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
Unsung Heroes: Mai Ruwa
Due to a failure of government to meet basic infrastructural necessities like constant power supply, running water, good health care and quality education for its citizens, many people are constantly having to provide these necessities for themselves. In fact, it has become quite normal for households to provide their own water and electricity and pay exorbitant fees for quality education and healthcare for themselves and their families. Personally, I can’t remember when we had water flowing from the tap from the water board. If I could put a time to it, I would have to say when I was an early teen. I remember this because for the longest time, we used to fetch water at our neighbors’ wells to fill the big drums that most big families had. And when these neighbors didn’t have water or there was short supply during the dry season, we were always prevented from fetching water. This continued until we dug our own well and became kings. Soon enough, many families started to bore holes in their houses and rig a system that stores and distributes water to them. It has become common place to see each house with its own ‘GP Tank’; typical case of a brand name replacing the generic name. As it is right now, the skyline of many houses are dotted with these water storage tanks. Drilling boreholes is not cheap. It costs anywhere from ₦150,000 to ₦2 million. In a country where 64% of the populace lives below the poverty line and is expected to take over from India as the poverty capital capital of the world (United Nations: Nigeria’s Common Country Analysis, 2016), where general unemployment rate is at a whopping 18.8% (Nigeria Bureau of Statistics, 2017 Q3 Report) and where the average person struggles daily, access to clean, safe water is an ever-constant issue. This means that though all households need water, not all families can afford to have boreholes installed in their homes. ‘GP Tanks’ for storing water pumped from a borehole. Image: Premium Times Nigeria This is where the Mai Ruwa comes in. The Mai Ruwa is a Hausa term which translates to ‘water seller’. The term can be used for a person who has a borehole and sells water to people who go to them to fetch or to one who takes water in 20-litre jerrycans to people’s houses to sell. In most cases, it refers to the latter. A typical Mai Ruwa starter pack is a trolley (or truck as they are popularly called), 12 to 14 jerrycans and an able bodied man with the simplest of clothes and worn out shoes. Unfortunately, I haven’t ever seen a female Mai Ruwa. Or should I say, fortunately. So this is one of those jobs that is strictly an all men affair. The job requires pushing a truck carrying around 300 litres of water from street to street calling out people to buy. In poorer neighborhood, they don’t need to scream as much; there will always be people willing to buy. But in richer neighborhoods – and by richer I mean middle class neighborhoods because no one in the upper class bothers about these kinds of problems – it is an uphill task selling water there. Most people in these types of neighborhood only buy water when they have gone days or even weeks without power supply to pump water. Or, if the pumping machine for the boreholes are bad. Which was what happened to me last me last week. I recently moved from a core ghetto to a slightly better neighborhood. The house was still getting some work done so there was barely any water in house. I knew I had to get a Mai Ruwa to supply me water until the problem was fixed. When I was in the ghetto, all I needed to do was walk out of my gate and find someone selling water. But in this new neighborhood, that wasn’t the case. Everyone in the neighborhood had their own boreholes and didn’t need the services of a Mai Ruwa. I had to walk a long distance to find out. By this time, I was already tired and sweating profusely. But I found one! When I told him where we were going, he said each jerrycan cost ₦30. I told him I only wanted 7. He agreed and we set off for the long journey to my house. Mai Ruwa pushing his truck down a hill. Unlike my Mai Ruwa, this seems much easier even though it is still a lot of work. Image: Wikimedia Commons Now here is what I didn’t tell you. My house is atop a small hill and the entire road leading to the house is rugged, uneven and bumpy. Walking up the hill is a chore. Now imagine what pushing a truck with 300-litres of water means. As the Mai Ruwa started climbing the hill, I knew it was going to be an uphill task. (You know I did that on purpose, right?). He pushed the truck in one direction and was shocked when the truck rolled back and nearly toppled over. He used all his strength to keep the truck aright and paused to assess the road. I could see the wheels of his mind working as he considered what path to take that would offer the least resistance. He took off his shoes and started again. The truck kept swerving and the contents nearly spilling. He had done this like five or seven times when I saw he was almost quitting. I knew I had to do something. If he quit, it meant I wouldn’t get any water. If I was to get water, I had to help out. So I offered. Again, I could see him contemplating. I can almost swear he was wondering what kind of help I could offer since I am a woman. But he was already sweating and puffing. You could tell that the work had taken a toll on him.
Wedding Messages Have to Change
Image: Yen I was at a wedding recently and as usual, was frustrated with the wife-centred message that came from most of the preachers at the event. A couple of things stuck out like thumbs dipped in palm oil and I knew I just had to talk about it. First, one of the preachers – someone you can tell is old fashioned – spoke a lot about the role a wife should play, which, if you attend many weddings, is submissive. I was not surprised by his message; I had heard it one too many times. What surprised me was a statement he made as he rounded up his message. ‘When you come to town, don’t go to your father’s house oh. Go straight to your in-laws’ house. That is your new home.’ I was shook! Before I delve into every emotion and thought I had when I heard this, I should mention the second thing that got me all hot and bothered. Another preacher, this time a more modern, cosmopolitan one, came up to deliver his message to the couple. He focused on what men and women need in a relationship. He said women needed; 1. Public Display of Attention; 2. Love; 3. Care…among others. For men however, he described their needs as; 1. Sexual satisfaction;2. Loyalty; 3. Peace…among others. I was piqued at his categories. Was he suggesting that men and women had differentneeds, especially when these broad categories were the differentiating qualities? I know there are exceptions to the rule but is there anyone that doesn’t need love, care, peace, loyalty? The public display of attention was iffy but only men need sexual satisfaction? I waited to have him balance out his message, to have him say that all these were human needs and not specific to gender. It didn’t come. I must say…I was disappointed with that. Maybe I expected too much but I hoped a more urban preacher would highlight on sexual satisfaction for women. You almost never hear any preacher talk about it. Female sexuality is not something that is brought up often in church settings. It doesn’t take much to see that many people assume female sexuality is a perversion; that women shouldn’t like, want or need sex; that sex should be something that women givemen and not something that should be mutually enjoyable and satisfying. This should be shocking in light of more biological information but damn! These thoughts don’t seem to be going away. Here is the kicker though! Women are sexual beings just as men are! Let me go and bit further. Women wantsex! And before your pulmonary vein bursts or an embolism occurs, I have to say this. Women. Need. Sex! Women want to be caressed, kissed, taken to sexual heights un-imagined, pleasured and satisfied as much as men do. And this is not just something that happens when women are ovulating or just because they want babies. I think that the way female sexuality has been portrayed as (best) an aberration and (worse) promiscuity, has made many women curb their needs to fit into the larger normative behavior of society. This has led to one too many sexually frustrated women who just lay there and go through the motions because it is respectable to be a wife and producer of the only end product of sex approved for the female gender; children. This is a problem in our society. It is so bad that I heard a story of a young couple who so loved God and each other that, though they dated for many years, didn’t have sex until their wedding night. The sex was horrible as the husband described it. He tried everything to spice things up. They even talked about it. But the girl had been so used to hearing that sex was a duty that she did just that. It was a chore to her and she wondered why her husband kept insistingon sexual satisfaction for her when only men needed that. In a marriage that is barely three years, the husband has already given up on sex except when she wants to make babies; which she isn’t ready for. If this woman had been taught that sex and female sexuality were as real as male sexuality and satisfaction, she would have been riding her husband and screaming like a banshee when he went down on her because it was okay to do that now that they were married; for those who subscribe to the sex-only-for-marriage ideal. I wanted the preacher to talk about these things. To mention how couples should make it a point of duty to please each other, satisfy each other, be adventurous with their lovemaking, give and receive head, role play, and in the rap artist Wale’s voice, have sex on the bed, floor, couch, more, more, more. I understand that the wedding banquet may not the place for in depth details of sex but just as it was easy to mention male sexual satisfaction, it should have been as easy to do the same for female satisfaction. Anyway, I was really disappointed that the message didn’t touch on that. However, that wasn’t as disappointing as the message on her in-laws’ house being her new home. To me, it seemed like they were trying to isolate her from her family just because she was adding a new one. I know that there is a possibility that it wasn’t the intention of the preacher but that is how it sounded. I am worried about such statements because a lot of factors could make going to her in-laws’ house bothersome. She may not like them or they may not like her or she may prefer the home she has known all her life rather than the one she is just getting. Even if she loves her in-laws and they absolutely adore her, she may not always want to be around them. And why should she ignore her family because she is
A Wake up ‘Konk’ on My Big Head
Ramat (AKA the Crazy One) I woke up this morning and as usual, I went online to get a sense of what happened in the hours that I slept. As I scrolled through Twitter, I basked in more stories about Beychella, was super proud of K.Dot’s Pulitzer, lost my cool at hearing of Cole’s album – which drops on April 20, 2018 – and got shocked out of my shoes by the fact that Joe Burden put his pettiness aside to compliment Nicki’s Chun Li. You can say I had a roller coaster morning. It was as I was going through these emotions that I stumbled on a tweet that made me bolt upright. It was, almost word for word, an idea that I came about sometime in December, 2017. I was supposed to begin implementation of the idea in January, 2018, with the culmination of my thought process coming together in June. I was excited about the prospect and kept envisioning what would happen when it finally became real. Somehow, I let January become April and till now, I hadn’t even put the idea to paper, talk more implementing the first stages. Rapsody Shaking her HeadCredit: Rapsody’s Giphy Channel I looked at the tweet over and again; from the eerily familiar design of the project, down to the words I wanted to use and I realized how, in wasting so much time, it would look like I was copying this idea when I finally did mine. I began to wonder why the flying hell I didn’t get to work when the idea first dropped. I didn’t have to think too far though. I knew exactly what the problem was! First, I didn’t think it was the right time. I wanted to wait for a perfect day to start, or when I wasn’t so busy with my day job, or when I felt writer’s energy. I know! That is not a thing. But I like it so, go and rest! Or whatever excuse came up to keep pushing it back. I really wanted things to be just right to get to work. But I waited. (Read wasted). And now, my idea is no longer just mine. Credit: NFL Giphy channel Honestly, this is the first time I have really felt bad about procrastinating. It is not like the idea was novel or I stood to make millions from it. I got the idea months ago and felt it was great. If you know me and my penchant for putting my work down, you would know that I almost never call any of my ideas great. But this one was! I was excited about deploying this idea and I knew it would change the lives of everyone who would come to share it. See what the delay has caused me?! Girl! You better get yourself together! The only plus side to this is that the idea is people-based and designed to provide a platform for people dealing with the varying degrees of dysfunction that plagues us as a people. No one has a monopoly on helping others. So yeah! Anyone who wants to colour me a copycat can go right ahead. But imagine if it was an idea that was life changing in the I-could-become-a-billionaire-if-it-takes-off kind of way. I could have just lost my ticket to living the fab life and taking vacations in Seychelles and Barbados because I procrastinated. I know that there are no guarantees in life but darn! Guarantees don’t come to people who waste opportunities because the time just wasn’t right! Sometimes, you really just have to make your Amala as the water is boiling. Credit: Giphy That tweet was the biggest wake up ‘konk’ on my big head if I ever saw one and boy am I rearing to go! I am not waiting for any perfect time or all that nonsense. I am going to put out stuff as they come and hope to get my groove and rhythm back on. So it is time to work work work work work work! PS: Ever wasted time on an idea and regretted it? Share your stories with me and we just might use it to inspire some people to get off that lazy arse!
