The Maryland Bridge Hawker
The Maryland Bridge Hawker.Image: Chibuike Casmir Lagos traffic is horrible! That is a fact. I am sure that anyone who lives or has visited Lagos one time or another can attest to this fact. It is also true that when there is that ugly traffic jam, there is almost nothing you wouldn’t see. It could be a fighting agbero, an impatient driver, the surprising ways people meander through traffic or that hawker that would chase a bus just so he can sell a bottle of fizzy drinks for ₦100. Usually, traffic in Lagos is a bedlam of activities, a combination of awful smells, an absolute drag and a time-wasting event! With all that craziness, there is that time when you get to see a genuine source of inspiration! I did. Let me tell you what happened. I was on my way home with my new friends – Tonia and Chibuike aka Chibyke. It was rush hour and most of the roads were tight. We were chatting, laughing and basically having fun in the car. We had dropped Chidi (another new friend) off a while back so we were goofing around. All the crazy stuff was just our way of coping with the horrible traffic. When we got to Maryland Bridge, we felt like we had hit the worst of the jam. I was right behind Tonia and was looking out of the window on my left. Tonia reduced the volume of the stereo which had Beyonce telling us to ‘Run the World’. She did it so she could ask a question. Chibyke’s response to Tonia’s question made me laugh out loud and turn to them. That was when I noticed him. The hawker showing his wares. He was a hawker who sold socks and handkerchief. It wasn’t the items I noticed; it was his hand…or the lack of it. He balanced the sock rack on the stub where his right hand used to be. In his good hand, he held the handkerchief and other items. He was standing at our car and seemed to be beckoning me; seemed to be willing me to continue staring. I didn’t blink. I didn’t know when I blurted, ‘I need his picture so I can write a story about him.’ Chibyke, being the sharp guy that he is, wound the glass down and called him. He asked me to take pictures as he purchased some items. I picked up Tonia’s phone but my hands were shaking so badly that I couldn’t focus. So many thoughts were going through my head; what if he got mad? What if he asked us to pay him for the pictures? What if he was a lout guised as a hawker? I was so worried…I couldn’t even take one shot! Tonia kept asking if I had taken the shots. I said no. She snatched the phone from me while Chibyke continued hassling. When Chibyke asked if the socks were original, the man said he only sold original and he was on that bridge every day. He went further to say that if we didn’t like the socks, we could come back and he would change them. He was such an effusive marketer that even I was tempted to buy a sock. But all this drama was so Tonia could get good pictures. She would tell Chibyke to bend for a clearer shot and the way he would do it wouldn’t give us away. She took many pictures but they just didn’t have the essence I wanted. Chibyke, seeing my frustration, paid the hawker for the socks he didn’t need and then said, ‘Guy, ehen. Make I tell you something. My friends like you well well as you dey do your work and they want write your story. Abeg, you go fit allow make we take your picture?’ The hawker smiled and said yes. I breathed a much needed sigh of relief. Chibyke took the pictures and just as we were about to ask his name, the traffic jam broke and Tonia had to drive in! Balancing his handkerchiefs so he can sell his socks. I was so inspired by the man. I know everyone hustles in Lagos but I was surprised that a man with disabilities had mastered the art of balance to function as one without. The way he switched the handkerchiefs to his neck, using his shoulder as prop and still managing to interact was wonderful! I am sure many people have seen people with worse disabilities doing better but this was new to me. You see, because I grew up in the Northern part of Nigeria, I am used to seeing people with disabilities begging. They use their disabilities as an excuse to beg…and to sometimes guilt you into giving them money. I hate to see people beg! I am totally abhorred by it. I believe people should work and earn their living; no matter how small it is. There is honor in work and ONLY disrespect in begging. So you can imagine my elation at seeing this man work! He couldn’t be making more than ₦2000 or ₦5000 per day and most times, that would just be to recover his capital. But he told us he was there every day trying to make ends meet. This should be a lesson to all the ‘big boys and girls’ who laze about saying there are no jobs. If a man with disabilities can wake up every day to ensure he is not dependent on anyone, what bloody excuse do you have with your whole body?! I am hoping to find him again and probably get a full interview; when I finally get my nerves straightened out. I want to find out his name, his story, how he lost his hand and what motivates him every day to ignore his disability and go out to make that money. If you ever pass the Maryland Bridge and see him, buy a sock or a handkerchief. Help him to be better! Help him earn his living!
The Univited Wedding Guest
Wedding Guests.Image: North of Lagos Blog A while ago, two of my favorite radio personalities – Gbemi and Toolz – came under heavy criticism for allegedly calling out two brothers for attending any and every society wedding; whether they are invited or not. When I read the tweets by Gbemi, I didn’t know whom she was talking about, just as I am sure most Nigerians didn’t. I also didn’t know if she was talking weddings in general or the upcoming nuptials of her friend, Toolz. Soon enough, Toolz seemed to confirm it was about her wedding when she tweeted that Gbemi was a straight shooter. Even at that, I still felt it could have been about anyone. Two brothers decided to tell the whole world that they were the reason for Gbemi and Toolz’s tweets. The brothers, whom I had not heard off before their social media rants and whom I will not dignify by putting up their names were very crude in their abuse of the ladies but especially of Gbemi. I was guessing they didn’t touch Toolz because they still wanted to attend her wedding. Either way, it was an embarrassing affair. And quite frankly, I don’t want to be a female in the lives of those guys; the levels they went bordered on unfettered misogyny. When I read the story, and the ensuing drama on twitter, it got me thinking about Nigerian weddings. Each year, weddings are getting bigger and bigger, catering to more and more people and requiring a whole lot of money to plan and execute. I know that Nigerians are effusive people but the problem is that, as a result of this trend, many couples start off their marriage with tons of debt. This debt is usually borne by the husband because many ladies don’t believe in equal partnership. This means that the man starts his marriage counting the cost…and most likely hating it as the marriage proceeds. So you can imagine the pressure a man has to put up with to cater to his invited guest, talk more of his ‘uninvited guests’. Uninvited guests are classified into some of these categories; 1. The ‘old friend’: these are the ones that will hear of your wedding, search for your number, and call you to gist. They will play it out and wait for you to invite them. When you don’t, they will ask when you are getting married, forcing you to either lie or blurt out that you are getting married on so so and so date. When you tell them about your wedding, they will then tell you that they will clear their schedule for you, effectively boxing you into a corner. Still under this group are those who hear of your wedding, call you up and straight up go, ‘So you are getting married and you did not tell me?! Is this how life is? Na wa for you oh! If you like, no invite me come your wedding, I go still show! Turn up baby!’ to which you would laugh awkwardly and tell them they are invited. You know when you put off the phone, you would hiss for Africa. 2. The ‘friend’ of a family member: this is one of the most common forms of uninvited wedding guests you can see around. They know your sister, brother, mother, father, cousin etc. and feel it is their right to attend your wedding. In fact, the people they know are surprised to see them at your wedding. They hug and kiss but they are wondering ‘who invited this one’. You smile at them when they come to greet you but you keep trying to figure out who they are. 3. The social climber: people like OC Ukeje, Ajoke Silva, Florence Ita Giwa, Folorunsho Alakija, 2baba, Olamide, Ben Murray Bruce and even the wife of the Vice President are pegged to attend so these people want to be seen where the crème de la crème are. They want to be featured on Ovation, Bellanaija and City People. They don’t mind being described as ‘…and friend’ as long as people see them at this big society wedding! They would be chummy with the bride (who by the way is forcing a smile with this stranger) so that they get a chance to be featured on these big magazines. These ones are rich but they are not in the limelight and even if the best talent coach trains them for 10 years, they will never be great ‘artists’. So, they become ‘celebrities’ by association and the more they are seen at events, the greater their chances of being featured in a movie or music video; even if it requires 70 takes to get their only scene done. 4. The attention slore: this guest is the one that is so in love with events that they are practically everywhere. It doesn’t have to be a wedding, but a wedding is a plus. He/she may not be invited to a wedding but they will buy the Aso ebi, sew the latest style, turn up in an expensive ride they rented last night and carry in the biggest gift (which might be cheap but who cares; size is everything, isn’t it?). Usually, when the bouncer sees such people, he is not too eager to harass them; after all, it could have been a computer error that resulted in the missing name. In fact, they will usher said guest to one of the seats close to the high table because of their distinguished head-to-toe look. The bride doesn’t know the person per se but that big ass gift is inviting and she smiles even though she is not happy. By the time she opens the gift and sees that it is an ugly plastic shoe rack, she would have wished she sent out the uninvited guest! 5. The ‘longer throat’: this person just loves party Jollof rice and a wedding is the only opportunity for the person to eat cake and drink a whole carton of Five Alive. There are so many people like that at weddings every weekend. They
I Am My Hair….and So Much More!
What my hair looks like most days. ‘I am not my hair I am not this skin I am not your expectations, no (hey) I am not my hair I am not this skin I am the soul that lives within’ India Arie – I Am Not My Hair Lyrics | MetroLyrics One of my all-time favorite songs is ‘I Am Not My Hair’ by India Arie featuring Akon. It was a song that was as necessary as it was deep. India Arie addressed some of the issues faced by African Americans, especially as it related to hair. India Arie and Akon spoke about different hairstyles the typical African American has had to try, stick to or dump just to fit in to the rigorous demands of a society that is racist to black people. Having done all that, she came to the conclusion that she was so much more than her hair. It is easy to take the lyrics literally and assume she was just talking about hair but the detail is in the depth. That song has been a great inspiration in every area of my life. At this point in my life though, I believe it is time to change the lyrics of this iconic song a bit. It should go like this; I AM MY HAIR…AND SO MUCH MORE! You may be wondering why I am taking that stance. I will explain in a minute. I always had long hair. It is not as long as I want it to be but it is long regardless. Okay, conceited Ramat! No need to rub it in! When I was younger, my hair was much softer than my sisters’. That isn’t to say that it isn’t still as bushy and thorny as your typical African hair. I remember when we were younger and would go to braid our hair and have the women complain about our ‘iron sponge’ hair. In fact, we were usually charged higher than other ladies because of our hair. When I was about 10 and saw girls with ‘relaxed’ hair, I wanted hair like that! I knew it would save me a ton of trouble if my hair was smoother, straighter and less of a ‘bush’. I suggested to my mum that she lets us relax our hair. The look she gave me was enough to melt frozen butter. I jejely carried myself away from her presence. No need to add a knock to an already tender head. When I got to the university, I finally relaxed my hair! The process was painful; excruciatingly so. My scalp was burned and each time the conditioner came in contact with the open wound, I would wince. The feeling was worse when they used water. When they finally washed the relaxer out, I had to grit my teeth to prevent myself from crying. In summary, it was really awful! When they were done though, my hair was silky soft, smooth and a comb ran through it…without breaking! I was pretty impressed with my new hair. I felt renewed and trust me to leave it flying so I could torment people with its length. It wasn’t until I got older that I realized why I felt good about my relaxed hair. I will get into that in a bit. I was told to ‘retouch’ my hair once a month to get rid of the ‘undergrowth’ and ensure that my hair remains ‘beautiful’. I knew I was not going to do what was suggested. Why in the world would I want to go through that pain EVERY MONTH?! I decided that I would retouch my hair once every three months. By the time I was in 200L, I was tired of the pain I had to face every time I retouched my hair, so I pushed it to once every six months. By 300L, I was not retouching my hair at all. The relaxed hair fell out after months of neglect until only the tips of my hair were ‘relaxed’. When I got to 400L, I decided I would brave the pain again and relax my hair. I went to my stylist and after much consultation, she advised me to get a relaxer kit. She assured me it would not be as harsh as the other relaxers I had used. I did as I was told and had my hair done. Did it hurt again? OH HELL YEAH! Maybe even worse! I didn’t have as much burns and injuries as I did before but it still hurt like hell. I didn’t know if I was going to be able to continue this process. Yes, my hair was softer, easier to manage and straight (as was the trend of the time) but it meant I had to nurse wounds for days after every touch-up. In 2012, just before I graduated from the university, I became more aware of what I wanted to do with my life. I started to see Africa as it was, as it is….and as it can be. I knew I was going to work on issues surrounding racism, especially as it affects Africans and people of African descent. When I made this life decision, I knew I had to work on my self-worth and esteem. That included accepting my physical traits just as they are. It was on that day that I decided I was never going to relax my hair with chemicals again. For a second time, I let the old hair fall out. This time though, as the new hair started growing, it came out tougher, coarser and much thornier than ever before. By this time, the #NaturalHairMovement had gained momentum and almost every black girl was going natural. I usually don’t like to do things everyone is doing so I felt like retouching the hair again. That would have been an excuse to renege on my new decision and I knew it. Another option was to do the ‘big chop’ but with my big body,
Just a Twitter Trend
Beautiful black woman sitting in front of her computer.Image: Blunt Moms. She had decided to share her story. It wasn’t the timing that convinced her to finally spill her gut, as there was no time appropriate enough to share the horrifying things that had happened to her for the last five years. The country was becoming progressive as could be seen on social media and deciding to share the story on Twitter was something she was sure would be a good decision. She didn’t want to trend or anything; she just wanted to share the story and get it off her mind. She hoped that someone among her 6,000 tweeps who had similar experiences would see her story and glean some form of hope for the future. She debated whether or not to set up a new Twitter account or just use her own. All her personal information was linked on social media and she was worried people might troll her to eternity. She also knew she was going to be touching some of the ‘untouchables’ in the country. Her safety was something she needed to really consider. That was why she moved houses, quit her job, changed her numbers, stopped going to her church and cut out her friends. She had no family so it was easy to ‘drop off the face of the earth’. She was going to do this if it was the last thing she did. She got out her computer, connected to the internet, and started typing. *** @marthaomohkpeda: Hi guys. I am Martha Omokpeda. I am the only child of my parents and I am 23 years old. I am a runs girl and this is my story. 1. @marthaomohkpeda: I was born to a middle class family and being an only child, I had a very comfortable life. I had almost everything I wanted. 2. @marthaomohkpeda: When I was 17, my world turned upside down with the fatal accident of my parents. They had not been buried when the banks foreclosed our properties because they were all mortgaged. 3. @marthaomohkpeda: Turned out my parents were bankrupt and we were neck deep in debt. The family lawyer got me off the hook because I was a minor and… 4. @marthaomohkpeda: …because I could not be held responsible for my parents’ actions. The banks let me go with a box of clothes and nothing else. I set out for the world with less than N200,000 in my account. 5. @marthaomohkpeda: I paid for a house, knowing that a base was the most important thing I needed at that moment. I also paid my school fees, as I had just gained admission into the university. 6. @marthaomohkpeda: By the time I had settled in, I had just N30, 000 left in my account. I knew that I had to find work as soon as possible or get a rich boyfriend. That was when I met Hadiza Umaru. 7. @marthaomohkpeda: Hadiza was the epitome of beauty and the biggest girl in school. She had a Range Rover, rented one of the biggest houses in town and only wore designer clothes. She was a year ahead of me and as faith would have it… 8. @marthaomohkpeda: …she was carrying over a course I was going to take. On the first day of lectures, she sat down beside me. When the class was over, she started a conversation with me. She needed my help. 9. @marthaomohkpeda: She wanted me to cover for her in class, let her know of any tests or assignment and generally keep her abreast of what was happening in the department. I must say I was enthralled by her beauty and said yes. 10. @marthaomohkpeda: The first time I wrote a test for her because she was out of town, she sent me N50,000 as appreciation. I was shocked beyond words. I knew that I had found THE WAY to make money. 11. @marthaomohkpeda: I did this for one semester, and I was never broke in school. Soon enough, Hadiza brought her friends into the mix. They were all big girls who couldn’t be bothered with the rigors of school. 12. @marthaomohkpeda: When we were getting into 200L, I had saved up to N350,000 from my work for the girls. I was feeling like a big girl too until Hadiza invited me to hang out with her at her house. 13. @marthaomohkpeda: When I saw the splendor of her house, I couldn’t help but salivate. I sat down like a true JJC and just drank in the magnificence of her ‘school apartment’. I wondered what her REAL APARTMENT looked like! 14. @marthaomohkpeda: She got her maid to serve me a platter of finger foods that I had not been able to afford since my parents died. Then came lunch and I almost fainted at the array of continental cuisine. And the dessert! 15. @marthaomohkpeda: When we were done, we retired to the living room and lounged on the couch. Hadiza stared at me for a few minutes until I was visibly uncomfortable. I squirmed as I waited for her to say something. 16. @marthaomohkpeda: She told me she was rich because she ‘used what she had to get what she wanted’. It sounded clichéd but I didn’t pretend not to understand. 17. @marthaomohkpeda: She told me she had seen my ‘hunger’ and if I was willing, I could be way richer than I could ever imagine by being a runs girl. She didn’t need to convince me much. I was game! 18. @marthaomohkpeda: We went to our first party and I got my first client; a commissioner. He was quite boring and I wore him out in less than 40 minutes. He was so well sated that he gave me N200,000 that night. 19. @marthaomohkpeda: I poured the money in my lap and almost fainted with excitement! In one night, I got this much money! What would happen in a month?! 20. @marthaomohkpeda: That is how I continued with my new found source of income. We went out every Thursday and returned on
Getting Schooled on a Keke
Muhammad Bala, a keke rider in Yola, Adamawa State.Image: Ramatu Ada Ochekliye I had just come out of the Jimeta Modern Market in Yols, Adamawa State, when this Keke (tricycle) rider asked where I was going. I didn’t answer. As I crossed the road, he also took a U-turn and parked just in front of me. He asked again where I was going. I told him my house address and he told me ₦100, which was ₦30 more than I normally pay. My arms were hurting from lugging my purchases so I sighed and got into the Keke. As we were about to move, a woman flagged him down and mentioned a location en route my house. The rider told her to come in. She had lots of things and took some time stuffing them in the space behind. When she was settled in, we set off. No one spoke until we got to the woman’s destination. She dropped in front of a Buka (local restaurant) and her kids came running. As they teased her about coming home early from the market, they offloaded her stuff from the Keke. One of her daughters said in Hausa, ‘Thank GOD you are back because all the food is finished and you need to start cooking.’ The Keke rider and I looked on at the drama until they were done getting her things off the vehicle. I really can’t remember what one of her sons said but it got all of us laughing; well, I was tired, so I just smiled. When we set off, he started a conversation. Now, this happened in Hausa and though my spoken Hausa is stilted, I think this is an almost perfect replica of the conversation we had. He started with, ‘See how her children are helping her? That is how it is supposed to be.’ I responded with a ‘Mhmmm.’ and he continued. ‘You know that food business never goes out of style. You can always make money with a food business.’ I nodded and knowing he wouldn’t see my response, added ‘That is true. No matter what type of restaurant you run, people will always come to you. But the amount of money you make is dependent on the location of your restaurant.’ ‘And the fact that her children are helping her means that she will not have to spend so much money on help and food. The children can eat from what she cooks for her customers and that way, she is able to save a lot’, he finished. I don’t know why but I decided to have a full conversation with him. I even went personal! ‘You are right. My mother owns her own restaurant and when we are around, we help her out. And just like you said, we eat from what she cooks so that sometimes, we don’t need to have food at home’, I said with excitement. ‘Is your mother’s restaurant in this town?’ he asked and I told him no, it is in Abuja. He went further to say that because of the state of the economy, it was important for people to have some of these businesses so they can make money. He then went on to say that many people were waiting for jobs that may or may not come instead of looking for how to earn something based on the basic needs of people. By this time, we were passing in front of Adamawa State Polytechnic, Yola, or SPY as it is popularly called. There was this lady in front who flagged him down. He stopped in front of her but it turned out that she was not going our way. I didn’t notice the bound project she was holding, but he did. As we set off again, he asked if that was her final year project or something. I looked out of the Keke and tried to get a glimpse at what she holding but as he pulled away, I knew I wouldn’t see anything. I pulled my head back in and said it could probably be her project. That was when the discussion got really interesting. ‘You know that graduates are the problems in this country. They are very lazy and always want that ₦150,000 job. Instead of doing the businesses they consider petty, they will rather waste away at home doing nothing. That is why graduates are not the richest in this country.’ My antenna went up pretty fast! Did this man just diss me and all graduates in Nigeria? I felt like I had to say or DO something to redeem our collective image. ‘It is graduates that have no sense that waste away. Many sensible graduates even work two jobs and manage their own businesses but….’ And he interrupted me. ‘They are very few and in between! Most graduates are waiting for government jobs that will pay them ₦30,000. What is ₦30, 000?! They have to feed, clothe, pay rent and still send money to their family with that money. How can they save with that? How much will they even save?!’ I knew he was right but before I could formulate an appropriate response, he continued. ‘Let me tell you a story. I graduated from that SPY that we passed. I waited for two years trying to get a job. The job was not coming. People would promise you all kinds of things but they would fail. One day, a friend came to me and said we should go to Calabar to find work. I had nothing in Yola so it was not hard to agree. I packed my stuff and we went to Calabar. ‘For two whole months, I didn’t make up to ₦5000. In fact, we both didn’t make up to ₦5000; collectively! My friend was tired and said he would return to Yola. Somehow, I convinced him and we stayed a couple more months. When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he returned to Yola. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t return to Yola a failure. So I stayed back, got a
Here Comes the Bride 3
Nollywood actor, Foluke Daramola, campaigns against domestic violence.Image: Kokolife Iniabasi look her husband wit corner eye as he dey sleep. Ukeme just dey roll up and dan like say spirit dey purshoo am. She don bone tire! Why dis her mumu husband dey snore like olden days Volkswagen? Ha ahn! One day, she go fit carry pillow press press im head make he for quiet! Ah ahn! As if Ukeme know wetin she dey tink, he turn im nyash face her come release one kine mess wey smell pass egg wey done rotten. De mess go straight go her face like say na wetin in bin dey target. She slap am wit one mind! ‘Your papa! Why you go mess for my face?! You dey mad ne?’ Ukeme wake up with vex. Dis time, she no even prepare herself before he start dey blow blow her. As he dey beat her, he follow dey bite her for her neck, for her breast, for her belle, and for her lap. After he done swell up her body well well, he tear the remaining cloth wey for dey her body come dey drag her for ground. Deir neighbors bin don tire for their fights so tey nobody even comot from their flat. Na so he drag her body for their compound till them reach outside. As people gather dey laugh, he pour spit for her face come waka dey go. Like say something push am, he turn back, waka come her place, open in trouser, comot in prick, come start dey piss for her body. All de agberos wen dey her area come dey laugh dey hail Ukeme. Na den she faint. *** Iniabasi Unwana was the first of 8 children in a family that was piss poor! Her father was a mean mechanic who spent whatever money he made on Ogogoro. He drank so much that his natural odor was the stench of stale alcohol. They lived in a one-room apartment where they literally had to sleep like sardines. Her mother seemed to give birth every 10 months, such that at Iniabasi’s 8th birthday, she had 7 siblings. Her father didn’t hit them but her mother more than made up for that. What her father did though was…nothing! He didn’t pay bills, he didn’t provide money for food, he never sent any of his kids to school and he definitely didn’t work…much. Her mother on the other hand worked enough for 10 people. She was a street cleaner between the hours of 6 and 7am and a maid for an Alhaja from 8am to 5pm. When she got home, it was to begin her business as an Akara seller at the motor park. She would do this until about 10pm before returning home. Even with what she did, she was only able to raise enough to ensure that her kids ate and wore the cheapest clothes. She paid the rent also but the bulk of her money went into treatment for her ailing mother in the village and clearing her husband’s debts at different Ogogoro joints. Anyone looking at Iniabasi’s mother would never believe that she is a young woman; she looked old, tired, angry and very bitter. Iniabasi started helping out when she was 4. Her mother would prepare Akamu and it was Iniabasi’s job to hawk them on the streets. As she grew older, it fell to her to wash the beans, take them to grind in a bucket heavier than her and then peel the yams and potatoes as she waited for her mother. She would then put all of them in a truck and push them to the spot where her mother cooked. She had to do all this while taking care of her younger ones. It was on one of such days that her father returned home early. She was washing the beans when she heard a grunt behind her. She jumped, startled, as she faced the person who had made the sound. She saw her father rubbing his penis while looking at her. She was 9 but she knew that what he was doing was wrong. ‘Papa, wetin you dey do?’ she asked as she took a step back. He approached her, swaying, still rubbing his penis, and still wearing the weird look. ‘Come here. Come and take.’ Iniabasi looked behind her. She was boxed in. Her only escape route was through her father. As she contemplated what to do, Iya Kemi came out of her room with her broom held high. Iya Kemi hit her father repeatedly, with each well placed blow punctuated with a scream. ‘Neighbors! Neighbors! Make una come see abomination! Come see wetin Unwana dey do for front of im pikin oh! Aiye ma baje! Ko ni da fun e! Olori buruku! Oloshi!’ Iniabasi ran to Iya Kemi and used all her strength to try to pull her off her father. Iya Kemi wouldn’t budge. She kept hitting her father as he tried to protect himself. Neighbors from other compounds came in and men started beating Unwana. They stripped him and continued to beat him. Someone shouted, ‘Bring tire’ and out of nowhere, a tire materialized. They had just put the tire around him when sirens of an approaching police vehicle and shots fired into the air sent the crowd running. Unwana was rushed to the hospital and someone sent for her mother. When her mother came home and asked what happened, Iniabasi trembled in response. She told her mother everything and watched her expression change from worry to extreme anger. Her mother went to the door, locked it and faced her. ‘Come here. And make devil punish you today say you shout.’ Iniabasi went to her mother for what she knew was a certainty; she was about to get the beating of her life! *** That was the beginning of her daily beatings. For the slightest misdemeanor, her mother would look at her and beat her black and blue! Sometimes the neighbors helped and other times, they didn’t. Iniabasi’s body was
She Didn’t Want…the Baby.
Maise Crow.Culled From: ‘The Abortion Ministry Of Dr. Willie Parker’.Written by: John H. Richardson Yahimba Terkembe sighed yet again. She was at her bedside desk assessing her life as she did every year on her birthday. She was 25 today. Well, her body was 25 but her mind was old! She had been through so much in her young life that she felt way older than 25. Two incidents kept tugging at her memory this year. Since she made those decisions, she locked the memories somewhere in the recesses of her mind and never looked at them. Today though, they kept flitting in and out of her subconscious, begging to be analyzed. She didn’t want to! She knew how much pain she was going to feel and she couldn’t help but remember her low threshold for pain. The more she tried to shut the thoughts out, the clearer the images became. Oh! They were jointed and out of order but they were there! Yahimba felt her chest tighten as she gently rubbed her head. She had the beginning of a headache and if she kept fighting her mind, she would be unable to do any productive work later on. She sighed again and closed her eyes. The memories flooded in. *** Yahimba’s university days were filled with more fun, parties and craziness than it was with studying, research or general school work. She was 19 and dating a guy who seemed hard on the outside but was very gentle with her. Everyone wondered why she was with Ferdinand Katung, seeing that she was a beauty and he was just there. They didn’t know that where there saw ‘just there’, she saw mystery and that pulled her in. They had a great sex life and though they were mostly careful, they hated using condoms. One year into the relationship, Yahimba had to treat an infection. Dr. Kayode Folarin, the young doctor at the community hospital near her school, ordered full blood and urine work. She waited in pains for the laboratory scientist to bring in the results. When the result was brought in, the doctor went over them and looked at her. ‘You have a urinary tract infection. I will prescribe some drugs and injections and you should be fine in no time. There is more though.’ Yahimba felt her chest clutch. What could be wrong? She opened her mouth but words wouldn’t come out. ‘Don’t look so worried. Remember when I asked about your marital status and your last period?’ Yahimba’s mind flew. She remembered the last time she had sex. Did she use protection? Did Ferdinand cum inside her? Did she take her morning-after pill? She felt sure she was anything but pregnant. ‘You are pregnant.’ Dr. Kayode announced. Her heart sank. Her worst fears just happened. ‘You are three week gone. Should I congratulate you?’ Yahimba kept shaking her head. Her parents were going to kill her…literally! Her life was over! She couldn’t bring a child to the world when she had nothing. She made her decision there and then. ‘I will not keep it. What can I do to get rid of it?’ Dr. Kayode looked at her. ‘If you are not ready for babies, why are you having sex without protection?’ She didn’t want to hear that. She kept shaking her head and whispering, ‘I cannot have this child.’ The doctor looked at her and said, ‘Okay. I can help you.’ Yahimba raised her head up so fast she heard a snap. She didn’t care that there was a sharp pain creeping up her neck. All she wanted to know was how the he could help. ‘Come back later tonight and I will help you get rid of it. This is my number.’ he pulled his card and handed it to her. ‘Bring N5000 with you when you return. Call me at about 8pm and I will tell you when to come.’ Dr. Kayode dismissed her. Even though her hostel was far from the clinic, she walked all the way. The pain from her left side no longer mattered; all she worried about was the life growing in her. She didn’t want it. She knew the family she came from. Yahimba could see the look on her mother’s face when she found out her only daughter was pregnant. She didn’t need to try too hard to imagine her father’s reaction. If her mother didn’t strangle her, her father will beat her so bad she would die. She remembered how her parents had treated Amaka – their next door neighbor’s daughter – when she got pregnant. Her mother shamed Amaka so bad that she ran away from home. Yahimba knew Amaka’s mother held so much resentment for her parents but she couldn’t say anything because her daughter had shamed her. No; she couldn’t bring a child to this world. As soon as she got into the hostel, she picked up her phone and called Ferdinand. ‘Hi. We need to talk. I will be over in about 15 minutes.’ Yahimba showered with really hot water, as if willing the baby to come out with the dirty water. She was in the bathroom long enough to get scalded but she didn’t feel anything. An emptiness crept upon her that was deafening in its silence. The smell from the next stall jolted her to reality. Someone was taking a dump and the smell was entirely rotten. Yahimba quickly exited the bathroom and rushed to her hostel. She got dressed and finally looked at her watch. She was more than 45 minutes late. Well, she couldn’t waste time any longer. *** Ferdinand didn’t want a baby but he wasn’t going to make the mistake of saying so. He watched Yahimba with his usually aloof expression as she sat fidgeting opposite him. Oh! Yahimba didn’t fidget like other girls; she didn’t wring her arms or bob her head or tap her foot. To the untrained eye, she was as calm as the waters in the
My Body…Your Problem
Me at almost 75kg.Image: Tunde Raphael. So recently, I put on a lot of weight; or better put, I have become quite fat! I know this because most of my clothes are so small now that I have to get a new wardrobe. When I say most, I mean my pants (trousers; get your mind out of the gutter), skirts and certain dresses. I have always bought bigger clothes because I don’t like clingy clothes and I am the type of girl who would wear something I like for years and years until it becomes threadbare and begs to be thrown away. When I am slim, and by slim I mean my lowest weight of 62kg, my clothes are like baggy dresses (which I am happy with) and when I am at my full weight of 70kg, they are a bit snug but not so tight that all my curves (real and imagined) are out there for all to see…well, until recently; I weigh 72kg now. My new weight is centered around my derriere (*blushing to my roots) and thighs. Though I am never one who is bothered (much) by my weight, I am ecstatic about my new body! Growing up, I used to be straight as a ruler. I have always wanted to be curvy, hoping that one day I would wake up with Toolz’s body. My best friend is this curvy mama and I dare say that is the only point on which I am jealous of her. Anyway, when I put on this weight, the first thing I noticed was that I had problems getting my pants (trousers again, focus!) over my derriere to my waist. After more than 25 years, God finally gave me the body I wanted! I am curvy baby! I am now a budding pear! *Dancing the Konga! For the past few weeks, I have been enjoying how my new curves fit into my clothes, though I need new stuff; emphasis on ‘need’! What I haven’t been enjoying are the stares! Though I am a confident woman, I am not comfortable with men staring at me. Okay, I will stop lying; I HATE MEN STARING AT ME! It gets me annoyed when men stare, especially when I can see the lascivious or leering looks in their eyes. I guess people will stare anyway so when I see anyone staring, I put on my mean mug which, 99% of the time, gets the man to look away. I may be all fire inside but with my mean mug, I become the evil ice queen…and I have realized that no one wants to mess with her! Buhahaha! Anyway, worse than the ‘starers’ are the people who constantly feel the need to tell me that I am fat. I get this EVERYDAY! Some people are subtle and would just go, ‘Ramat, you have put on weight. Your trip home must have been very good’ to which I would reply that I had gone back to my original weight. Others would see me from afar and shout, ‘OH MY GOD! RAMAT, YOU ARE SO FAT!’ In my head I go, ‘AND YOU ARE SO DUMB!’ but outwardly, I would smile and tell them, ‘Yes, I am. And I am happy with MY body.’ They have this reaction because they have only seen a slim me; again, I must say that I am big boned and can never be Dija slim. Since I came to Yola, my weight always hovered between 62 and 65kg. So the extra 10kg is freaking them out. The people I mentioned above are not the ones this article is for. There is a special class that walks up to me and says, ‘Ramat, you are too fat! You BETTER start doing some exercise and stop eating TOO MUCH food.’ When I hear something like that, my ratchet side begs me to take off my earrings and pull up my sleeves. I am no fighter but I have been tempted so many times that my mind needs anger management! I BETTER do exercise?! I MUST STOP EATING too much food?! I am like ‘Nigga, is you cra’y?! You done lost your mind?! Smoked some cheap weed?!’ I usually smile and tell them that their opinion about my body is of no importance to me. Somehow, that riles them up and they start huffing and puffing. Imagine the nerve! I got into it one day with a guy who was angry that I told him I love MY body the way it is. He went ham! ‘Ramat, this is not good oh. You are finer when you are slimmer. You BETTER go and lose that weight…and fast! In fact, I will come to your house so that we can start jogging! Ha ahn! You are too fat now!’ Before I proceed, I want to explain my relationship with this guy. He is a colleague whom I just say ‘Hello, Hi’ to. We are not friends, we don’t work in the same unit, he knows nothing about me and vice versa. So, to continue, I smiled and said, ‘Hmmm….first, I love MY body the way it is. Second, MY weight is in no way YOUR concern and finally, I may be finer when I am slim but you are wiser when you are quiet. Maybe you should shut up more.’ I smiled and batted my eyes. The guy was quiet for some seconds…and then he walked away. Only my close friends would have known that I was red hot mad! How dare he?! It reminded me of a time when a corps member also assigned to my place of primary assignment had a problem with my eyebrows. I always say that my eyebrows are perfect and I would never shave/shape them. This girl wanted me to shape them. I said no. She pressed. I said no again. She kept pressing for weeks. I remained adamant. One day, we were in a tricycle and she was seating directly opposite me. When I couldn’t stand the scrutiny anymore, I asked
Long Winded Writer
Woman writing with her computer.Image: Pexels.com After posting my last article – When A Perfectionist Fails – on my blog, I got great reviews and some not so good ones. It was, quite frankly, another day in my life as a writer. Few days after the post, one of my very good friends called me to share his views on the article. I was elated that he took time out to share good tips for future auditions and to critique my writing. Before we ended the call, he advised me to cut down on some of the details in my writing and jump to the point. If that had happened two years ago, I probably would have gone into a fit but I didn’t even get angry. The sky spirits really are working overtime on my anger management issues. Plus, he is a good friend and I know that he was looking out for me. I explained to him that I am a long winded writer and that was my style. He ended the call by urging me to stay true to my style. You see, I grew up reading big books. At 10, I used to ‘steal’ my mum’s Mills & Boons to read. I would finish them in a day so I could return them to the exact spot on her shelf where she left them so I wouldn’t get caught. I got caught one day and received some good ‘konks’ but that did not deter me. The world which flowed from books was something I wanted to explore. You can be sure that because I have an over-imaginative mind, books were the perfect get-away for me. I bought my first book at age 12. It was ‘When the Splendor Falls’ by Laurie McBain. It was 678 pages long with pages and pages of descriptive writing that some people might have called ‘unnecessary information’. Not me. I kept reading the book like a child chasing after candy. You cannot imagine the utter joy I felt when I found a link between something that happened almost at the beginning of the novel and something that happened close to the end. It gave me great pleasure to scroll back to the page and just cry as I made the connection! When I outgrew romance novels and moved to espionage and murder mysteries, I realized that those unnecessary details tended to be the biggest clues in solving crimes or the murder mystery. If you have read the James Hadley Chase, Agatha Christie, Dan Brown, John Grisham, Tom Clancy, James Patterson, Quintin Jardine or Mario Puzo books, you know that the devil is in the detail. I wanted to write like these authors. I wanted to translate African stories in clear and concise terms as these renowned authors wrote their stories. I may have been a kid, but I felt that I could project my stories to the world with my pen…and I meant that literally. Thank GOD technology latched on and made things far easier! Hallelujah! When I was in school, I never had problems when we were told to write essays; especially descriptive essays. My only problem was the limit placed on those essays. In my view, 250 words were just too small to convey any idea that I had! As we got older and the limits increased, I had no problems meeting (and going above) the stipulated limit; I cannot say the same about most of friends though. I am sure that you can imagine the subtopic I hated in English Language. Yes! It was SUMMARY! Still hate that thing jare! I write for people who have an eye for detail; people who want to smell the freshly baked croissants off the pages of the book, to feel, from the writing, the scorching sun as they travel the sun-kissed desert road on the way to Niger and the constriction in their hearts with each flip of the page as the victim tries to evade her huge attacker. Every writer has their style and that is great. My sister Enigbe writes poetry so great you have to read twice to understand what she is about; or at least, that is what I do when I read her poetry. I am so not a fan of written poetry! Too much to think about, just like chess. My other sister Sadiya writes poetry in a way that is completely different from how Enigbe writes but is no less deep and thought provoking. My poetry on the other hand just sucks! We are one blood, closer than peas in a pod, have nearly similar interests, but write completely differently. We used to have problems with our styles but we grew to the conclusion that we, after all, have different vantage points on any given issue and that translates to how we write our pieces. While I would like to describe all I can see in an empty room, Enigbe would most likely liken the room to a hollow tunnel that closes up slowly until claustrophobia sets in and Sadiya would probably talk about how the level of our emptiness determines how we react to the world and why it is necessary to never have a vacuum in our lives. One scenario, at least three ways it could be written! And talking vantage points, that movie is one of my all-time favorites because of the details that went into one murder. But hey, I digress. Back to writing. When one of my old friend writes for radio and TV, the pieces are so quirky, fun, and engaging that you wonder where the creativity comes from. I am not ashamed to say that he had the highest number of fans and pulled the largest number of listeners to the shows we used to host together. He inspired me more than I let on. Similarly, one person that really inspires me is another friend of mine. He is a weird writer and trust me, he is weird!
When a Perfectionist Fails
Ramatu Ada Ochekliye Hi. I’m Ramat and I am a perfectionist; but you know that already, don’tcha? I’ve known this about myself since forever. Quite frankly, I am not ashamed of it. It has pushed me to go hard for what I want, improve myself, demand the best from myself (and others) and always put my mind in a position to learn more. That has made me a workaholic, social media junkie, adept reader and a terrible info-maniac. There is a downside to this though. You see, the perfectionist has a range of problems; from wondering if he/she is ever good enough, to a painful fear of failure that can be so crippling it prevents the person from realizing his/her full potential. The perfectionist is also very caustic, intolerant, unwilling to show weakness and overly demanding of perfection from others. I am all of these things…and more. Today, I want to do something that goes against the persona I project to people. I Am. Admitting. That. I. Fail. At. Things. Phewwwww! That was a relief! Or maybe it isn’t. Either way, a story might explain why I am making this confession. I’m just going to start before my other personality takes over. Sometime in July, 2015, I saw this advert about an audition for on-air-personalities with Ebony Life TV, Lagos, scheduled for the second week of august. I was stoked at the possibilities a move to that station would do for my career. I got excited; really excited! I told my friends and my sisters about the audition and I guess my excitement was infectious. Soon enough, we were discussing logistics because I had never been to Lagos State. Yeah you heard that right; I had never been to Lagos State! I knew I had two options; take a luxurious bus for a pretty long donkey trip or take a flight. Here is another thing though; I had also never been in a luxurious bus or on a plane! I imagined disgracing my grandmother with my show of nerves on a flight so I decided that I was going by road. In case you missed it, I decided to go by road from Yola in Adamawa State, North East Nigeria, to Lagos State, South West Nigeria; a journey that was pegged at almost 23 hours. That was when it occurred to me that I could break my trip; go to Abuja and spend the night, then head to Lagos the next day. My trip was fine until day two of my journey. It was Friday and I was finally on my first luxurious bus ride heading to the big ole Eko and I knew that I had to stay awake to catch all the sights of the States I had never been to. We got to the NASFAT area at about 7pm after having to deal with lots of traffic jam. That was when my problems started. There were too many people having a festival of sorts, or more appropriately, prayers at the NASFAT area. I could feel the claustrophobia closing in and I just wanted to leave that place. I kept imagining what would happen if an adventurous bomber decided to strike. The plagues of living in the North Eastern part of the country right? That thought had not finished forming when we heard these bangs on the body of the car. They were so loud they jolted most of us into sitting positions. I remembered all the stories I had heard about Lagos and imagined that a gang of robbers were about to pounce on us and kill us all. My heart was literally in my mouth. I cursed my alter ego that deceived me into taking a window seat. After some minutes, I looked down and saw that the rabble rousers were part of the worshipers. I breathed a quarter sigh of relief and started seriously praying to God to protect me. We were at that same spot around the NASFAT area for five hours! 5 frigging hours! My bum was on fire, my friends and sisters were sick with worry, and the claustrophobia had given me really horrible chest pains and a headache. A little after 12am, we broke even and continued on our way. That was when I realized that I had not even entered Lagos yet! Arrgghhh! When we got to the destination my friend asked me to alight at, it was 2am and pitch black. As soon as the bus stopped, some thugs – and I use that term knowing its full meaning – came up to the bus just as I was about to step out. I didn’t see any tricycle, taxi, or any form of public transportation. I imagined how the hell I was supposed to get to her place. One woman started shouting in the car about how the driver was endangering our lives and that he had to get us away from that place. You know I died a thousand deaths right? In retrospect, it is funny how scared I was though the fact that I nearly peed myself is really quite embarrassing. I deviate. Back to my story. Some woman in the car said, ‘Young woman, those are thugs there. You better go and sleep in the bus station if you do not want wahala.’ She didn’t need to tell me the ‘wahala’ before I quickly rushed back to my seat and settled in. The driver started the car again and we headed to the bus station. We got to the park after an additional 15 or 20 minutes on the road. For the first time in my life, I was going to sleep on a bench in a bus park. Definitely got my Lagos hustle on! I slept fitfully and woke up at 5am to some of the other passengers arguing about the roles of women in society. That would have been my cue to jump in but my body was bushed and I just needed to get to
