Why We Should Refine Our Speech
Image: Rawpixel on Pinterest English is my first language. Though my father is Idoma, my mother Ebira and my birth place a chiefly Hausa region, English was and is my first language. I have studied English as a prerequisite from nursery school until I dropped the book I was just reading. I used to get turned off by people who didn’t speak well, especially if they were in the eye of the public. I could write a person off if they mispronounced a word. A whole speech could mean absolutely nothing to me if the speaker’s diction and grammar was not up to par. I used to correct people in my head while having a conversation with them. At a point, when a person didn’t speak well, I would flinch; literally! I knew I had an ‘r’ problem but I felt I was better at speaking correctly than most people. I used to pride myself on speaking well until something happened in 2014. I was attending a communication training for media personalities; this was when I worked on radio and television. The trainer – whom I respected very much – critiqued my spoken English so much so that I almost cried during the session. She told me how my pronunciations were fair at best and that I needed to go back to the books. The only thing that kept the tears in was the last vestiges of pride that I desperately clung to. When I got home, and looked beyond the sting of the criticism, I realized that my spoken language started getting bad when I started speaking a whole lot of Pidgin English. To make matters worse, the American English depicted in the kind of movies I loved was not helping me. It took a total stranger to point out the fact that I had no reason to boast in something I wasn’t really good at. Talk about humbling that pride! To many, it would seem like nothing. But to anyone who knows that a media person has to sound right at all times, you know that particular criticism was well needed. Every time I had been wrong in my pronunciation, someone listening also flinched! That thought alone had my skin crawling; what with being a perfectionist and all. So, I went back to the drawing board and started learning my language again…even if it meant from the scratch. This brings me to another problem. Many people say that English is not their mother tongue in excusing how poor their grammar is. I think that argument is lazy. You cannot spend 14 years from nursery to secondary school studying one language and then come back with, ‘it is not my mother tongue’. Admit that you are lazy and no one will beat you. I think the onus lies on us to be correct in our pronunciations and sentence constructions. We cannot afford to mix our tenses and fuddle our grammar. This is especially so if you are a media personality, teacher, or public speaker because you are in a better position to educate and influence the public. Nobody wants to listen to someone who does all the ‘tiauns’ and the ‘gbagauns’. Everyone wants to listen to someone who is flawless in sentence delivery and who has a great, commanding diction. Having said that, it is important to note that speaking well doesn’t necessarily mean donning accents that are not yours; which is what many people do these days. Think of Pete Edochie, Joke Silva, Chimamanda Adichie, Amina J. Mohammed and even many of our parents who were or are educated. They speak so well without losing the essence of their indigenous accents. So…let us go back to the drawing board and refine our speech! Image: Rawpixel on Pinterest
Guerrilla Feminism
By Abe Onche It’s not easy being a feminist. I can hear the collective hiss and mumble about this one who doesn’t know what the hell he is talking about. From the men who only needed this admission to confirm I’ve been neutered or from the women who disqualify my experiences because I have a penis. Yes, yes…I’ve heard it all before…either I’m stupid or grossly ignorant, and by no means are those mutually exclusive. Yet when all is said and done, I stand my ground in this little church of passive aggression. It would appear, for those of us who see nothing wrong with gender equality and the emancipation of our womenfolk, a philosophy that involves sitting on this sexist fence requires a great deal of discouragement. But it is a hard path, and not for a few reasons. In the spirit of satire, there are men and then there are gorillas. Now if the staff at Cincinnati Zoo would kindly hold their fire, I will explain. David Barash, an evolutionary biologist commented on the possible inspirations of monotheistic religion in the “harem-keeping alpha male” leaders of gorilla families. In maintaining order, the big powerful male gorilla must remain BIG, POWERFUL and MALE (particularly the last one). Insubordination is tantamount to a collapse of his jungle empire and therefore, with a great deal of posturing, excessive flexing of pectorals and consistent veneration of his physically stronger position, he lords it over everyone else. Stop looking at your dad. Yes, you. But as primates we share more than just most of our genes with gorillas. We similarly exhibit sexual dimorphism (when opposite sexes in a species are physically dissimilar beyond sex organs). In order to survive, like the gorillas, our children are taught fear from a young age. Fear of God, fear of the dark, fear of grandma who is probably a witch, fear of our neighbors and the like. We become attuned to fear, a fear without reason. Fear because we are told to. We aren’t really afraid of the object, just of the cataclysmic assault on our rear ends for daring to go near that which we should fear. Perhaps the most evoking might be “daddy”. Daddy is coming! Everyone act like you are useful! Mop the sink! Sweep the ceiling! Stand on one leg and don’t move, maybe he won’t see you! Like the T-Rex, modern times have ushered in furry new principles but the backbone of our society’s major definitions remain deeply rooted in patriarchy; fossil deep. And while some things have been shed for the love of common sense, there are still many more “values” that make for a decidedly more difficult journey to progress. Patriarchy for the most part, like Alzheimers, Tay Sachs and certain cancer factors is hereditary. It’s one of the reasons it’s been around for so long. It’s also, funny enough, contagious. Men are often also victims of patriarchy. Yes, that came out right and no, please do not throw that at me. But for the men who are not gorillas, it is more than an inconvenience. By very existence, he is not a “man”. He is not “manly”. Therefore he endures some maltreatment of his own. That is not to say being a man can be as rough as being a woman. Heck…at least as a man, the gorillas will ignore you. Most of them anyway. Imagine however, explaining to your father and his people, that your fiancée is keeping her name and you are all for it. Sounds reasonable to you? You are lucky. I’ve heard of weddings boycotted for less (More food for me, frankly so I’m good with that. But I’ve been told this is not a decent position to maintain). Yet in that brief moment when the spirit of your ancestors descends on your father, he will descend on your mother for feeding you too many eggs when you were a child. (I don’t know why eggs get such a bad rap. Folklore?) After all, this was not why he sent you overseas; to learn “from the white people” about women’s rights, emancipation, governance and ethno-religious tolerance, self-management and entrepreneurship. They’ve only ever brought us trouble, he says. (More on that later). And your mother in true character will appeal to you not to become a “woman-wrapper” like all the people she has seen around today. She fears her grandchildren will become homos and the like (because this is usually how it starts. No? NO??). For those of you who don’t know, a “woman-wrapper” is a particularly effeminate man. Other definitions include momma’s boy, pansy, skirt hugger. My father has written to Cambridge University press about installing my picture next to this word in the dictionary. Fortunately they’ve reserved their comments. And between your mother’s sobs do you dare seek a murmur of approval for recognizing in your own beloved fiancée, something which your mother has burned for her own husband to see? A legacy of her own making? Okay perhaps I’m taking it too far. After all, what is in a name? But, what IS in a name? And why are they so important? What is it about the patriarchy and the need to keep women anonymous? Does it link back to the idea of ownership? The idea of inheritance? The idea that women cannot have possession that aren’t linked to a man? In that sense, they cannot do without men? Except they do, don’t they? But it isn’t easy being a feminist. Some people call me a “male feminist”. Fine, be as categorical/exclusionist as you like. Some people ask me if I’m a feminist because it helps me get laid more often. Erm…no. Frankly, “nice guys” still finish last when you think of it. But I see that the battle of the sexes has become an all-out war. Women are on the offensive and pretty soon, things will get better. At least for us nice guys. Which is why I believe we should
Don’t You Just Hate Practical Jokes?
Image: IMGUR We all have our food pet peeves and the thought or sight of people eating them gets us in our cringe modes. I am no different. I hate the thought of dog as meat. I don’t understand why people would eat an animal that is so loyal and almost human in its empathy. I had a dog growing up and I watched that dog get in the line of fire when armed robbers came to the house. I have also seen the very inhumane way dogs are killed before they are cooked. In one instance, the wails of a dog as it was clobbered to death stayed with me for a very long time. While I am not your complete dog person – they are so needy and clingy and always too playful – I would say I like dogs. So the thought of someone eating an animal I like is repulsive to me. That being said, I don’t try to force anyone to stop eating dog meat. I may express my dismay (and disgust) at the sight but I maintain that everyone have a right to eat whatever they want. It was then a surprise to me when a little boy tricked me into biting a piece of dog meat. Let me explain how it happened. I lived with this family that ate dog meat on a regular. The mother was like me and insisted that the family had a separate pot for their ‘delicacy’. For years, they kept the peace by ensuring the mother (and anyone else who didn’t like dog meat) didn’t get to see, talk more of eat it. Enter Ramat as a visitor to their home. I told them my view on their meat. It was all good and dandy until the last born decided to play a practical joke on me. I was seated in the living room when he walked up to me with a steaming bowl of meat pieces. Before I could ask what was going on, he said his mother said I should take a piece. Even though my guard was down at hearing it came from his mother, I nonetheless asked if it was dog meat. ‘Would mum have sent it if it was dog meat?’ I was okay with the response. The first inclination that something was wrong was the fact that he stood there and watched me. I shrugged my wariness off, took a piece and bit into it. I chewed slowly because I saw that the boy was beginning to break out in laughter. Unafraid, he started to boldly laugh and shout about how I had finally eaten dog meat. I was so freaking livid! I ran to the bathroom to force myself to throw up. I hung over the toilet seat and wretched almost rhythmically to his laughter. When I was vomiting, he laughed. After that, my frantic efforts at brushing my mouth had him in even bigger states of laughter. Then I turned to him and then he knew he had crossed the line. As I watched him and replayed his laughter in my head, I wanted to beat the breaks out of him in a way that I never imagined possible. I was the hulk at that point and my rage was even bigger. He saw my expression, my clenched fist and my labored breath and said, ‘Haba Ramat. Don’t be angry. It was just a joke.’ At that instant, I walked out of the bedroom and out of the house. I was so angry I cried in the streets. I wished I had been violent but they were kids. When I returned to the house, I became Elsa before the thaw. Anyway, I don’t know why the incident came to my mind but it is important not to force a person to eat something they hate. It is not only children who do this nonsense in the name of a joke. I can almost understand children doing it but I definitely do not understand why a full grown adult would do something so nasty and mean in the name of a joke?! What if I was allergic and that bite meant a reaction that could lead to my death? If I was religious, that would have meant an uncleanness I would have had to deal with. But better than that, people hate what they hate! It is disrespectful to them to trick them into having something that disgusts them just because you want a couple of laughs. So the big question is this…can we stop this nonsense already?! Playing that practical joke, especially when it comes to what people eat and don’t eat, may get you into bigger problems someday. So do yourself a favor and stop it already. Thank you. What practical food joke has been played on you? How did you handle the scenario?
8 Celebrities Who Became Famous After 30
Where our parents believed in becoming successful over a long period of time with lots of hard work and dedication, many millennials are super driven to be successful as quickly as they can. It is not uncommon to then see many ‘generation possible’ young men and women set an age cap for themselves. Somehow, 30 is the new ‘old’ and if you haven’t made some semblance of sense of your life before that age, people think you are unserious and wasting away. Well…as challenging as that is, it is worthy to note that not everyone would be successful before they are 30. It also doesn’t mean that people cannot achieve their goals after they are 30. So if you are a little late on your life goals, here are 8 celebrities who only became famous after they were 30! If you cannot see the audio controls, your browser does not support the audio element
Steve Edward: Changing the Mindsets of Teachers in Nigeria
You need to meet the amazing Steven Edward. Steven Edward is the Founder and Executive Director of Goldmine Educational Resource, an organization which aims to revitalize the learning system of Nigerian schools for an improved educational experience and a better Nigerian. He has been holding seminars across the country to help teachers improve their skill sets so they can effectively transmit quality knowledge to the 21st century student. We had an interview with him a while back and it was enlightening; to say the least. Some of his ideas are so out of the box that you cannot help but wonder if there was ever a box. We are proud of the work Steven Edward is doing and we hope that Nigerian teachers can learn a thing or two from him. Listen to our interview with Steven Edward below and contact him on Facebook for further inquiries on how to benefit from this knowledge.
The Truest Manifestation of Love 2
Black Couple SleepingImage: Daily News Ever story has at least two sides. Every action has at least two reactions. The first was here. This is the second. The moment Otobrise walked into the house, Tracy Wayemi knew something was wrong. He was mechanical and her husband was never that. They had been married for two years and had dated for a year before tying the knot and starting their forever. Because he was such an open book with her, Tracy knew what almost every expression, nuance or tic meant. At this moment however, she couldn’t place what brought on his mask. She watched him over dinner, her mind’s eye taking note of every action as he pretended to concentrate on his food. ‘Are you okay?’ Otobrise looked up and smiled. His smile didn’t reach his eyes and he was quick to drop them back to his plate. ‘Just a weird day at the office. I will be fine.’ Tracy looked at him. She could bet her life that his work had nothing to do with his demeanor. There was something almost…guilty about his entire look. She could press and find out but she wasn’t going to that. Instead, she got up, cleared the table and took off her clothes. She watched her husband watch her as she tentatively got on the table and laid down spread eagled. ‘You need some cheering up. So… dessert is served.’ *** Tracy knew she was losing her husband. Oh! He was still the caring, awesome husband he has always been but something was way off. She couldn’t help but remember when it all began. Was it three weeks already? Three weeks since she sat in the crook of her husband’s arm and heard his heart rhythm tell her he was distracted and pensive? She had taken his hand in hers and rubbed it, gentle asking if he was okay. ‘Just a hectic day at the office. We started training the new anchors for ‘The Deal’ and it was a bit grueling. There are five girls – five green girls – who have to be whipped to global standard before their debut in a month. I love working with professionals who already know what to do but you know Shade now; always insisting on making people stars.’ She had smiled and kissed him, trying to draw the tiredness from his body into hers. She broke the kiss and looked at him. ‘Well, if she isn’t that way, you wouldn’t be the ace producer you are now. Would you?’ He had smiled and looked away and that was the moment she knew there was a problem beyond what he was saying. She got her confirmation last night though. When she got naked and laid on the table, there had been that slight hesitation that had never happened before. It was almost like…like he didn’t want to… but the moment passed. He made love to her; slowly, gently and satisfactorily. As she moaned from ecstasy when they climaxed, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was the one Otobrise just had sex with And for the first time in their life together, Otobrise slept with his back to her. *** Tracy stared at Mairo and Bose. She saw their expressions and watched their lips move but she just wasn’t getting what they were saying. ‘….beat the crap out of her…’ ‘…mess up her face so she is never on…’ ‘….never to date a married man in her miserable…’ Yes. That was it. Her husband was having an affair with Tolani Davidson. He hid it well but Tracy found out anyway. Tolani had become one of the more popular faces on TV and was now everyone’s favorite ‘IT’ girl. ‘The Deal’ was doing so well and raking in so much money that Otobrise had been bumped to Program Director at the station. What she thought was him spending more time at work turned out to be him spending more time with Tolani. Tracy was shocked that the affair hadn’t become public yet. They were two high profile people so how were they keeping it secret? ‘Tra…cy! Snap out of it and let’s do something!’ Tracy smiled…or the distortion that passed for that. Typical Mairo; her ride-or-die bestie wanted violence. ‘I am with Mairo on this Trace. We could leak the news and have her fans vilify her but that would serve to hurt you in the long run. So how about we get some hoodlums to rough her up a bit…’ ‘And rape some sense into her…’ ‘Mario!’ Tracy and Bose shouted. ‘What?! I don’t tolerate rape but she deserves it! How is she comfortable having sex with a married man?! And remember how she was nice to you at their premiere party?!’ Mario calmed down a bit. ‘You think it has been going on since then?’ Tracy’s lips quivered. She didn’t think; she knew Otobrise and Tolani had been dating for a little over eight months. That thought was finally her undoing. She crumpled into a heap of palpable sorrow and let the tears finally fall. Mairo and Bose rushed to her and held her. They enveloped her in their warmth and they cried together. Mairo kept saying she would make Tolani pay but even she had lost her gusto. When they were cried out, Tracy cleaned her face on the edge of Otobrise’s shirt she was wearing and breathed out. ‘I am finally pregnant girls.’ And they started crying again. *** Tracy swore her friends to secrecy. It was two weeks to Valentine and she would make her announcement then. And no; she wasn’t leaving her husband. Nor was she confronting him about his affair. How could she when she had broken their cardinal trust rule; the ‘no snooping’ rule? And snoop she did. The last eight months had been hell. Otobrise was still the most loving husband but it was routine; robotic even. He was there but not there at the same time. Unlike most cheating men however, he didn’t take long trips
Not Changing My Name When I Marry
Image: The Hunt My friends and I have been talking about the name change thing we are required to do when we get married. While some of them cannot wait to be a ‘Mrs. Somebody’, a couple of us are worried about that. Discussing it doesn’t bring any form of reprieve because it is not an easy topic to explain. Even if it was, we know we are not only going to have to deal with our men, but our combined families. It is common knowledge that women are supposed to change their names when they marry. They go from bearing their fathers’ names to bearing their husbands’ names. And in most African societies, she becomes ‘mummy this’ or ‘mama that’ when she becomes a mother. People forget that she had a name before she got married and became a mother. Well…some of us don’t want that. We want to keep our own names when we marry. Before you write this conversation off, try and walk in our stilettoes. My friends have a myriad of reasons why they want to keep their names but my reasons include; 1. I love my name. I have always been Ramatu Ada Ochekliye and I have always loved the special ring it has to it. I love explaining to people why my name is so multicultural and religious. I love seeing people try to place my state, tribe, and religion by rolling my name off their tongues. I love knowing that my name is like me; different, yet whole. 2. My name has been my identity all my life; my identity as a Nigerian first, my identity as a person who loves all tribes and religions, my identity as me. 3. My father’s name, Ochekliye, is not associated with anything fantastic. But by being Ochekliyes, my sisters and I have done fantastic things. We love our names not because it had a precedent for greatness but because we set the precedent. You would hear something like ‘The Ochekliye girls are wonderful’, ‘Nobody messes with the Ochekliye girls’, ‘The Ochekliye girls can do all things’ and my personal favorite, ‘Don’t you know I am an Ochekliye?’. We made our name worth it for us. As a result, our name has become our heritage. 4. A man comes into a marriage and is not expected to change his name; or anything for that matter. He is always ‘Mr. A’. When I change my name, I have to change my identity. I have to get used to being called ‘Mrs. A’. What many people do not understand is that it can be quite disorienting to go from being addressed as Ramat to ‘Mrs. A’. 5. The process for changing my name is a lot of work. I have to apply to the courts and then put up an advert in the newspapers. When approved, I need to do a new national identity card, driver’s license and all other documents. If I have an international passport, I have to apply for a new one to reflect the change. All other documents carrying my original name then have to reflect my new name. I even have to change my business cards, bank details and generally, my entire life to fit my new status. Isn’t it simply easier to maintain my name? 6. I am expected to don my husband’s identity, an identity that he is used to, and an identity he isn’t expected to change even though we are both starting this new family. It doesn’t matter that my identity – my heritage – gets erased gradually until his heritage becomes mine. Whatever I achieve becomes his achievements but what he achieves remains his. 7. I am no less married to my husband if I do not bear his name as if I do. So in the real sense, changing my name is immaterial to my role as his wife and partner. 8. I feel that the need to have the woman change her name is because we have been taught that men are our prizes and that our worth is tied to marriage. I love my man but my identity is not tied to him. He is his own person and I am mine. We chose to be together but didn’t choose to be less of ourselves. We both have our dreams and aspirations that are in many cases, independent of each other. We both have our stories, motivations and baggage that make us the people we are. He doesn’t expect me to live for him and vice versa. So while I madly love him, I am still my own person. 9. Patriarchy is still one of the biggest problems of the world. That belief that a woman is only good enough when properly married and bearing her husband’s name is tired. And for many of these patriarchal men (and women), a husband’s name is a brand on his wife. It is no better than branding an animal or say, a property. Truth is, that is how many men view their wives. And yes, you could argue that it is patriarchal to bare my father’s name and you would be right. But it is name I have grown to love because it is mine. 10. I believe in the equality of the sexes and hence, equality in marriage. If the woman is expected to change her name, the man should too. One of my friends suggested that the man and his wife choose an entirely new name and start their own family. Most men however would not hear of it. These are my reasons for wanting to keep my name. I do not begrudge any woman the choice to change her name; as long as it is her choice to do so. I am wary of conforming to norms just because that is always the way things have been done. Just because things have been done a certain way for centuries doesn’t mean that they are right or should continue. I believe the reason why humanity is still
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By Abe Onche Innocence sits on the threshold He sits, at home in the vacant vastness Decadent, twisted into silence By the ravages of a destitute lifetime He cannot raise his eyes for fear Fear of rising to the cold stars of love Fear of rising to the harsh words of safety Fear of rising to fall that much lower Far from the light and the face of God Angels with tattered wings are his company It is they that prompt, they that prod They are the demons in his flesh Scouring trails across his nerves He cannot rise to reach the stars, The lights he once delicately counted Now replaced by the glint of metal Littered across the ground around him. Evidence of heights he tried to soar On chemical wings There is an irony to the needles Desperately threaded with dreams and hallucinations To sew up a naked existence Leaving nothing but a score of wounds To mark their vain efforts
Maria Ufua Shaming the Fat Shamers
Maria UfuaCEO, Pure Hand Crafts by Marie Maria Ufua is an amazing woman. She is a 28 year old lady from Okhuesan, Esan Southeast local government area, Edo state. She is a fashion designer and the owner of Pure Hand Crafts by Marie, an entrepreneur and a youth and body image advocate. The last of five children, Maria grew up protected and loved by her parents and siblings. Her balance was almost shattered when her father died in 1997; she was 9 years old then. The family didn’t think they would survive but Maria’s mum stepped up to the plate. ‘I had a very hard working mum who studied Library science but was a fashion designer and a caterer at that time. She ensured I and my siblings all had the best of education, food, clothes, morals and skills before she left this world in the year 2004.’ Another death, and this time of her mum and support system, shook them really bad. Maria and her siblings knew they had each other and could go as far as they wanted if they emulated their mother. ‘When my mum passed on, I realized it was time to use every single thing I learnt from her. Hence, I was able to achieve everything I have achieved today.’ But it wasn’t always easy. You see, Maria is a plus sized lady and had been for a while. She was not always plus sized though. In her words, she used to be very skinny but she always knew she was predisposed to being big because of genetics. And as with most plus sized ladies (and men), Maria was teased mercilessly. ‘Some people love my size. But a lot of people always throw insults when I pass by them. Also, when people get to know about things I do, they are always shocked and ask “how can a fat girl do all these?” I just always ignore negative comments and focus on what I want to achieve.’ Ignoring deliberate meanness can get hard but Maria’s recipe worked to get her mind off the shamers; good natured and otherwise. Her recipe? Picking up causes and working at achieving them. Maria and a participant at one of her trainings ‘I have a fashion business called Pure Hand outfit where I make clothes, shoes and accessories for both males and females of all ages. I have worked with a lot of Non-Governmental Organizations in training youths and women in skills acquisition. I am currently the secretary general of Karkara Development Initiative and I am the youngest in the organization. I am also the President of Karkara Youth Ambassadors for Peace. I am also with Fabsisters Corner, a size advocacy and women empowerment group. I have a passion for youth empowerment hence I am always organizing free skills acquisition trainings. I also partner with the Kaduna Ministry of Commerce and Industry in promoting handcrafts made in Kaduna State.’ In spite all these, all some people still see is ‘a fat girl’. This was one of the reasons Maria joined the Fabsisters. Maria and other members of Fabsisters in African attire ‘Fabsisters corner is a size advocacy and empowerment group. It was formed by two lovely friends; Ijeoma Chinelo Obasi and Kenechi Adunni Okafor in Lagos state. Fabsisters was officially launched October, 2016, though it has been in existence for over five years. The organization has different chapters in different states and also in Ghana. The Kaduna chapter started October, 2016. In Fabsisters, we ensure that no sister (plus sized woman) feels less confident in herself because of her size. Also articles on major problems faced by plus sized women and their solutions are passed across to members to enable them conquer their fears. We are also planning a skill acquisition training to empower less privileged women and youths in our community. We ensure that no member is denied a job opportunity because of size or bullied in any way. We also ensure we are there whenever any sister needs help of any sort. ’ How about that?! Maria does so much for women and young people that we should celebrate her! But better than that, Maria would still do what she doing if no one saw her as anything other than a big girl. Her self confidence level is worth emulating. And even though there will still be people who will read this and scoff, Maria is confident about this; ‘My self-confidence is because I believe in myself and I believe that whatever I set out to do, with God by my side, I will achieve my goals regardless of what people think about me, my size or my gender. I believe in me, and when you believe in yourself you will conquer the world.’ And we love Maria for that! She is a beautiful, awesome, brilliant and talented woman. We are honored to know her and share in her work. Maria Ufua, you are a black girl and you rock! To participate in any of her trainings, order your clothes made or know more about Fabsisters, contact Maria via; Address: Dokaji Street, Ungwan Pama, Sabon Tasha, Kaduna State. WhatsApp: +2348087940145 Twitter: @ufua_maria Facebook: Ufua Maria Uwa Instagram: Purehandcraftsbymarie Maria training young people
Making Itoro a Woman
Female Genital Mutilation or in simpler terms, violence against women and girls. Ekong Itoro clenched her hands in the anticipation of the pain that would jolt through her in a few minutes. She breathed in quickly…and then slowly, making sure to count to five before letting each breath out. Her back was already drenched in sweat from lying on the pile of clothes in the very hot and fetid room. She could taste the blood at the back of her throat from pressing down on her teeth to keep them from clattering. She could also feel the warmth dripping from between her thighs; thighs she held together tightly as a final act of defiance before she was forced to spread them wide open. Her mother and aunties all told her it would only hurt for a minute. She desperately wanted to believe them but the screams of all the girls who had passed through this room revealed their bare faced lie. Those long, sad and broken screams sang a song of sorrow night after night until Itoro could barely sleep. When she finally managed to get some shut eye, she was jolted awake from nightmares of the girls walking out of THE room. She had watched girl after girl enter the room and come out wailing in pain. She had heard the screams of those classified as ‘not strong enough’ as they waddled in anguish. She wished her family didn’t live so close to Nne-ekami, the old gnarled woman who ensured all girls a certain age went through the traditional rites. She wished her window wasn’t directly opposite Nne-ekami’s small, worn out hut. She wished she didn’t notice Nne-ekami checking her out, waiting patiently like a vulture at the site of a dying child. But Itoro knew that she could wish all she wanted and nothing would change what was about to happen. As per the customs of her people, she must be circumcised after her first expulsion of blood. The other vulture-like old women began to enter the room. There were four of them. They were there to ensure no girl ran away from what their culture demanded. They were a people of upright character and they would not allow any girl ‘bring shame to her family and their people’. Itoro would have scuttled away if there was room to. Instead, she closed her eyes and dug her nails deeper into her palms. She swore she wouldn’t cry but the tears started falling by themselves. She unclenched her hands to wipe them away only to be hit with the smell of blood and death that she associated with Nne-ekami. Itoro didn’t know when a gasp escaped from her lips. She opened her eyes and standing right in front of her was Nne-ekami holding a dull, jagged razor blade. Itoro had never seen anything more menacing in her life. The razor refused to glint, somehow mirroring the dire circumstances of what was about to happen. She wished she could die rather than go through this moment. For some reason, the things the other girls had told her started coming back. ‘It is the worst feeling I have ever felt in my life….’ ‘I begged God to take my life…’ ‘After the circumcision, my nyash swelled up and was smelling for days. They had to use leaves to get the swelling down…’ ‘When I went to urinate, it was like someone put burning charcoal in my nyash…’ ‘When my husband sleeps with me, I don’t feel anything…’ ‘Nwaha died after they cut her. What a lucky girl…’ And Itoro started to scream. She was not just screaming for herself. She was screaming for all the other girls who had been a visitor in this room. She screamed for mothers who went through this and still demanded their daughters suffer the same. She screamed because there was no one who was going to speak up for the women of their community; not their king, not the men and not the women either. ‘I see this girl wants to bring disgrace to our people. I have not even touched her and she is shouting like a pig.’ Nne-ekami looked at the other women. They knew what to do; even though no word was said. On either side of Itoro, a woman held an appendage. Two of the women knelt on Itoro’s hands, sending a shot of pain right through her arms and all the way through her spine. Like a well-planned routine, they clamped their hands over Itoro’s mouth as she trashed even more. The other two women pried her legs wide open at awkward angles until Itoro thought she would die. Nne-ekami patted Itoro’s thighs and smiled. She pinched her clitoris and held it firmly in place. Itoro could sense all her nerve endings on edge. Then came the grating voice. ‘From today, you shall be a proper woman. Don’t worry, we have all gone through this and this will make sure that you don’t become a prostitute. Don’t worry ehn.’ And then she cut. Itoro thought her hands nearly pulled out of its socket was painful. She begged God to kill her when her leg was pulled painfully apart. She thought suffocating under the sweaty, smelly hands of these women was horrifying. But nothing – absolutely nothing – prepared her for the pain that shot through her entire being when the razor sliced through her super sensitive clitoris and labia. Nothing prepared her for the white hot fire that was sent to her body from the hands of Nne-ekami. When her eyes rolled back into her head, she was glad to welcome the nothingness that numbed her excruciating suffering. Ekong Itoro was only eleven years old when she saw her first period. It seemed fitting that one so young should only live for eleven years.
