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
Feigning Innocence
Lost Innocence.Image: Monster’s Closet Adakole looked at that body and he felt she was begging him to come to bed. He had always considered her a tease; especially because she was constantly hugging him, sitting on his thighs, or on the floor with her legs wide open and feigning innocence like she wasn’t deliberately arousing him. Well, it ends here. He is going to have her today! He began to take off her clothes. Where she should have been afraid, she laughed! He felt a twinge of anger. Was she laughing at him? He got angrier and slapped her. Today, he was going to show her who the boss was. He began to touch her and she didn’t respond. If anything, she stiffened. That got him worked up and he used his knee to forcefully spread her legs apart. She started to whimper and soon enough, she was crying; loudly. Adakole took a pillow and pressed down on her face as he continued touching her. ‘Now you want to act like this isn’t what you always wanted?’ he kept thinking to himself. Well, she shouldn’t have thought she could tease him and go scot free. He felt searing anger pass through him, doing the only thing he could to break her spirit. He whipped out his penis and forced himself into her. He kept ramming until she stopped moving; she stopped resisting. When he was done, he asked her to get up. No response. He shook her. No response. He shook her harder. She didn’t move. She was dead. Adakole panicked. He knew what would happen to him when her parents found out about what he had done. He also knew he had no other option but to run for his life. *** Senator Ibikunle held his crying wife as they addressed the press. ‘Our driver went to pick our daughter from school yesterday and has since not returned. We urge you to please help us with whatever information you have. Her name is Bolanle and our driver is Adakole Emmanuel. Please help us find our little girl. She is just three years old.’
Changing Stereotypes: Meet the Girl Behind Larney’s Make-Overs
Rachel Eugene Michael.CEO, Larney’s Make-Overs.Image: ProShot. When I posted my vlog – There Are Many Hardworking Black Women….And They Are Not Runs Girls – I knew I touched some nerves. It was my first vlog to get hit with the ‘unlike’ button and trust me, it stung a little more than I would admit. I knew the blog, podcast and vlog would strike major nerves because it is about changing stereotypes that currently define women. I was still brooding about the poor feedback when I got a message from @dat_bajju_bae on Instagram. We got talking and she shared her story, challenges, hopes and aspirations with me and I was glad that she connected. This is what I learned about her. Her name is Rachael Eugene Michael and she is a student of Ahmadu Bello University. Like most of us, Rachael made some mistakes trying to find her foot in this world. Unlike most people though, Rachael realized she was wrong and needed to change her path and rewrite her story going forward. As a result, Rachael started her own beauty business specializing in make-up artistry, and it is called LARNEY’S MAKE-OVERS. I must say I believe Rachael is good at what she does! Her make-up for dark-skinned beauties is lit! Below are examples of what she has done. I would be grateful if we all support this young woman who has decided to work hard at being independent and professional. Contact her for your beauty makeover via the following platforms: FACEBOOK: RACHAEL ELSIE MICHAELS; INSTAGRAM: @dat_bajju_bae ADDRESS: AHMADU BELLO UNIVERSITY, KONGO, ZARIA. PHONE NUMBER: 08094757586 She is also available to travel if and when contacted. She told me that my vlog had inspired her to be more hard working and to strive for better. I was more than elated that she contacted me. It is for this reason that I do what I do. This here is another hardworking woman! It si about time we realize that the stereotypes about women are played out! So Whatchu waiting fo? Girl is waiting fo yo call y’all! Check out more photos after the cut. PHOTOCREDIT: PROSHOT
Living in Lagos Is Toxic!
Busy Lagos Market.Image: Financial Times I moved to Lagos in January, 2016, to take a certificate course in Film Directing at Royal Arts Academy. This was a big move for me because I had never lived anywhere but the Northern part of the country and I didn’t know if I was going to be able to acclimatize to the culture shock of the new town. Plus, I had heard so many things about Lagos that convinced me that Éko is not for me. Long story short, the stories are true! My first two weeks in Lagos were uneventful as I spent most of my time at my friend’s house. I would go days without seeing the sun and I was quite content with that life. When it was time to finally start school, I knew that my life was about to change. I was tossed into the typical Lagos drama and four months down the road, I think that living in Lagos is toxic! Here is why I have come to this conclusion; 1. LAGOS IS OVER POPULATED! I cannot count how many times I had panic attacks being surrounded by so many people! Like, where the hell were these people coming from?! The worse experience for me was when I went to Balogun Market and was almost swamped! While my chest was heaving in pains, my darling friend – Shade Opeyemi – told me that the market was basically empty at that time and that if I had gone there a little earlier, I wouldn’t have been able to move. Well, thank God yeah? Ain’t nobody got time for that! 2. TRAFFIC IS HELL! As a result of the overpopulation mentioned above, you can imagine the number of vehicles on the road at any given time. School was at Surulere and I lived at Mangoro. I had to go to Ikeja every morning to catch a bus to Ojuelegba. The traffic from Mangoro Junction to Ikeja can get pretty crazy; depending on when you leave the house. The traffic from Palm Groove to Ojuelegba was also another issue! On a good day, it would take me about an hour to get to school. On a bad day, which was about half the time, I would be on the road for 3 hours! The return home was not much different. Bus drivers would pass through Mushin and then Ikeja Along towards Iyana Ipaja. The traffic around Mushin can be hell and worse around Ikeja Along. As a result, I usually leave the house around 7am for my 9am class and would usually get home around 8pm if I leave school at exactly closing time; 4pm. This made me so tired when I finally got home that I was too tired to be productive! 3. TRANSPORT FARE IS JUST WICKED! Until I came to Lagos, I had never paid more than ₦100 bus fare for one trip within the town. Here, I pay ₦200 bus fare from Ikeja to Ojuelegba and ₦150 okada fare from Ojuelegba to Ajao road, Surulere. I pay ₦250 from Ojuelegba to Mangoro when returning home. When there is fuel, that is the standard price. Since the fuel crisis began, I have been paying ₦300 from Ikeja to Ojuelegba and trust me, it burns! The cheapest fare is ₦50 and it is for shortest distance possible. Before coming to Lagos, the highest I had paid for bus transport was ₦300 for a Kaduna to Samaru, Zaria trip and anybody who knows that trip knows that Samaru is quite some distance away. So imagine what it means to pay similar fees for a much shorter distance! 4. EVERYONE IS ONE WORD AWAY FROM A BLOWOUT! Bus drivers or conductors are always ready to fight. Agberos too! Passengers would fight each other or fight conductors at the slightest provocation. Conductors will fight agberos over how much money they should pay to the local government. The conductors will even fight passengers who don’t hop off the bus quickly. One night, I got to a bus and sat sideways. The driver started shouting, ‘If you know say you no wan go, drop for my bus.’ I tried to explain to him that I was not going all the way to Iyana Ipaja so I needed to sit closer to him to let him know where I would alight. He continued shouting until I came down from the bus. I stood by the door so it would fill up and I could take the last seat. Next thing I know, I was surrounded by agberos telling me to either move away or enter the bus. I was scared for my life so I just entered the bus to avoid stories that touch. I kept asking what it was I did wrong until someone in the bus told me not to take it to heart; that they were high. I will tell you more about this experience a little later in the post. 5. THE STREETS STINK! Now Lagosians, this is not an insult. Every town has its smell depending on how open it is, the number of people in it, the activities of its inhabitants and how many vehicles are there. Lagos is a variation of smells! And most times, not so pleasant. This could be a result of the class of each area, the open gutters or moving LAWMA trucks. Ajegunle had a smell that gagged me when I crossed the pond leading to Apapa. When I visited Snake Island (Itu-Agan), the entire water way stank! It didn’t come as a surprise to perceive the smell because I could see waste been flushed into the water and at the Apapa port where we took boats, people could be seen peeing and pooing in the water. Yeah….ewwww! The only places that didn’t have that sharp, nauseating smell were mostly on the Island, parts of Ikeja and Surulere.
I Have a Problem With ‘Church Folks’
Black American Pastors at a Conference.Image: Jason Barnes. First off, let me state that I believe in the story of Jesus Christ, and that his existence, birth, life, death, resurrection and reign is the model of faith that I subscribe to. That been said, I must also clarify that I abhor religion. In essence, while I believe in faith (and the need for it), I am not a fan of the structures that define religion. Hence, I am not a follower of any religion in the world. I believe GOD has called us to have a relationship with Him that surpasses the trappings of religion. As par this mindset, I have a problem with ‘church folks’. But since I am only concerned about Africans, it is better to say ‘I have a problem with African church folks’. To set a premise, let me define what a ‘church folk’ is. “A church folk is a person who is only outwardly devoted to the teachings of the church but who is the direct opposite of the Christ he/she claims to follow.” Now that we have the definition out of the way, let me explain my reason(s). The hardest thing here is to get broad categories but I will try. Here are some examples of African church folks. 1. THE NARCISSISTIC CHURCH LEADER: I will start with the pastor/prophet/minister/priest who have god-complexes. Their word is law! They may not feel they are equal to GOD but they sure act like it. They have no nuances of humility or pretenses of obeisance. They ‘demand’ of GOD and ‘command’ GOD to do their bidding. They shout at GOD as they would their servants. In similar fashion, they demand that their followers obey them to infinity. These church folk literally determine how their followers live their lives; whom they marry, what sort of jobs they do, and how often they must attend church meetings. These church folk are so narcissistic that they cannot stand their followers listening to other pastors/prophets/ministers/priests. I have heard of such church folks who tell their congregation that ‘you cannot serve two masters. You cannot drink the spirit of other people and expect to be effectively functional here.’ This is where we hear of church leaders who beat up, abuse or put down church members who do not kowtow to their every direction and command. It is also where you hear of a church leader who says things like, ‘As I got to that house, the devil couldn’t stand me. He had to flee. He knew that pastor/prophet/minister/father (insert name) had arrived. Somebody shout hallelujah.’ We have many of these church folk in many African churches but they are not the worst of the pack. Let us look at another type. 2. THE ‘WE MUST BUILD/EXPAND OUR CHURCH’ LEADER: Many church leaders care more about their precious buildings and expansion than they do about the lives of their church members. It is always contribution for this building project or that expansion vision. Some go as far as telling their congregation that God ordered them to build beautiful edifices for HIM. They blackmail their church members into making huge donations because whatever you sow, ‘you will reap bountifully’. Money that could be used to feed the poor amongst the congregation, clothe people, send members to school or cover the costs of rent is spent building ‘houses of God’. Since when does God live in a house? Since when does Heneed one? As a result, we have beautiful churches with empty people. I know of a man who gives thousands of naira weekly to his church for the building expansion but who wouldn’t give N1000 to a poor person. If there is any donation for the church building, he is usually the first to give but if a donation comes for say, widows’ welfare, orphanages, school sponsorship and what not, he wouldn’t even bat an eyelid. 3. THE MONEY HUNGRY CHURCH LEADER: Everyone loves money; that is a fact. Everyone wants to be rich. So I am not bashing this group for wanting money. I am pissed at the way they go at it. My bestie told me of a pastor in Lagos who had a really large congregation and no, it is not any of the big churches. She said she was invited for service there and when she arrived, she saw that the pastor was dancing. Dancing is not the issue here. The pastor would dance to a group of people and would say, ‘Spray me! Spray me! Spray me and get your blessings!’. And people would take out wads of cash and begin to spray. Yes, I was as shocked as you probably are now. What was more shocking however was the number of ‘big men’ my friend said she saw at the church. She mentioned how Range Rovers, G-Wagons and other such luxury cars lined the street of his church. The statement ‘Money doesn’t buy you wisdom’ became sensible to me. I was at a church program sometime last year. The guest speaker was a charlatan like many I had seen before. He brought some handkerchiefs with him, wiped his sweaty face and saliva spewing mouth and asked the church members to each take one. The price range started at ₦10,000. I do not exaggerate when I say that people ran to the altar to get one! When close to 50 people had done that, he went to ₦5000 and like that until it was ₦500. When it seemed like people were only trickling in, he screamed that he saw a vision of 20 unmarried women getting their husbands and 20 young people getting their admission letters into the university. The words weren’t fully out of his mouth when many people ran out. I am sure that more than 50 girls ran out for the chance to get their own husband. I was miffed at the level of ignorance that was put on
The Drama Around the Female Sex Organs
Woman covering her pubic region.Image: Allure. I went to a Christian secondary school and we had ‘born-again’ teachers who couldn’t talk about sex because they felt it was sin. It was hard for them to even teach reproduction without blushing to an unhealthy hue of red. When I was in JSS 3, I was selected for a seminar on sex education because I could talk about almost anything; even things people shied away from. The seminar was supposed to help our teachers combat their awkwardness by using the peer-education system. After the seminar, I became a peer educator and the girl to talk to about sex! Trust me, I had classmates coming to me ask all kinds of questions about sex that I was more than willing to answer. Truth is, I am comfortable talking about sex…well, except with my parents because: 1. They are my parents and that is absolutely awkward and; 2. I am happy leaving them with the assumption that I know NOTHING about sex. Anyway, today, I want to look at the drama around the female sex organ or better put, what we call, in broad terms, the vagina. Now, if you are not comfortable talking about sex, this is the time to log off because it is going to get progressively less comfortable. If you are okay, welcome to this gist. I think many people feel I am a conspiracy theorist. I can see gender discrimination in almost any issue and knowing that I am almost always right, I am glad to be a conspiracy theorist. This might just be the proof you are looking for. A while back, I saw a Vlog by Toke Makinwa where she talked about the ‘smell’ of the vagina. She urged her followers to use feminine hygiene products to get a good smell. She seemed to like the smell of cranberry juice because she kept saying women should smell like that. She even went as far as sniffing her friend, Osas Ighodaro, for what her ‘smell’ smelled like. I was embarrassed for Osas who looked equally embarrassed. Turns out Toke was just voicing what many people already thought. Many people believe that a woman’s natural vaginal ‘smell’ is horrible. By many people, I mean many men and a few women. Some people even think that ‘smell’ is so bad that men shouldn’t go down on women; or better put, shouldn’t perform cunnilingus on women. Now, I am not saying that some women don’t get vaginal odor but in most cases, the natural ‘smell’ is not bad or horrible as many people think. When a woman has an odor down there, it usually is a product of poor hygiene, normal sweating, tight panties or an infection in and around the vagina. Sometimes also, during a woman’s menstrual cycle, her sense of smell is heightened, making her more able to perceive her vaginal ‘smell’. This perception has led to many companies producing feminine hygiene products and deodorants for women. And advert companies have made it their goal to tell women that if they don’t smell like cranberry juice, men would be repulsed by them. Again, as it is with most advertisements, the aim is for a woman to catch her man and never about the woman herself. So the woman is expected to use these products to make the man happy and not to please herself. And because many women are all about getting (and keeping) their men, they have bought into the vaginal deodorant products and lie. My friend was among the women who bought a product. She used it and smelled like lemons (or something like that). Next thing I know, she was walking funny. I asked her what was up. She said her vagina was on fire, having exploded in sores. She stopped using the product and took some antibiotics. The swelling went down, the sores disappeared and she was back to normal. She decided to try the product again. Girl called me and told me to never use any vaginal cleanser/deodorant in my life. She experienced fresh sores, pains and swelling. After that, she totally blackballed any of those products. Trust me to laugh at her a bit. I know that many people will chuck it up to allergies or irritation but it wasn’t. She did all the pretests before she used it on her vagina. Thing is, the vagina isn’t built for all that chemical influx. The vagina/vulva is self-cleaning and has just the right amount of bacteria to ensure that everything works well down there. A simple cleaning with warm water is enough because the pH of water is neutral and as such, will not cause problems to the normal fauna of the vagina/vulva. So the issue of ‘smelling like cranberry juice’ should not come up at all. Men also have their unique ‘natural smell’ around their penises and I don’t see them scrambling to use these products to ensure that women are happy with the way they smell. There are many men who would shame a woman for her natural ‘smell’ when they themselves have an odor down there. I still can’t understand why they feel this is okay. Still on the fellatio/cunnilingus drama, I also remember a guy I was discussing with. He swore to never go down on a woman. I asked why. He blurted that it is disgusting. Yes, he used that word! He said women peed from their vagina and the proximity of the anus was a turn off. He said he tried to go down on a woman but kept imagining her pooping. I asked if he liked a woman to go down on him. He said it was a REQUIREMENT! Again, he used that word! He said he never fully enjoyed sex if a woman didn’t go down on him. I smiled and I asked him one question. Where do men pee from? That ended the argument. Recently, he
Solitude
Solitude Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone. For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, But has trouble enough of its own. Sing, and the hills will answer; Sigh, it is lost on the air. The echoes bound to a joyful sound, But shrink from voicing care. Rejoice, and men will seek you; Grieve, and they turn and go. They want full measure of all your pleasure, But they do not need your woe. Be glad, and your friends are many; Be sad, and you lose them all. There are none to decline your nectared wine, But alone you must drink life’s gall. Feast, and your halls are crowded; Fast, and the world goes by. Succeed and give, and it helps you live, But no man can help you die. There is room in the halls of pleasure For a long and lordly train, But one by one we must all file on Through the narrow aisles of pain. – Kenneth Jaro
