The Men Who Snitched on Their Gender
Picture: BLACK WOMEN OF BRAZIL I woke up this morning with the thought of one of the shows I did on television. We had this business mogul on the show and he was talking about business principles for success. Just as we were rounding up, he asked us to let him say something. It went something like this; ‘I am the man I am today because I have a very wonderful wife. If she isn’t in my life, I probably wouldn’t have reached this success level I am enjoying today. What most people don’t know is that she isn’t good at business but she is a great idea churner. Almost every venture I have turned into a lucrative money-making business is an idea my wife whispered to me. She is the idea and I am the execution. That is why we are so successful. Men, learn to respect the women in your lives. They hold the key to your success.’ After our cooing and awwwing, we wrapped up the show and went out of the studio. When we went into our office for the post show discussion, I couldn’t help but notice that some of my colleagues were laughing at our guest. I wondered what it was about but didn’t bother to ask. As we proceeded with our analysis of the day’s performance, we got to the issue of the business mogul and next thing you know, one of my very vocal colleagues shouted, ‘That man has been pussy-whipped’. This drew some laughter from those who understood what he meant and blank faces from those who didn’t. It prompted a gender debate and we jokingly discussed the importance of women. My colleague didn’t let go of his opinion. He kept saying, ‘That man is such a snitch!’ I asked him what he meant by that and he said men who let their women ‘control’ them are snitches on their gender and that men are supposed to be ‘manly’ and behave a certain way. I remember that I looked at my colleague and imagined how a person could be so ignorant! So, because a man praises his wife and respects her, he has snitched on his gender? As I pondered on that incident, I thought of other men who could be said to have ‘snitched’ on their gender. Here is a list; 1. The Men Who BELIEVE In the Equality of the Sexes: you know how women are supposed to be less than men and thus, defer to them? Yeah, there are men who don’t believe so! These men understand that gender equality doesn’t negate the roles of each sex but accepts that we are human first before we are our gender. They believe that women and men should have equal access to education, healthcare, life choices, job opportunities, same pay, leadership positions, promotions, dignity of person and of ideas. These men get incensed when women are treated less than men are because of their sex. Know a man like this? When you see him on the road, this is what you should say to him. ‘You bloody wonderful snitch’! 2. The Men Who HELP Out In the House: in this world of men sitting down and watching football while their mothers/sisters/wives slaves in and around the house, finding that man who helps around the house is such a breath of fresh air. I went to stay with a family recently; a mother, her daughter and son. I woke up to help out with chores only to see that the guy had done almost everything. He cleaned the house, did the dishes, washed the cars and prepared breakfast. I was like, ‘Dude, where are you from?!’ He laughed and told me he had to prepare for work. I asked about his mum and his sister and he told me his mum was down with fever and his sister wasn’t a morning person because she worked nights. So he took care of the house and when his sister got up, she didn’t have to do all the work in the house. I looked at him straight in the eye and said, ‘will you marry me?’ Such a snitch! 3. The Men Who would NEVER Hit A Woman: women, you know how we can get very blabber-mouthed when we quarrel with people right? How we go for the jugular? Where we just want to eviscerate a person? Well…I am not one of such women! (Hey! Don’t vex na! I am just playing! Chai! Okay…okay…I confess. I am THAT person!) There was this day I quarreled with a dear friend…(what now?! Stop giving me that side eye. Okay! Okay! Insert boyfriend)…and I was really mad. We had never gone at it like that before. Usually, when I am mad at him, I just walk away because I know my mouth is razor-sharp. On this day however, all the claws were out and drawing blood. My alter ego came out and looked at me and quite frankly, if I was him and I was listening to the things I had to say, I would have descended on me. Have you watched Kung Fu Hustle? Trust me, the slaps would have been that fast! Anyhoo, I could see that he was about to explode and I didn’t stop. He walked away and guess what? I followed! I started pulling him at, tugging at his shirt and spewing my venom. Reading this, you would think I wanted to get beaten but the truth was, I was dealing with rage issues and I couldn’t reason clearly when the anger got to a certain point. One final tug and gbam! He punched! He hit the metal door away from my face. After the sound of bone hitting metal, the silence was deafening. I had pushed him to the point where he raised his hand but he still wouldn’t hit me. He preferred to injure himself –
The Curse of Social Media
I pick up my phone, look for the best light source, tilt for the best angle, present the left side of my face, pucker my lips (or smile or laugh), choose a filter and bam! Picture taken! When I want a full length picture, I hand over my phone to someone and repeat the procedure. I always present my left side because it is my most flattering side. My smile seems fuller, my eyes brighter and the ‘love handles’ on my waist doesn’t look so pronounced. I take as many pictures as possible and then choose the best from the rack. Every picture that shows me in an unflattering light doesn’t see the light of any prying eyes. It is CTRL X on them ugly pictures! Having done that, I go through filter after filter to make my face smoother, clearer, and fresher and my clothes and environment more ‘tush’. When all that is done, INSTAGRAM baby! 50 likes! 100 likes! 1000 likes! And if I am Kim Kardashian, likes in the millions! Yeah…I wasn’t just talking about me. When you go on any of the social media platforms, whether it is Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Pinterest, Tumblr or whatever suits your style, you see pictures of people that seem a bit…unreal. Everyone is more beautiful, richer, sexier and much more likeable. Everyone seems to be having fun and celebrating life and doing things that you seem to be left out of. Everyone seems to have a very happy life! But is this usually the case? In most cases, no. Social media has given us an opportunity to lieto the world. I know many people who are extremely differentfrom what they put up on social media. There are people who post snaps showing they live in opulent houses while living poor. Women with smaller waists on Snapchat or Instagram seem thicker in reality. Remember when 50 Cents was with that bed of money but filing for bankruptcy? Wizkid spoke of a house he supposedly ‘bought’ when in real sense, the owner was waiting to embarrass the heck out of him fornot paying rent. And supposedly happy relationships on the gram are anything but. Take the case of Toke Makinwa and Tiwa Savage for example. I cannot count all the #CoupleGoals posts people put up after seeing well edited photos of their supposedly happy marriages. The wedding pictures were heavenly and the gowns were out of this world! It wasn’t until their marriages publicly came crashing down that people saw how unhappy they really were. I met an actor cum TV and red carpet host recently. This actor had a very healthy social media presence. He was always on fleek in all his pictures and one would have thought he was swimming in money. He was at our school to talk on his career as a learning platform for aspiring actors. One of the first things he said was, ‘Forget what you see on the gram. Most of what I wear is brought to me by my producers and after the show, I return them. I go home in the clothes I went to the office with.’ I was shocked. Here was an ‘accomplished’ actor telling us that most of what we saw on his Instagram was just for show. Another actor, this time my favorite Nigerian male actor, spoke of moments of poverty when he was smiling for the gram, when he was posting happy pictures and when he was motivating others to reach for the stars. I can go on and on with the celebrities but they are not the only guilty ones. I know ladies who cannot take a picture without caking their face first. Theycannot go out without their face beat on fleek and dressed to the nines. These ladies spend almost all their money on clothes, makeup, accessories and what not. They hardly ever repeat a dress or shoe. Every day, they take pictures to show off what they have. How would the world know they just bought a new dress if they don’t quickly upload photos online? This is not just a thing for girls. Guys are guilty too. You look at snaps of Tyson Beckford, Trey Songz, Ebuka Uchendu, Nobel Igwe and you just know that men also want to show off. These men are fashionable and trendy so they show off their appeal in well taken shots. Some other men who may not be conventionally sexy or ‘cute’ show off their wealth. Men like Floyd Mayweather, Young Thug, Birdman and Davido are about showing off that paper. Again, how would people know they are millionaires if they don’t show the things their money can buy for them? And another category is the men who show off their penis prints. You all know how many women swooned when The Game showed off what he was packing on Instagram or when Serge Ibaka mistakenly posted a picture emphasizing his size. You hardly ever see anyone deliberately putting up a bad picture of themselves. Everyone always wants to look good. And even though I am anti-body shaming, I will never take a picture of my love handles and put online. Hell no! I ain’t sorry! Khloe Kardashian photoshops her bad knee, some dark skinned girls use lighter filters, some ‘white’ girls use the tan filter, people without cars never post pictures where they are trekking or in public transport and stuff like that. The effect then is that when many people go on Instagram or Facebook or any social media site that is especially designed for pictures and videos, they think that their lives isn’t as good as it should be. They look at the plush houses, luxury cars, designer clothes, expensive jewelry and accessories, state-of-the-art gadgets, perfectly done make up, trips to exotic locales and mouth-watering food and they can’t help but think that their life is sadly lacking in many things. If you are one of such, remember that away from the well
Good Christian People II
Add caption Tolulope has been facing abuse from her family and boyfriend because of a mistake she made. She is about to be pounced on by her brother in-law and her sister. Would she escape the beating she is sure to get? Will her life get better? Find out by continuing the story. Remember, all the events of this story are based on true events. Only the names have been changed. If you haven’t seen Part 1, start off here. *** For 2 days they beat Tolulope, punctuating each slap or kick or punch with the Bible thrust into her face, reminding her that she could be free when she swore to give up her boyfriend and their child. She lost consciousness several times and as soon as she came to, the threats and subsequent beatings continued. By the third day, she couldn’t take it anymore. She went to them while they breakfasted and knelt down. ‘Uncle, Aunty, I have come here to apologize. I have been a fool. I have been a disobedient child and I have been sinful. Today, I want to swear before you and God that I have repented and I will never see Femi or Ayo again. I will obey you with the whole of my heart and do anything you want. If you still want me to swear with the Bible, I will do so.’ Aderopo smiled. ‘You have done well. If you had agreed since, you wouldn’t have suffered all these things. But you know that God told me to do that. Anyway, go and eat.’ For a week, Tolulope was the picture of the perfect niece; waking up early, cleaning the house, bathing the kids, prepping them for school, cooking the household meals and doing the dishes and laundry. For one week Tolulope didn’t speak to Femi or her daughter or anyone else for that matter. She was not allowed to go out of the gate by the express instruction of Aderopo but she didn’t even attempt to. Until her opportunity came. Friday, the gate man, left the house every day at 1pm and 4pm to play draft at the top of the street. He would return after 30 minutes and continue his work; like clockwork. He usually locked the door from outside with a piece of stick instead of the padlock. Her sister had gone to the market and Tolulope knew she had time. Her uncle was not due back until 6pm. This had to happen today or no other day. As soon as it was 1pm, Friday set off for his game. Tolulope gave him 5 minutes. She ran out to the gate and started shaking it. Gently, gently she did to see if she could dislodge the stick. She continued on for 15 minutes and with each push-and-tug, she despaired at getting caught. Finally the stick fell! She opened the gate and looked out. There was no one on the street. She got out of the house, put the stick back in place and walked away. The street was a typical upscale street in Abuja. There were no hiding places and getting a bike or taxi was hard. She had to walk long distances to get one. She walked as calmly as she could because she didn’t want to arouse attention. She nearly died when she saw a car coming her way. Was it her uncle? His wife? Was she about to be caught? Her heart was beating faster than was healthy. Her legs couldn’t carry her further and she just stood there. The car inched closer…and closer… …and then it passed. Phew! It wasn’t her family! That was her cue. Damn any attention she would draw to herself. She had to run! And run she did! When she got to the top of the street, she saw a bike and used all her desperation to flag him down. When he stopped, Tolulope saw, from the corner of her eye, the unmistakable red of her uncle’s car and before she could tell the bike man where, she jumped on, and shouted ‘Go! Go! Go!’ The bike man roared with speed and passed Aderopo who wondered at the rough rider and continued home. There were two car parks close to the estate and Tolulope asked the driver to take her to the farthest. Her heart was still racing and she knew she was not out of the loop yet. When they got to the park, she saw a vehicle going to Kaduna and they needed just one person to fill it. She jumped into it and the driver collected her money. As he went about looking for change, Tolulope kept praying she would escape. She just wanted to leave; she just wanted to live. When they finally got on their way, they got caught in traffic. Maybe God wasn’t going to help her after all. She knew that her uncle would come after her and he would not stop at anything. She kept praying and praying until the red jaguar rolled up and stopped right by their side; by Tolulope’s side. It was her uncle. She was in the back seat but if he looked, he would see her in the rearview mirror. Tolulope ducked, hitting the Muslim woman beside her. The woman asked what the fuss was about. ‘That man in that car is my uncle. He has been raping me for years and beating me. I just escaped today. Please, help me.’ The woman looked at him and looked at her. She looked at him again. She made up her mind, took off her veil, covered Tolulope and put her hand on her. The man in the car looked at her and she could almost feel his malevolence. He looked away and inched closer in the traffic lane. After 15 minutes, the gridlock opened and they were on their way. Smooth sailing to Kaduna. And all through, the girl she had just helped cried and cried. *** When Tolulope
Good Christian People
Based on true events. Girl crying.Image: Women’s Net Tolulope Brainard sat in front of Dr. Kikelomo with bated breaths. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion. She was sure that the result in that envelope would change her life forever, yet she dreaded what it would say. She wanted to pray but knew that whatever prayer she sent now was too late anyway. It was either positive or negative. ‘You are pregnant Tolulope.’ Dr. Kikelomo said. She didn’t just say it with finality; that would have been nice. Dr. Kikelomo said that with cynicism, seemingly mocking her predicament. Tolulope got up to leave. Dr. Kikelomo stopped her in her tracks. ‘I must say that I am ashamed of you. How could you have been fornicating all this while? What a shame you are to the church! You do know I am sending the report to the pastor so you can be disciplined right?’ Tolulope looked back at her and turned the door knob. She walked out of the consulting room and out of the hospital. As she wandered the streets in a state of confusion, her life’s choices began to flash before her. *** Tolulope was born into a strong Christian family. She was the youngest girl of four siblings; one brother and three sisters. Her father died when she was five and her mother took up the responsibility of taking care of them. They were poor; not piss poor, but poor still. Her mother, if anything, became more religious. She spent all her time reading her Bible, attending church services and doing evangelism. Tolulope grew up on nothing but the Bible, its edicts and its teachings. Her mother drummed morality into all her children, chief of which was staying away from fornication. Tolulope knew by heart all the Bible verses about sexual sins. Her oldest sister – Shayo – was married off to the church choirmaster, Aderopo Bolaji, when she was 17. He was a middle class man who worked in the government. He took the load off Tolulope’s mother by paying most of her bills. As he got promoted, his burden increased; he became the chief financier of Tolulope’s family. He trained Tolulope’s siblings until only Tolulope was left. When Tolulope got into the university, she maintained her Christian life. She studied hard, prayed a lot, never missed campus fellowships and completely stayed off boys. She did all that until she met Femi. Femi was handsome, intelligent and dedicated to the things of God. He was, in her definition, the perfect man. No one taught her to understand her body and its urges so when she started feeling things for Femi, she chucked it up to being ‘sinful’. She prayed to God to deliver her from her feelings and when that didn’t happen, blamed Him for them. She found out later that Femi also shared same feelings and they started dating…or more appropriately, courting. They never spent any time alone together. They always had a chaperone or a friend. They didn’t want to tempt the devil to cause them to sin. When they had dated for 2 years, Femi proposed and Tolulope said yes. She was elated! She couldn’t wait to share the happy news. She called her mother and sister Shayo and they seemed genuinely pleased. God had sent them a good man. When Shayo told Aderopo, he flew into a rage. How dare Tolulope date someone? Who gave her the right to date anyone he had not first approved off? Shayo was surprised at the anger but since the Bible urged her to submit to her husband, she soon began to see things in his light. Aderopo began to make life harder for Tolulope. He told her to choose between Femi and continuing her education. When she didn’t listen, he threatened to stop sending money to their sick mother. Tolulope told Femi everything and they decided to keep their relationship secret until Shayo’s husband was more cooperative. Well, she couldn’t hide it any more. *** Carrying the pregnancy was the hardest thing Tolulope had to do. Aderopo beat her every day, maybe hoping she would lose the pregnancy. Shayo joined her husband in the beatings. When they weren’t beating her, they were piling house chores on her. They prevented her from going to church because she was, in their words, a disgrace to their family. The only time Tolulope was happy was when she returned to school but even that was a drag. Her course mates gave her that how-can-you-be-born-again-and-pregnant look. She couldn’t explain that she had had sex with Femi in a moment of weakness and the result had been the baby. She couldn’t explain that she had prayed to God, begged for His forgiveness and felt that she deserved the suffering she was facing at the moment. Femi’s mother, who had been so loving when they were introduced, suddenly became a monster when Femi told her about the pregnancy. She swore that Tolulope was the corrupting influence on her very Christian son. She swore that when Tolulope gave birth, she would take ‘their baby’ and be done with her. Tolulope was afraid she would lose her child. So every day, she prayed, hoped and begged God to let the child be okay and to be able to keep it. Maybe God finally took pity on her. *** Tolulope had not seen her sister’s family in two years. Since that day when she took out the IV line from her hand, took her baby and walked out of the hospital, she had not even thought of them. She was happy with her beautiful child and even though she had to hide the effects of Femi’s physical abuse from the inquisitive eyes (and hands) of her daughter, she was happy. Oh! She didn’t tell you? Femi was abusive too. From the moment she turned up at his door, he took every opportunity to beat her. And he had many excuses; she was a temptress, she
Should I Quit My Job?
Image: Google Plus Let me start by making this broad statement; I believe that many people are sick and tired of their jobs! Yeah! I said it! I can also go further to make another broad statement. It doesn’t matter whether you are working for someone or you are your own boss: there comes a time when everyone feels their job sucks! And not just the I-hate-my-job-but-I-will-manage kind of suck but the I-hate-my-job-and-desperately-want-to-quit type. I have been at both places. When I went to serve in Yola, Adamawa State, Nigeria, I was the doe-eyed optimist who believed that I had the Midas touch. I believed I could always find something to do. And true to that, I got something to do barely three months into my stay in Yola. I started ‘working’ at a broadcast media firm. By October that year, a little over 8 months after I started ‘doing stuff’ for the company and the month I finished my service, I was co-opted into their system; I received my first pay as a freelance presenter. For me, it was doing what I loved. I was on radio and I was increasing my sphere of influence. The fact that they were paying me was a plus. Even though the pay was not great, or even good, I was excited doing what I loved. I woke up every day with a burning desire to do well, to be better than I was the previous day, to achieve better than I had done in the past and to dish out new information in newer and more innovative styles. I made sure that my shows were well researched and different from what was the norm at the station. I wanted people to hear a playlist and just know that Ramat was on duty. I wanted my own signature and I worked really hard to ensure I got it. I soaked up all the information I could get from my friends and colleagues and from rival stations in my quest to standout. As long as there was information to be learned about radio program production, you can be sure that I was learning it. As I improved my skill, I took up more and more work until I was spending almost all day at the office. I wanted a scenario where my work would stand out so well that the company would have no choice but to fully employ me; instead of just paying me for my shows. A year went by and I wasn’t given an appointment letter. The disillusionment started to set in. Was I not good enough? Did I not meet the requirements? Did I just have an over-inflated view of my capabilities? These questions plagued me and made me unhappy and unfulfilled. The love for my work gradually began to wane and my passion started to die. This made me take up even more work. I felt like I needed to do more and give more to be good enough for the company. My bosses would praise me for the ‘good work’ I was doing, random people would see me on the streets and appreciate me and some would even pay for my stuff in the market. In spite of all these, the full employment still didn’t come. Here I was living in a backwater town that was so far from all I knew and held dear and to whom I was giving my all and yet, I couldn’t even get employment. Soon enough, resentment began to build up. It came to a place where my self-worth was tied to whether I got a letter or not. You can imagine how bad my life became. I kept sending out job applications but had become so busy at the office that when I got called for interviews, I couldn’t go. This was because my responsibilities were as though I was a full staff of the organization; though my pay grade was notthat of a staff. I was worried that I would lose the little I had in the process of finding something better. I was also worried about the economic situation of the country and when I thought about how many of my friends didn’t have jobs, I just stayed put. And felt trapped. The more I felt trapped, the less happy I was with my job. I kept wondering if I should quit my job and pursue something else or continue to hold on, hoping for a day when my bosses felt I was good enough to be employed. After three years of the same routine and no letter of appointment, I knew I had to borrow myself some sense. For whatever reason, the company didn’t think keeping me was a priority and I knew I couldn’t keep on working like a donkey and getting very little pay. So I knew I had to leave. I couldn’t continue to give a lot of my time, money and energy to a company that didn’t value me. In June of 2016, I packed up my stuff and left Yola for good. I realized I was not the only one with such stories. One of my besties was also going through issues like this. While it was my choice to be overworked, she was forced to work overtime every day and wasn’t paid as much as her work demanded. Recently, she found out that her boss paid members of his staff who were his tribe more than he did her. Truth is, she worked way more than others and was the most trustworthy staff. Finding out she earned way less than her colleagues really broke her spirit. She was at that crossroad where she wondered whether to continue to stay or to leave the company. Another lawyer friend got to that crossroad and walked away from the firm that was overworking him. It wasn’t that the pay wasn’t good but that he wasn’t just growing there. He knew that he could do more, be more, and achieve more if he just wasn’t working with that firm.
Being the Weaker Sex
Working woman with her baby.Image: Your Life Hack. I know this very beautiful lady whose spirit is equally beautiful. She is the type of lady that brings about a sense of calmness when you speak to her. Her humility is so inspiring and the light in her eyes tell of a spirit that is happy, carefree and blessed. Then she got married. Barely three months into the marriage, I noticed a marked change in her demeanor; the light in her eyes had dimmed considerably, there was an air of sadness about her and what used to be graceful slimness began to look more gaunt than slim. When I perceive such sadness, I don on Agatha Christie’s Monsieur Poirot’s persona. I went about investigating the cause of her sadness and what I found was deliberately annoying! Her husband works in a multinational oil company while she works in bank. They both have to leave the house before 7am and both return home quite late. You corporate workers know the drill! It was a power marriage…but only for the husband. I found out that the husband demanded she cooked fresh breakfast, lunch and dinner every day. This lady would wake up at about 3:30am to prepare breakfast and lunch and to clean their house. She would package his lunch in a flask and help him prepare for work. After a long day at the office, she would rush home to cook his dinner and probably wait for him to fuck have sex with her at night. What was most annoying was that the husband demanded she washes his clothes too. He used to take his clothes to the dry cleaners before he married her but he was quoted as saying, ‘I cannot be wasting money now that I have a wife’. So this lady had to wash his suits, shirts and kaftans and iron them for her ‘darling husband’. After three months, she was bone-tired from balancing slavery house work and a hectic bank schedule. Truth is, she was tired of the marriage. She wanted out but being a ‘devout Christian’, she felt she had no options. You can imagine how angry I got when I heard all these. I was so mad I almost walked up to man to slap him! I know you would think it is not my business but truth is, it is! Here is why I got so riled up. Time and time again, we have been told that women are the weaker sex. Most religions of the world preach that women are weaker and it seems to be one of the few points that the religions of the world agree. In Islam, the Qur’an the Hadith says a woman has a ‘weaker mind’ (Qur’an 2:228 and Bukhari 6:301 respectively), the Bible in 1 Peter 3:7 calls the woman the ‘weaker vessel’, early Judaism saw the woman as ‘weak minded’ and even my grandfather drummed it in so well into his children that my father believes we are weaker. What of our cultures? They lend their weight to the notion that women are weaker. And not just that, they put up cultural markers in place to remind us that we are the weaker gender. So…if we are the weaker sex, why the bloody hell do we do most of the work?! There are many women like the woman I mentioned above; women who have to get it right at the home front and get it right at work. Some women are lucky and are allowed to have maids. Some are not. They have to do everything themselves! The argument has always been that men need to ‘focus on work and provide the bread’ so women have to ensure the home is properly catered to. I used to understand the logic. But now, more and more women are in the work place as their husbands are. Some women even do morein the office than their husbands. Is it then fair to continue to hold that ‘logic’ and to make such women do all the work at home? Let me shade my dad and brother a bit. My sister and I don’t live at home because of work so they probably see us twice a year. My other sister is in school and is home about four times a year. When we are away, my father and brother do all the household chores and maintain the house. My dad fixes his breakfast – a cup of tea – daily and sets off for work. Fast forward to whenever I come home. Soon as they see I am home, they take their hands off the household chores. My dad would even ask that I fix his breakfast. I want to assume that he misses me and would prefer to have that special bonding moment but eh ehn! I no gree! See, my father is set in his ways and one of his beliefs is that chores are for women. Simple and short! He raised us like that and even when my mother insisted that my brother does chores, my father relegated him to sweeping duty. Even that became a problem for him as we grew up. I knew he wouldn’t do it so I just took his portion. I spoke to my sisters and they said when they also come home, they experience same. My brother is especially worse. If I don’t wake up on time, my dad may still fix his breakfast but my brother? Total hands-off from chores! It wasn’t until I fell a bit ill that they both miraculously found the ability to take care of themselves (and the house) again. They wanted me to feel that if I wasn’t home, they would die but seeing how fresh they both looked, I begin to wonder. Done shading! Okay popsi, no vex abeg! You see, many men in the country are like that. They feel a woman can and shoulddo any and every household chore. A woman is supposed to maintain a house and maintain her husband and
Calling the Kettle Black
Blacked pot and kettle.Image: In-Sights A while back, I spent some time with some missionaries in Zaria. The house was a warm and loving environment where one couldn’t help but feel at home. It was a family of 5, with the only female in the house being the mum. The boys are between the ages of 7 and 13. Though they were 5, you would never find just 5 people in the house. There is always any number of people at any given time in that house, whether they are living there or just passing by like I was. What should have been a two day visit ended up being a four day visit. It was on one of those days that something remarkable happened. The kids were having their breakfast while their mother studied in the living room. I was doing some chores inside when I heard the boys arguing. They were, like most boys that age, putting down their female classmates. The conversation went thus; ‘Mummy, the girls in our class as SOOOO dirty!’ the second son said. ‘And very annoying!’, the third son punctuated. Their mother looked up from her books and asked why they said so. Since I was out of view of the boys, I stopped what I was doing to hear the argument. And no, it was not because they were bashing girls….or maybe it was. The boys described situations where the girls would sit together at lunch break, all eating from each student’s food warmers until they were all done. They went further to say the girls ate with their hands like ‘local people’ and that they didn’t even bother to wash their hands before doing so. The breaking point for the boys was that the girls would leave the place they ate messy and disgusting. I held back a chuckle as their mother chided them. She told them they were no different from the girls in their class. She reminded them that she had to pick up after them whenever they came home, ate or studied. The boys were not pleased with their mother’s stand and said she always supports women. Their mother said she only spoke the truth. The back and forth made between mother and sons got me thinking. We (generally) judge people harsher than we do ourselves. Let me use a relationship to make my point. When couples fight, it is always about what the other person did and never about what you did. Adam blamed Eve who in turn blamed the snake. President Buhari and the ruling government blame the previous administration for everything wrong with the country. Husbands blame their wives if their children turn out poorly and mothers blame society for corrupting their children. Why do we judge people harsher than we do ourselves? Why don’t we take the blame for our contributing actions to problems? Why couldn’t Adam say, ‘Father, I did wrong. I am sorry.’ Why couldn’t Eve say, ‘Father, I convinced my husband to go against your word. Forgive me’. Why can’t Buhari say that Nigeria has problems but he came in ill-prepared for them? Shouldn’t a father say, ‘I play a role in ensuring my children turn out well and if they don’t I take some blame?’ I want to assume that we were created with an innate desire to blame ourselves less but that will scratch out my entire ‘choice’ ideology. However, I do believe we view the world through clear glasses and ourselves through jaded ones. And it is not just with bad things. We always see the grass as being greener on the other side. The question is, why? As I pondered on these things, I finished my chores and went in to rest. I was brought out of my reverie when I heard the mother shouting at the boys. Turned out, the boys left their plates where they ate, with pieces of food strewn about and the entire living room in disarray. It was a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black. Who would have thought yeah?
Someone Always Has It Worse Than You
A little child looking at his mother.Image: Tolu Bamwo for nappy.com I returned to Yola, Adamawa State, at the end of May 2016 after being away for five months. I came in at night and didn’t notice all the changes in my house; and there were many. I, however, saw that the security man’s house was filled with people; a woman, her children and a young man. I ignored them and went into my house. The next day, I woke up to the sound of a crying baby. I got up, looked out of the window and saw that the compound was littered with bits and pieces of household materials. The woman I had seen the night before was right in the middle of the mess preparing their breakfast while calming the wailing baby. I went out to my neighbor and asked who they were. He told me they were renting the place. I was shocked! How could they be renting the security man’s cubicle? He told me that the place was even going for ₦40,000 and I balked further. I went back to my room and from the window, watched the family. The husband – the young man I saw when I came in – was a laundry man in a hotel close to my house. Without even asking, one could tell that he was not formally educated. Seeing this, I knew the wife would be uneducated too. I continued watching. Front View of the Security Man’s Cubicle They have five children; two girls and three boys. The boys were the middle children. The first girl looked like a teenager but it was very hard to determine the ages of the boys because they were smallish, thin and had an air of malnutrition about them. After a while, I made my decision and left the window. Since I was away for such a long time, you can imagine how dusty my house was. I started cleaning. Soon enough, I had three piles; what I wanted to take back to Kaduna, what I wanted to give away and what I wanted to destroy because they could not be used by anyone. When I had the clearly defined piles, I went to my neighbor and asked if the woman would feel some type of way if I gave her the pile I wanted to give away. He said she would appreciate it; very much. I decided that I would go to her at night with the things to spare her any embarrassment…or spare me any. I went back in and pulled the things I wanted to destroy out of my room and towards the refuse bin. After that, I went back into my room to continue working. Side view of the security man’s cubicle. I was interrupted by gleeful shouts in Hausa. I went back to my window and saw the kids jumping and shouting. ‘Mama, look what I got!’ ‘Mine is better!’ ‘No! Mama look! See what I found again’. They were rummaging through my trash and rejoicing at their ‘finds’. A veil of shame came over me. I had been in a dump for months because I felt like my life was at a plateau. I was unhappy about my finances and wondering whether my career would ever pick up. I was depressed about everything and every situation in my life. I stopped smiling genuinely and literally became a recluse. And before me were children whom, going through my trash, were happy at what they ‘found’! Their mother collected their finds and kept them in her room. When I saw that, I was even more ashamed. Why did I make a choice to be gloomy? To be sad? To be unhappy? I lived alone in my house and seven of them shared a cubicle that was about a third of my apartment. Yet, they maintained their joy and happiness. I was ashamed that I had become ungrateful for the many simple pleasures in my life. I had become a serial complainer who spent most of her time whining about the things I lacked. For days, I watched this family and learned that the children did not go to school; the first girl was a maid somewhere; the mother used traditional medicine methods when the toddler was sick; and the father beat the kids so bad that it bordered on abuse. In all, I never saw them without a smile on their faces and though they look gaunt, they look happy. This family gave me a reality check. Yes things are bad. Yes things are not going the way I planned. But I control the way I react to the lemonades life is throwing at me. I can decide to be gloomy and sad or I can choose to maintain a bright demeanor in spite of it all. This family reminded me to enjoy the simple things of life. It is never as bad as we think. I hope we can all remember to smile through whatever we are going through at the moment. My prayer is that we remember to be grateful for the ‘little things’ in our lives. Know this; someone has it worse than you! Someone always has it worse than you! This doesn’t negate your emotions when you are faced with tough choices or a tough life. I am just saying that it works to walk through your process with a positive outlook to life. If you can, do something for someone who has it worse than you do. It doesn’t matter what you choose to do; just do something!
Malformed and Rejected!
Picture: ROSA VERLOOP I sat in my room and remembered a young boy I once knew. I will call him Junior. Junior was the first son of his parents. They had been blessed with four girls before Junior was born. Being African, his father didn’t feel like a man until he had his son. I don’t know what it was like at his birth because I met Junior when he was about 4. Junior was malformed. His head seemed too heavy for his tiny body, resulting in a permanent slouch when he sat; which was all he could do. His arms and legs were tiny and never seemed to catch up with the rest of his body as he grew. His eyes were bulgy and he had a drool most of the time. That was all most people saw. As a result, he was always on a chair or propped with pillows. I saw a side to Junior that astounded me. He was veryintelligent! He could hold brilliant conversations, with only slight slurring of his words. He was like Stephen Hawking…without the futuristic wheelchair. He was also very respectful and courteous; a trait that gets me every time. One day I stumbled upon his report cards and found he was the best student in his class. I expressed my amazement and his mum, full of pride and joy, told me that he had always been the top student in his class; excelling way above other regular students. This was my confirmation that Junior had the mind of a genius trapped in a malformed body. Somehow, I didn’t feel bad for him. I believed that his mind was the most important thing about him and I was proud to know him. Soon enough, his mother was pregnant again. When she gave birth to a healthy baby boy, Junior’s father was more than elated. He threw the biggest naming ceremony for his son and was merry for days. When it was his 1st birthday, oh my! You should have seen the fanfare! When Junior was about 8 and his brother 3, I was witness to something that shocked the socks off me. Junior’s dad returned from work that day and his second son ran to him with the enthusiasm that defined his childhood, screaming ‘Daddy Welcome!’ As soon he flew in the air for a hug, Junior’s father lifted him above his head and said, ‘Thank you my only son’. I balked! Only son?! Only son?! It was at that moment that I saw Junior crawling to welcome his father. He was within hearing distance of his father when those words were uttered. He froze where he was, child as he was, but understanding the full impact of those words. And like a child, he still said his welcomes…wishing….hoping….for that toss into the air and that acknowledgement. Junior’s father mumbled a response and went into his room. My heart broke…just as I am sure Junior’s did. He was malformed from birth, which was no fault of his. And that malformation led his father to reject him in the most hurtful of ways. For his father, his beautiful mind was not enough to overlook his mangled body. I left the house. That was the last day I saw Junior. The next time I heard of him, it was about his burial. He had been 13 when he died. I remember being sad and depressed at his painful life. I remembered his courtesy and his brilliance. I remembered how he always tried to help himself, in spite of his malformed body. I remembered his crooked smile that makes me think of the song by J.Cole. Best of all, I remembered his spirit. I heard his father cried at the funeral. I heard the tears wouldn’t stop. But I couldn’t help but wonder; did he cry in sorrow because he had lost a son or did he cry in joy because he now, truly, had one son?
On Human Life, Destiny and the Place of Free Will
Rob Wanders: Puppet on a String I had a discussion with a woman recently that got me thinking. The discussion revolved around marriage and having children. I was (and still am) of the opinion that marriage and childbirth is a part of a woman’s life and not the entire reason for her existence. I believe that I am complete whether I decide to marry and have children or not. The woman however was of the opinion that we are destined to be wives and mothers (or husbands and fathers). In her view, God may want to teach us patience and understanding via a mate and children. I said patience and understanding can easily be learned at the work place as it could at home. The argument went back and forth until I said that patience and understanding can also be learned from adopted children. She went into a fit at that point. She made a bold proclamation that adopted children can never be the same as biological children; that one could never love an adopted child as much as they loved a biological child. I was shocked at the statement. I know families where, unless you are told, you wouldn’t know that there is an adopted child in the house. But I digress. When she made the statement, I shut down my mind to her. She went on talking for a bit and it wasn’t until she made one statement that I returned to the present. ‘God may have, for example, destined you to have two children, who may in turn have three children each. If you refuse to do your bit, what do you think will happen?’ The word ‘destined’ stayed with me even after I left the woman. It is that word that set me mulling over some things I will like to share with you now. First off, a quick look at the meaning of the word. Destiny (noun); “the things that will happen in the future.” The destiny of our nation depends on this vote; “the force that some people think controls what happens in the future, and is outside human control.” You cannot fight destiny Culled from Cambridge Dictionary. I believe the woman was referring to the second definition above. So here is why I got rattled. Most religions preach of a deity who created and rules the world. They preach of a God or a couple of gods who created the universe and control all life on it. This is such that universally, being good means your God rewards you and being bad means you are punished. Religion has thus, kept man in check with the promises of an afterlife that is a consequence of our present lives. Some religions even preach that God controls everything that happens to each individual; from the time of our birth until we are returned to the ground. So the question is, ‘Are our lives pre-destined by God’? If yes, I have some follow up questions. If our lives are pre-destined by God, why does He hold us accountable for our actions? Has He predestined those who will get to heaven/paradise (depending on what you believe)? Does that also mean that He has destined those who would go to hell/lake of fire? If He plans our lives, why do I have to be faithful or moral or right? Why shouldn’t we be allowed to roam and kill and pillage? What will be the point of toeing the straight and narrow if there is no guarantee where we will end? Or if we have no choice in the matter? The next question is, ‘If our lives are pre-destined, why are we given the ability to make choices?’ Why do we have freewill? Shouldn’t we just be programmed to function a certain way and be placed on the earth to do just that? Can we refuse our destinies? If that is the case, is our refusal then our destiny? This is what I mean; If God ‘pre-destined’ me to be a doctor and I chose to be a media person, does that mean that I was really destined to be a media person after all? That my refusal was part of my destiny? That I really was acting out a script? Does God pre-destine that the African people be poor and others races rich? If so, when certain Africans break that jinx, does that mean they are refusing their destiny? Or does that mean that they are acceptingtheir destiny? Hmm……this destiny thing is becoming more confusing the more I ponder on it. Are you equally confused? Does God pre-destine that a 10 year old girl be married? That a woman is raped? That a boy is shot? Does God destine that people have and die of cancer? Of the common cold? Of Malaria? Of extreme poverty and hunger? Does God destine that some people are given birth to malformed children and others ‘normal’? Does God destine that a woman be in an abusive marriage? Does God destine that teen or that old man to commit suicide? Does God destine the murderer to kill, the rapist to rape, the abuser to hit and hit until the shattering of bones brings him back to his senses? Is it destiny that some women are prostitutes and some are forced into bestiality? Is it destiny for a person to have Down syndrome, dyslexia, attention deficit disorder, lunacy and whatever other ailment there is? And finally, does God destine some to be heterosexuals and others homosexuals yet…condemning homosexuality? If that then is the case, is God fair? This is the biggest question of them all. Personally, I don’t believe each life is destined as the second definition says. I believe that destiny is the sum total of all our choices made before death. I believe we are a product of the choices we make and not some grand script written about us. I believe that doing good may not always bode me well and doing bad
