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
The 30th Chapter
I am 30 years old today! Whoot whoot! For the first time in a long, long time, I decided I was going to celebrate my birthday. Honestly, the last two years took its toll on me emotionally, financially and physically! Whewww! So, yes! I am in a celebratory mood this year. To give a glimpse into my mind and why this chapter is different, let us go down memory lane to the last couple of months in 2016. It was a really bad time for me. A misunderstanding with my mum began the start of an estranged relationship that lasted into 2018. Growing up, I learned not to speak back to adults; even when I felt they were wrong. It used to hurt me so bad when adults would do something that offended me and I couldn’t do or say anything because you know…adults. So while many people saw me as the girl who said her mind (usually in a shout), with older people, I was a girl who kept quiet. So when my mother and I were having a conversation and I felt something she said was wrong, I snapped. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t talk back to her. I just got up and left. And the silence began. You know how you keep saying you would fix things and pride keeps telling you to wait and then waiting become days and days become weeks and weeks become years? Well, our ‘fight’ lasted for nearly two years until something happened to force us into the same room. I will get to that soon. Also in 2016, I made a decision to walk away from the relationship with the people I considered my best friends at that time. A little context is necessary. My friends and I had been friends for nearly 15 years at that point. Well…15 with one and 10 with the other. We were peas in a pod. I loved those girls like I loved myself and I knew I could do just about anything for them. In fact, I considered them my sisters. Even though I didn’t keep in touch often, I hoped they knew that I was always there for them. A couple of events which happened from late 2014 to the time in question made me feel like our relationship was one sided. And at that time, I handled my anger and hurt by internalizing the problem. So rather than call anyone I have a problem with and have a proper conversation expressing my angst, I would begin to pull away from them. I would let silence become a chasm between us until coming back becomes almost impossible. And you know what happens in that time? All the offences become even more glaring; things that would normally not offend me begin to have double meanings; and worst all, the hurt and pain I feel rises to a crescendo that bursts at the top of it, leaving me quite unreasonable at the end. When I got to this point, I wrote a long note telling my friends I was done with the friendship and I wished them the best in life. Then I waited. Today, I can admit that I hoped they would try to fight for me. I can admit that I hoped I was wrong and they would set me aright and tell me how it was all in my head and they loved me as much as I loved them. But none of that happened. Instead, they really got into how I was a ‘horrible’ person and how they also had things they wanted to get off their chests. I was shocked! By the time the conversation was over and the friendship severed, I was left shaking. I was so hurt that for the first time, my first reaction to a problem was not anger; it was raw, unadulterated pain. I remember crying so much that day. You know how they say losing a friend is so much worse than losing a lover? Well, I had definitive proof of that. And even though I had felt great sadness before, I fell into a state of paralysis that was the start of what became a deep depression. But I will get into that in a bit. When my job search wasn’t yielding anything good in 2016, I became very antsy. I am my work and when I do not have work, I genuinely lose my mind. I already had a lot going on and what would have been my solace – burying myself in work – was no longer available to me. Oh! I had my blog and what not but I didn’t have a source of income, which meant that I needed to depend on people for my daily needs. Look! The worst feeling I can ever have is being dependent on anyone. It literally feels like my skin is being pulled out little by little with hot tweezers. I hate being broke and worse than that, I hated having to ask anyone for money for things like sanitary pads; which were about the only things I asked for when push came to shove. If jobs weren’t readily available, I knew I had to re-strategize. So I applied for an internship in different development organizations. I knew many organizations did not pay their interns well (if they paid them at all) but I was fine. If whatever I got could handle my transportation and feeding allowance, I would be fine. What was more important to me was that I learned structural advocacy so I could take my activism to a point where I could begin to get grants to execute projects. Towards the end of 2016, one of my applications came through and I was invited for an interview in Abuja. A week or so after that interview, I was told I had passed and I was to start in the new year. I was excited! It was a
How Can We Help Poor(er) Women?
A Page from Tom Paulson I was heading home on November 6, 2018, when my sister called me to get her some juice. It was about 8:50pm and I was really tired. I told her I wouldn’t do it but when I got to my junction, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to get her the juice. It was as I was walking to the provisions store that I saw a woman sitting on the side of the road, with her legs spread out and her hand scratching her head. She was dressed in mis-matched Ankara clothes and she had a look of utter defeat about her. At first glanced, she looked like she had some mental problems; the kind that could not be corrected. And because of how she sat, I didn’t immediately see the children by her side. When I got closer, I saw that she had one child pressed to her body. And behind her on the staircase of the shop closest to the one I was going to, were two other children sleeping on the bare floor. They were covered in dust from rolling on the ground. It was heartbreaking to see that the children couldn’t have been older than 5. I slowed down to really look at her…and then I walked past. I concluded that she may have lost her mind and I didn’t want to be chased down for not minding my business. So, I went to the shop and got my juice. When I got out of the shop, I looked in the direction she sat and saw that she was still there. At this point, I knew that I couldn’t leave her – with those kids sleeping on the road – without doing anything. It was also at that point that I saw that there were two other children with her, bringing the total number to five. Those children, and the utter helplessness of their situation, convinced me to take the risk and walk up to her. ‘Madam, wetin happen?’ I asked in pidgin English. She looked at me and turned away. And looked at me again, as if deciding whether to talk or not. ‘I need help.’ She responded quietly. ‘Where is your house?’ I asked. She pointed in the direction I had come from. I asked again, prodding her to say more. ‘Phase 1 side.’ Those were the only words she said. And hearing that, I made my first mistake. ‘Ha ahn! Why you allow your children sleep for road like this? E no good now. See as them lie down for bare ground like this. E no good at all. Oya…stand up.’ I remember exactly what I said because I feel so ashamed of it afterwards. She looked at me as I spoke to her and I could tell that she was equally ashamed to be in that situation. She started to gather her things as I opened my purse and took out money. N500. By this time, a crowd had begun to gather, and I didn’t want to be seen giving her money. So, I quickly thrust the money in her hand and said, ‘Oya…get up and go home.’ And I walked away from the crowd that was sending blessings my way as they gathered around her. I saw some other people giving her money and one man even flagged a Keke for her and her children. The woman was on her feet at this point and that was when I saw she was pregnant; probably in her third trimester. I realized I had fucked up. I mulled over everything that happened and when I finally got home and relayed the story to my sister, she confirmed what I had been feeling. I should have done more. I had prejudged the woman ‘crazy’ before even reaching her. If I hadn’t, I would have seen that she was just a really frustrated woman who was going through a lot. I wouldn’t have waited to get into the shop before making my mind up to talk to her. And when I finally did, I let the crowd rattle me because I am not comfortable with helping people in the eye of the public. But what is worse is that, everything I had learned in the last two years about solving problems flew out of my head when faced with one. Rather than just give her money, I should have asked a few more questions after she said she needed help. What was wrong? Why was she on the road? What kind of help did she need? Did she have a job? A business? Anything? What skills did she have? Were those all her children? Did she have a home to go to? Did she have a partner? What did he do? Where was he at that moment? Was she running away from him? I know that there are even more questions that I could have asked. The answers to these questions would have better informed how I helped her rather than just giving her a little money. Knowing about the underlying issues that drove her to the road at night with five children and one on the way could have presented me the opportunity to offer her a job or begin to look for someone who could. But I gave her N500 and left. N500 which was my juice money. N500 which could solve some of her problems for that night and drive her back to the road again the next day. I am ashamed of myself and how I reacted. I wish I could go back in time and undo my reaction. I wish I had been more perceptive and patient when dealing with her. I wish I had ignored the crowd and treated her as someone with full agency, rather than some I could tell what to do. I wished I hadn’t been more focused on aesthetics rather than her humanity. Because right there is the crux of the matter! I was more concerned about how the situation looked that I did not
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
Three Course Meal by Tonton Nelson Raymond
Lot of these guys talk much about how “shawty look like a snack” But I think you look like a three course meal. It doesn’t matter if I do, or don’t mind A little belly fat is still fine God is a tattoo artist and stretch marks are his design You’re not just a barbecue, you came with sides. Peeking out of your hijab These things are hard to hide And as I get ready your order, filled with the green like vegetable soup I want a partner that will nurture me like a mother Amala thick girl who will complement me well We’d be the special of the heavenly cook Such a match means that I hit the shot, I put the ball through the hoop. If I’m tea leaves, you’re hot water. You draw out all of my potential And we form something new Move my kinetic, putting the static in motion If I am the Earth, you are the oceans So it is you that keeps the skies blue Evaporate to condensate and make rain fall. You water the dry lands of my soul. Lot of these guys talk much about how “shawty look like a snack” But I think you look like a three course meal. It doesn’t matter if I do, or don’t mind A little belly fat is still fine Besides I’ve always liked plus sized So I think you look really good like that You look take-away, a single serving of you can’t just finish like that You leave enough with me to take back Enough knowledge from the conversations A linger of your perfume An after taste of our kiss And lipstick on my shirt collar A voice in my head when I get home whispering “call her” They don’t know what they are missing You’re a cake and I’m passed the icing I know what is in the filling I’ve experienced a feeling that is filling Lot of these guys talk much about how “shawty look like a snack” But I think you look like a three course meal It doesn’t matter if I do, or don’t mind A little belly fat is still fine God is a tattoo artist and stretch marks are his design You’re not just a barbecue, you came with sides. Intelligent ones Physical ones Historic ones And some of which you are shy. But they’d swell out of a cassock Peek out of your hijab All that beauty will leak out your frame They’d ooze out of your mind. You know why? Cos true beauty is hard to hide Tonton, 2018
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
Shall I Compare You, Woman?
African woman.Image taken by Martin Kirigua for Pexels.com By Abigail Abby Abok Woman, Shall I compare you to a giant sequoia? You are stouter and more reverent. For trees once stood where skyscrapers now do And winds do strip forest of tough trees. You, most precious creature, flourish amidst the flaming fires of society’s limitations, Defy expectations And resist the pestilence of inferior classification. Shall I compare you to a cold glass of well-made Zobo drink in March? Or an ocean on Atacama? You are more nourishing and more satisfying. The spring waters of your love nurtures nations. You lose yourself so others can find themselves. Because you are, humanity lives on. Shall I compare you to the sun, moon or stars? You are all three by yourself. Giving life and light, Warming and soothing hearts. You enliven the dreary lives of men And dazzle them with your being You are a simple enigma. Men can’t fathom how you’re soft yet strong, Fiery yet calming. Woman, You’re so many things. In all your appellations; Mother, sister, daughter, wife, lady, friend or lover, Your incredible awesomeness is beyond words!
The Dwayne Project
Beautiful Space Wallpaper Image: Eliosh ‘Life’ scared the shit out of her. She knew that NASA and a host of scientists were really testing the possibilities of life on other planets. She also knew that for life to exist on any of these planets, they would have to be super intelligent and greatly evolved. That wasn’t what scared her. That last scene in the movie where the alien was freed from the sealed hatch was what did. ‘What if life (she smiled at the pun) imitated fiction? What if a single cell brought back from any of these planets could mark the disruption of earth’s stability and the extinction of human life?’ She imagined that like War of the Worlds, the aliens might be defeated by something as simple as earth’s atmosphere, but she knew that loads of people would have to die in the process. Seven billion people pushing on ten. What would happen if aliens got two? She sighed. Who was she kidding? Five billion people will definitely die. But would there be good aliens? Like Optimus Prime (before that evil Quintessa cast her metallic spell on him) or Curtis from Deen Koontz’s ‘One Door Away From Heaven’? ‘Arggghh! This is what happens when I watch horror films at night!’ She knew she would sleep fitfully. She just hoped she didn’t have dreams where Calvin chased her around for his late night snack. She pumped her pillows and settled in to sleep. Thirty minutes later and her mind just wouldn’t settle down. It was preoccupied with alien life and being in space. If she was true to herself, she would admit that she wanted to experience outer space. She didn’t want to just learn about these things from books, movies and her daily newsletter from Space via IFTTT. She wanted to feelthings in real time. Heck, she wanted to meet an alien. She jolted out of bed. ‘Girl, you are getting stark raving mad! Meet an alien?!’ She shook her head and laughed. As she settled back into bed, she wondered. ‘It would be really cool to meet an alien though. To learn their thought process, understand their existence.’ ‘Yeah. Just before it swallows you up in one gulp.’ Her rational mind countered. She laughed…and swore it was the last time she would smoke weed before watching a movie. With that, she fell asleep. *** People were whispering above her. Had her village people come to torment her? But she wasn’t feeling any tightness in her chest. In fact, she wasn’t feeling any fear. She just knew that she should be afraid…but wasn’t. She kept her eyes tightly shot, hoping they would go away, hoping they were not some criminals with guns ready to do her harm. ‘You can open your eyes now. We know you are awake.’ She did, sat up in bed…and shouted, ‘Jesus Christ!’ ‘Hahahaha…pay up. I told you they use that name for every emotion they are feeling.’ The cute one with the geeky look – glasses, white shirt tucked into brown Chinos trousers with a light blue cotton sweater on top – couldn’t contain his excitement. The older, seemingly more mature one who was dressed in all black denim and the newest Kobe A.D NXT 360, looked at her and smiled; or something akin to a smile. ‘Hello Ada Evans.’ She blanched. How do they know her name? ‘For the sake of this meeting, you may call me One. He is Two.’ ‘Hey! That was not the name we agreed on. Why do you like to be so…drab?’ Two was angry, very much like a teenager. Ada could have sworn he gave out some light in his anger. Her eyes widened. She looked away from both men to study her environment. She was on her bed alright but this wasn’t her room. And wherever she was couldn’t be real! The walls seemed to be made of pulsing Citrine, with light snaking through them and giving out warm, brown tones that had a surprisingly calm effect on her. It was weird because the light in the room should have been a mixture of gold and brown but it was…clear. How did they achieve that? How did they balance out the light? She looked up, trying to find the source of light. She shouldn’t have done that. The ‘ceiling’ (could she even call it that) was beige with rivulets of as many shades of brown as possible constantly intertwining to form a story. On closer inspection, she saw that the stories were from aspects of her life; the happiest ones. When she was playing basketball and scored her first three, when she first tasted Maltesers and let that chocolatey goodness melt in her mouth, when she finished her first short film, when she sunbathed in Seychelles… ‘Wait! That hasn’t happened!’ ‘We know. We also know that is one of your biggest dreams so we thought to throw that in so you could calm down.’ Ada was sure it was Two’s idea. He seemed so happy with himself. Their plan had worked though; she was calm. What type of sorcery was this? And where the heck was this place? ‘You are aboard the Athena. We heard your request to…’ Ada interrupted One. ‘What is the Athena? And where is this? Have I been kidnapped? And how did you get my bed out of my room?!’ She jumped out of bed and took a fighting stance. The floor felt…very comforting; like how she read a sheepskin rug should feel. ‘I have a black belt and you nerds don’t look like much! I will beat you guys faster than you can say Ava Duvernay!’ Two started to pacify her but One interrupted him. ‘You don’t have a black belt and
Women Do Not Fear Getting Robbed.
Trying to stop an attackImage: Vox They fear getting raped. Play this scenario in your head. It is late at night. The streets are poorly lit. The occasional car passes by but beyond that, it is quiet. There is a slight breeze teasing the earth and flirting with the skirt of a woman walking down the road. Her steps are brisk…increasing ever so slightly as she walks to her house just around the corner. She just wants to get home and off these streets. As she turns the corner, she sees a man lurking in the shadows. What do you think her first reaction is? Let me help you. Shock. Rush of adrenaline. Crippling fear. And hope that he is a friendly face. But almost instinctively, her hands go up to protect her breasts, not her purse. If he is a friendly face, she breathes a sigh of relief and becomes thankful that there is now a man on the road with her. Nobody will try to attack her. If he is someone she knows but doesn’t have a relationship with, the fear stays. She ponders why he is out late and whether he will attack her because she doesn’t say ‘hi’. She has to make a choice; either say ‘hi’ and deflect any possible attack or continue the status quo. Either way, she has to go past him on her way to her house. When she passes him, she will keep stealing glances behind until she gets home, constantly worrying that any footfall (real or imagined) is him springing to attack her. If however, the man is not someone she knows, the fear grows. Every step she takes becomes leaden with the choking fear that she will be groped, attacked or the worst, raped. How about this? Play this same scenario again, but change one thing. There isn’t one man lurking in the shadows; there are three, maybe five men. What do you think would happen? Even if the girl woman knows all the men, she would still feel uncomfortable walking past them on her way to her apartment. But if she doesn’t know them at all, she has two choices; feign a calm that she cannot possibly hope to feel and walk past them or dash into a run to up her fighting chance. When you think about it, you see that she has another choice; go back to where she is coming from. Even if it isn’t as dark and lonely, women don’t feel secure walking down streets. It is common place to see women cross the road to the other side when a group of men are coming. Why is fear women’s instinctive response to seeing a man or a group of men on the road? For one, men constantly attack women…and most of the time, these attacks are sexual. Let me give you an example. When I was in the university, I started a routine of running in the morning for an hour; from 5am to 6am. I would jog from my house off campus to the school field, do some laps and then walk home. I always ran with a male friend and didn’t think much of my safety. A week after we started, my friend said he wasn’t running because he had an early day. So I went on my own. I had not walked two minutes when a man came out of nowhere, grabbed my right breast and squeezed hard. Before I could snap out of the paralysis that held me bound, he ran off. I was so shocked that I couldn’t be angry. Two minutes away from my house! In another instance, I was returning from work late at night – which in the real sense was about 9pm – when a guy grabbed my buttocks and attempted to grope my breasts. When I challenged him, he said I wore a short skirt and so he had a right to do so. When I attempted to fight him off and saw I would lose, I ran away, spraining my ankle in the process. My view is that, even if I was wearing a hijab and face mask, I still would have been attacked because I was alone on the road at night. Many women have reported being groped and raped while walking the streets. And when I say reported, I don’t mean to any constituted authority because many of those people make such situations worse. Another dimension to this is rape during a robbery. A lady I know was about to get married and went to stay in a hotel with a couple of her friends. In the middle of the night, their room door bust open to reveal a couple of dangerous looking men. Seeing that the people occupying the room were all women in various stages of undress, the men tried to rape them. According to them, by some sheer act of faith, and I don’t mean fate, the police arrived just before they did. Someone I know wasn’t so lucky when we were robbed way back in 1998. She was pulled out from one of the compounds around us and raped by the men whose guns stayed pointed at us as we waited for some sort of help to come our way. Women who have been robbed on the highway also tell something similar. Armed robbers would attack buses plying our roads to various states and would only think of raping women, not necessarily robbing them. Even recently, armed robbers attacked a National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) camp in the Nigerian city of Port Harcourt and in the female hostels, it was reported that many women were raped. These men were not interested in their possessions. They were mostly interested in their vaginas and the power their guns (or whatever arsenal they have) avails them. Let us flip the scenario I described in the beginning. It is late at night. The streets are poorly lit. The occasional
