeth Jatau, I don’t need to look at the list to know your name is on it. So pack your books and go home.” I wanted to die Daddy! Everyone in class laughed. I acted like I was okay but my spirit broke’. ‘Even when Mummy paid our school fees, you beat up Annabel for daring to accept the money’, Sandra said. There was a catch in her voice and that pricked her father and mother. She was their baby, and they were all fiercely protective of her. Mrs. Jatau started crying. She didn’t plan to but her eyes couldn’t hold back anymore. Mr. Jatau maintained his stoic expression. He still had his head down. Annabel continued. ‘When the divorce finally pulled through, you banned us from seeing our mother. When, after less than three months, you married again, and our lives became a living hell. Your wife would maltreat us…’ Annabel’s voice wavered. The tears were about to drop, but she controlled it. She sniffed just as Robert rubbed her back. She smiled at him and faced her father again. ‘I remember when Mummy bought us school scandals. You came home, went straight to our room like you knew Mum had brought us things. You rounded up the scandals and poured kerosene on them. With one strike, they went up in flames. We watched them burn, knowing you were not going to
Sparing The Koboko
Angry Black Girl. Credit: Discover the Space So…have you taken time out to notice the behaviors of kids today? Do you see that the methods with which kids are raised now is far far different from how we were raised? And does the blatant disrespect from kids give you the chills as it does me? I’m at that point where I wish we can go back in time, if for nothing else but the discipline which our parents instilled in us. The other day, I noticed a trend in a neighbor’s kid. This baby girl should be about 5 years old. She has not learnt to greet older people as is the custom of most African homes. She would actually stare at an older person until her mother tells her to greet. Even with the prodding from her mother, she would stare at the person and blatantly refuse to greet. What is worse is that she stares at much older people in the eye, leaving a sinister feeling crawling down the spine of the person. What baffled me was when I noticed that as early as 6am (when I’m rushing out to work), this little girl gets up and goes out of the compound, walks the length of the street and finally chooses a house to go to. What in God’s name is a 5-year old doing traipsing the streets at 6am?! What are her parents doing when she is ‘making the rounds’? And in this North-Eastern region where girls are easy targets, why are the parents not worried about a baby girl walking up and down town when no one can watch over and protect her? It is so annoying even that when you try to correct this girl, she puts on this quelling look that seems to say, ‘What you gone do about it? Huh?’ The nerve! It gets worse. I was returning home one night, when this kid saw me. He raised his torchlight (as it was quite dark) and flashed it directly in my face. Now, I deliberately assumed he made a mistake, so I didn’t have to take off my shoes and beat the black off his skin. In my assumption, I hoped he would apologize, lower his flashlight, and show some iota of courteous behavior by probably greeting me and/or asking for my handbag. I was too busy making these assumptions to actually think it might not go that way. When it dawned on me that he wouldn’t do so was when the light remained in my face for more minutes than was respectfully necessary. I stopped in the middle of the street and gave him the look. Only then did he drop the flash light, make a detour around me, and continued on his way to wherever he was heading. Now, this boy shouldn’t be more than 13 years. He started acting this way when I cautioned him on the use of curse words. He said something in Hausa while I was passing and I gave him a serious dressing down. Does it feel like curse words in our local languages are dirtier than in English language? Anyway, that is a topic for another day. From that day, I guess his hormones kicked in and he started acting up. I was tempted to hold him down and get some sense into his skull but I am pretty scared of the reciprocal treatment I will get from the police. So….I ignored it, shook my head, squared my shoulders and walked on to my house. Angry Black Boy. Image: GodZone I wouldn’t have bothered about writing this piece if another incident hadn’t occurred. Called a girlfriend and asked that we go to the beauty shop. She got dressed and we headed to our regular stylist. When we got there, the shop was full, but only one person stood out for me. She was a pretty little girl. She had such a striking resemblance to our stylist that we couldn’t help but ask if she was her daughter. Now you see, as long as we had been going there, we knew she was married and had kids, but we had never met any of them. When she told us that was her daughter, we gushed a bit over her. I should have kept my gushing to myself! The about-seven-year old gave us this aloof look and went to sit in the corner. Hurt a bit, I asked what her problem was and before her mum could respond, the little girl said she didn’t talk to strangers. I looked at my friend, and we shrugged. Secretly, I was proud that her mum was raising her with good principles, but I was worried that she was bold enough to tell us that to our faces. As we got our beauty on, the stylist kept regaling us with stories that had us laughing and generally having fun. Somewhere in that line of fun conversation, the mother started talking about a seasonal Pilipino telenovella she had watched. While that was my cue to shut up, little miss I-don’t-talk-to-strangers piped up and got into the conversation. She started talking of the telenovellas that were more interesting. Now, the silence from all the customers was probably because we would never have interrupted in a conversation our mothers were having. The silence was awkward for a while until the mother broke it by asking her daughter about the one they had watched the night before. My friend and I shared another look and we saw the other ladies also sharing a look. The little girl went on and on and after a while, we seemed to adjust to the fact that the girl had been taught that she could join in on adult conversation. What jolted us back to reality was when one of the customers urged the little girl to stop combing her hair too frequently. Her mum teased her about not even having the hair to comb and she flew
