Dad, Mum…You Failed Us! (2)
Family Praying in a Church.Image: The Catholic Sun To get acquainted with the Jatau family, flip to the beginning; ‘DAD, MUM…YOU FAILED US!’ She returned with chilled glasses of orange juice for everybody. ‘I diluted yours Dad, Mum. Y’all are too old for such sweetness.’ No one but Oliver seemed ready to take their drinks. Oliver gulped his and reached out to take Annabel’s. The look she gave him would have quelled a more sensitive man. He shrugged and reclined further into his seat. Elizabeth felt she could continue. ‘Mum, as much as you love us, you do not want us to have a mind of our own. You want us to look like you and act like you do. My personality is similar to yours but even at that, we are very different. The more different we are to you, the less tolerant you are of our views. You may have taught us to be strong women, but you only want us to be strong as long as we are not going against you. That is not fair mummy.’ ‘You asked me for my view before you divorced dad and that was the only moment I felt connected to you.’ Annabel continued immediately. ‘You spoke to me like an adult and when I told you I would rather have you alive than dead, I meant it. I am also glad that you did not wage a custody battle for us. You knew that, with the messed up constitution we have, you would not have stood a chance’. Annabel gave a sign and her sisters came to her. They were now facing their parents again. ‘There are so many issues that we can mention but we will let them slide for now. This is the summary. Dad, you were not a good father to us. You were selfish, unbothered and inappropriate with us. Gosh! You used to bring your girlfriends to the house for sleepovers! You disrespected us and treated us no better than strangers. Mum, you took your anger out at us and sometimes beat us to the point of abuse. We understand that you grew up in a different generation with different values and different ways of life but we have friends whose parents were in your generation and are completely different from you!’ After a quick breath, Annabel continued. ‘Dad, Mum…’ her sisters rallied closely around her. Robert stiffened. Something major seemed about to happen. Mr. Jatau looked up and looked at each of his daughters. For the first time that night, he also looked at his ex-wife. They shared a look and quickly looked away. Somehow, they knew that the next words out of Annabel’s mouth would shatter them…probably more than they could bear. The tears started flowing again from Annabel’s eyes. ‘…I am not getting married. There is no one coming in for any introduction. This was just a ruse to get both of you in one room to talk about this family.’ It was Oliver who reacted first. ‘What?! WHAT?! ARE YOU MAD?! ALL THE HUGE PREPARATIONS AND NOTHING IS HAPPENING?!’ ‘Shut up Oliver!’ both parents shouted. It was a sync that was long coming! Oliver shut up faster than a hat could drop. He mumbled a bit to himself and finally became quiet. Mr. Jatau looked sharply at his children and sat up straighter. A shiver of fear ran down their spines; all of them. They might all be grown up but they knew that no one messed with their father. ‘Can you say that again?’ His voice was quiet yet menacing. Annabel couldn’t find her voice. She was shivering and fidgeting. She looked at her sisters and Robert. Robert looked away. Sandra squeezed her hand and Elizabeth coughed. No one seemed willing to be the one who would dare respond. As Annabel fidgeted, Elizabeth cleared her throat and continued. ‘You know how in Africa, you don’t just marry the girl/boy, you marry the family? Well, you raised us poorly and worse, you put your business out there for everyone to see so, if we were to go by your history and African values, we are not a family that anyone would like to marry into.’ Drawing courage from Elizabeth, Annabel found her voice. ‘You messed up our lives. You refused to think of our future. Many men have come for my hand and turned away because their family didn’t want such a dysfunctional family as in-laws. So I only dated men who were as broken as I was so that I wouldn’t have to face the pain of rejection again. Our family is too warped to be good enough for any other African family. And that is why we are here today.’ She paused to fill her lungs. After exhaling slowly, she continued. ‘We grew up hating you; most especially me. I hated you dad, as much as I hated mum. I couldn’t stand you. As soon as I got an opportunity to leave the house, I left for good. I wouldn’t have come back home if Sandra hadn’t spoken to us’. She looked up at Sandra and smiled. She ruffled her hair and faced their parents again. ‘She might be the youngest, but she is the wisest of us all. She has been praying for the restoration of this family and when she came to live with me a year ago, she got me talking about this family. Soon, we invited Elizabeth and Robert and we started having family sessions to iron things out.’ ‘You might have hurt us but it turned out for good. We are all intelligent, independent girls who have learned to be the best to ourselves and to the world. While we suffered lack in the house, we never resorted to selling our values for our needs. We learned to make do with what we had and have. Most other girls would have thrown them self at any Tom, Dick or Harry to make ends meet. Not us! Our situation made us develop self-esteem that was far above what
I Was Attacked…and I Refused to Be Broken!
I got attacked! This is a true story…and it happened to me. I live in a ghetto; a smelly, overpopulated area with mostly uneducated and unemployed young people. If you are wondering why I stay there, all I can say, it is not a matter of principle. On August 23, 2015, I went to church in the morning, hung out with some members of my department and our Head of Department’s family, went out to eat, went to the office, did my show, waited for the bus and then headed home. As I headed home, I reflected on what a wonderful day it had been. I noticed that the clouds were cooking up a storm. As my friend would say, ‘It was about to rain domestic pets’. When we got close to my junction, the driver asked me if I wanted to drop at the first one or the second one. I felt the first one would be better since the rain was about to pour. My friend asked if I was going to be okay. I said yes and alighted. The winds flirted with my dress and I bent down to pull it lower. I started walking home. Most people were running. I was in heels so I wasn’t going to run anywhere. It was dark and windy and I really didn’t want to fall flat on my face. So even though it had started drizzling, I kept walking. Soon, I was the only one on my street…or so I thought. I am very perceptive. I was three houses from my house when I felt a sense of impending danger. Even though I could not hear foot falls, I knew there was someone behind me. When I feel something like that, I usually slow down because I read that speeding up in such scenario is a demonstration of fear…and like animals, humans can smell fear. I looked back just in time to see my attacker bring his hand around my face. I moved away just as he caught my breast. Somehow, I did not feel any fear. Instead, I was consumed with anger. In fact, anger doesn’t describe what I was feeling. It was more like burning rage! It clouded every other reasonable emotion and I used my bag to hit the guy while still managing to swing a blow. He was caught off guard and he took a couple of steps back. Seeming to have been renewed, he came forward again and this time, I threw my bag, one of my phones, shoes and other things I was carrying to the ground. I pulled my dress up and spread my legs. I became a totally different person. I asked him to come and fight. He seemed afraid. I kept shouting that he should come. He kept going back and forth but not daring to come any closer. I had become a banshee and in retrospect, I wouldn’t have recognized me. I started calling my friends and he asked if I was calling anybody. I kept saying he should come in the crazy manner with which I started. The calls weren’t connecting so I knew I was on my own. I prepared to defend myself. Seeing that he wasn’t approaching, I hissed and started packing my things. That was when I saw the second attacker. This time, I knew I had to run! I could not possibly fight two people! I turned and started running but my turn was a bad one so I slipped and fell. Then, for the first time that night, I felt fear; real fear! I imagined what would happen if I remained there and with the active imagination I have, it was enough to spur me up. Strength that could only have come from GOD came upon me and I got up and ran! I left all my things there; my safety my first point of concern. As I ran, I kept shouting at the top of my lungs ‘Neighbors! Neighbors!’. It wasn’t until I got to my house that I realized no one came out. As soon as I got to my compound, I started banging doors, telling them to come out. Only one man did as I ran back to the streets. He didn’t even bother to follow me. I went back to the spot where I fell and started gathering my stuff. I was pumped on adrenaline and I really just kept going. That was when the third attacker – who was much bigger than the first two – came out. I waited until I was done then started running again. The attacker followed me all the way to the front of the house and turned back when he saw people at the gate. I bust past my neighbors and ran into my house. I went straight to the kitchen and took my knife. The rage had returned and all I could see was red. When I charged out again, the first neighbor to respond had locked the gate. I was livid! I went into a rant, wanting to get out there, the rage fueling my movement. I had such murderous rage! I wanted to face my attackers and just bury the knife in them! My female neighbors came out and asked me to stay inside. After a few seconds, I went back into my house. That was when I started really thinking. The attack started at about 9:05pm and by the time I got back to my phone, it was about 9:15pm. In less than 10 minutes, I had been attacked by three men; an attack which could have been much worse if GOD had not given me strength to fight back and run. I learned some things from the attack. A) In the face of trouble, GOD gave me bravery I would never have had on my own.B) Your life can change in the shortest possible time, shattering your cocoon of safety and grand delusions of protection.C) I was three houses away from
Here Comes the Bride 2
Sad Muslim Girl.Image: Deposit Photos This series starts here. Catch up on it and enjoy the sequel. The number of people in front of her compound was daunting. Salamatu Yakubu smiled as she thought of that word; daunting. She had seen it in the newspaper at the principal’s office when she had gone to get chalk. She memorized the spelling and got her teacher to explain the meaning. As usual, her teacher had told her to find it out herself; urging her to search the dictionary starting at ‘D’ and then, the next letter. She couldn’t help but smile at how much she was learning, which was far better than her classmates and especially, than ALL the boys in her class. Her smile dropped when she got closer to her compound. There seemed to be an air of sadness hanging heavily around the entire compound. Her feet dragged, wanting to be spared the impending destruction to her little cocoon. Abubakar ran to her. He was her immediate younger brother and a real pest in her life. She was about to warn him to stay away from her when she saw his tear-streaked face. She squinted to see if he was trying to play a fast one but saw that for the first time in his entire 12 years of existence, he was genuinely sad. ‘What happened?’ she asked in English before remembering to switch off school mode for home. She asked again, but this time, in Hausa. ‘What happened? Why are you crying?’ Abubakar did something that shocked the shoes off her feet; he crumbled into a heap at her feet, put his arms around her and wailed. She dropped her school bag and bent to him. She was surprised by the flood of emotions that came over her. She held him until the teary fits wracking his body subsided. At that point, it didn’t matter that they had been taught not to hold members of the opposite sex or that their mothers were different. What mattered was that they had finally bonded over something she was still to find out about. ‘Ba…ba… Baba has died.’ he said. Salamatu flinched. She was not close to her father; had never been. That fact didn’t stop the temporary moment her heart clenched and the overwhelming that sadness came upon her. She gently pushed her brother away, picked her bag and started walking…walking away from her house…from the reality of her shattered life…from the end of what she knew. She didn’t know when she started running; running till her heart almost exploded in her chest. Her brain led her feet to the school library; her safe place. She paused long enough to check if there was anyone about before diving in. She went straight to the third row of books, the place farthest from the door. Unlike a true library, there were no sections with major headlines and easy access. The community was too poor to afford that. A corps member who had come in to serve was the one who built the library and got her church to donate books. Since she passed out, no new book had been added to the library and many were dog-eared from overuse. Salamatu sunk between the shelves and took the fetal position. She began to cry in earnest now. Her life was over. She was in deep trouble. And yes, she wasn’t crying that her father was dead. In fact, he had been her biggest problem since she started to understand what her life was about. She hated him and quite frankly, was glad he was dead! *** Mallam Suleiman Yakubu was an average farmer. He did what everyone else did; planted crops in season, worked his farm, harvested and waited for the next season to begin planting again. That was his life; simple and straightforward. He had four wives and so many kids popping out every 10 months, that at the last census, the number of his kids present at the count was 40. Thankfully, he had more boys than girls who could help in the farms and ensure that food was never a problem in his house. He was very religious; studying the Holy Qur’an at least twice a day. He said his five daily prayers on time and lived according to the tenets of Islam. He was also against everything Western. He hated Americans and Israelis – even though he had never met any of them – and he was against everything they stood for, one of which was formal education. He had sworn never to send any of his kids to the so called ‘school’. The school had sent many entreaties to him and even the local community leaders had asked him to send at least one child. They had all received the same answer; NO! His boys had to be on the farm most of the time and his daughters had to be prepared for marriage. He was not going to let anyone corrupt any child of his with Western ideas. His kids had a healthy fear of him. They cowered in his presence…well, almost all of them did. His daughter, Salamatu, was defiant. She was the only child of her mother and was very stubborn. She refused to be afraid of him. In one incident, she shocked him by questioning why they needed to pray five times daily. When he told her she must do so because he said so, she told him that if he had said because Allah said so, she would have accepted it. She went further to say that his word was not absolute, as he was but a man. He remembered how he beat her to unconsciousness. That was not the last time either. She found ways to rile him up with her constant questions and opinions. If Salamatu had not been a spitting image of him, he could have sworn that she was not his child. She questioned his audacity to marry off his
A Glimpse Into Child Abuse And Marriage
Young girl holding a child.Image: UNICEF Australia Zireme Azimba remembered the first time she came to Yola. She was brought to the city from Galabje, her small village in Toungo, Adamawa State. Before then, she had never imagined leaving the routine of her home; waking up at dawn, sweeping the compound, cooking, farming, cooking again, and on weekends, laundry at the small stream. Her Uncle Golfa, whose wife – Daufe – had just put to bed, came to take her from her parents to help with house chores. When she got into Yola, she was surprised at how ‘developed’ it was. She had never seen tarred roads before and definitely had not seen such tall buildings. Quite frankly, that was the first time she had been in a car. Yes, she had been 9 years old but no one in her village had a car. She hid her excitement though. She didn’t want to disgrace her mother. As she entered her Uncle’s house, she held her nylon bag close to her breasts; mounds that were just starting to show signs of womanhood. She was doe-eyed as she stared at her new house. The house was a two room apartment in a very crowded neighborhood. She was shown where to keep her belongings and immediately put to work. Her uncle worked in a bakery and had to be out of the house as early as 5am. She had to be up at 4am every day. While his meal was cooking, she would take his bath water to the bathroom and iron his clothes; with an electric iron if there was ‘light’ and charcoal iron if there wasn’t. Then she would serve him his meal at about 4:45am. As soon as he was done, she would gather his plates and the ones from the night before to wash. When she had placed them outside, she would go in to carry baby Desmond and see if he needed a change of diaper or something else. After that, she would do the dishes, sweep the house and then wake her Aunt Daufe from her snore-fest called sleep. She would then wash Desmond’s and some of her Aunt’s pee-and-poo-stained clothes. She would then be sent to the market to get food stuff for dinner or to grind grains. Since her uncle worked in a bakery, he usually brought dough home in the afternoon for his wife to fry. This allowed him to make some extra money on the side. As soon as Aunt Daufe taught Zireme how to fry the dough, she stopped doing even that. Zireme would fry until about 6pm, allow it to cool for about 30 minutes, package them, and then start cooking dinner. The only free time she had was between 8pm and 10pm when she was allowed to watch television. The routine would begin again the next day. This continued until her Aunt took in again. As soon as Aunt Daufe realized she was pregnant, she stopped even holding Desmond. Zireme just clocked 10 when her aunt took in again. She became mini-mummy to Desmond. Her aunt only held Desmond when she needed to feed him. As soon as she was done, she would quickly hand him over to Zireme. While Zireme was doing all the work, her aunt would be watching Telenovelas, Indian and Korean series, Africa Magic and the likes. She only went out when there was no power supply. As soon as the power was gone, Aunt Daufe would take her bath and head to a friend’s house to gossip about Catalina and Consuelo. She would only rush home when she felt her husband was close to returning; and only to make sure that Zireme had prepared dinner. By the time Zireme clocked 15, Aunt Daufe had given birth to three more children. The small house where they stayed was cramped with people, clothes, furniture, and other household materials. The older kids had to sleep in the living room with Zireme while the younger ones slept in the bedroom with their parents. Soon, Zireme noticed a pattern. There were days when her uncle and aunt would ensure all the kids slept in the living room. Those days were usually accompanied by sounds of a creaking bed and grunts that were unmistakably her uncle’s. This awakened something warm in Zireme which she could not explain. It always made her feel weird but she learned to pretend she didn’t hear it, even though the wetness in her pants betrayed her. In the six years since she was with her uncle, she went home to Galabje thrice. The first time was filled with ecstasy and excitement because she had not seen her friends and family for months. The first day was her happiest but that was it. She soon began to resent the ‘local’ behavior of her friends and the pittance called food which her parents ate. Worst of all, there was no TV! She had no inclination of what was happening with Ishika on her favorite Indian series. By her third day, she was all but fed up! She needed to go back to the city. The second time she went home, she kept sulking and frowning, hating her farm work and the poverty of her home so much that she nearly exploded. The last time she went home, which was three years ago, she told her mother that it was expensive bringing her home and as such, she would not come home again for a long time. Her mother understood; she always understood. She had learned that poor people had no choices so she nodded her head and patted Zireme. As she turned away, Zireme saw the look of absolute pain in her mother’s eyes and though she would have felt a twinge of guilt three years before, she didn’t feel anything. Her village is just too ‘local’ for her. When Zireme clocked 15, her aunt started looking at her funny. She seemed to really notice her. And every time she
We May All Be Bigots!
Four people holding quote movies.Image: Pexels. Bigot (noun) big·ot ˈbi-gət {Merriam Webster Dictionary} : a person who strongly and unfairly dislikes other people, ideas, etc. : a bigoted person; especially : a person who hates or refuses to accept the members of a particular group (such as a racial or religious group) Bigotry [big-uh-tree]. Noun. Plural bigotries {Dictionary.com} 1. Stubborn and complete intolerance of any creed, belief, or opinion that differs from one’s own. 2. The actions, beliefs, prejudices, etc., of a bigot. As I scrolled through my timeline on Facebook on the 28th day of June, 2015, I came across a post which made me do a double take. I scrolled back up and reread the post. On a normal day, I would never have dropped a comment on that post; but I did. The reason I went back to that post was because it was about one of the most trending topics that week. It was a post about the Supreme Court of the United States’ landmark decision on legalizing gay rights to marriage. This is the post. “#SameSexMarriage Well, what else do you expect of a hypersexual society where nudity and sex is the norm and ‘do-do-do’ right from kindergarten to old People’s Homes? They got bored and/or tired of their preordained opposite sexes! And if this rule that allows same sex marriage is not reversed, soon they may get bored of their same sex spouses and may end up dating/marrying animals too. Tir!! May Allah SWT preserve our Iman in sticking to our opposite sexes as spouses. Beautifully and/or perfectly as below…..” The picture above accompanied the post. Reading it, one line caught my attention; the line about a ‘hyper-sexual society’. I was surprised that the author of the post believed that homosexuality was only as a result of a hyper-sexual society. Since I had (in the past) discussed certain issues with this author, I felt that we could rub minds. So I posted this; “ME: Do you know that there are Arabians [sic] marrying transsexuals? Do you know that there are homosexuals in countries where nudity is not found? Where they wear Nikkab and Kaftan only? Do you know the effects of sexually repressing society? Evil persists everywhere, whether a society is hyper-sexual or having repressed sexuality.” When I posted this, I waited to hear his reply. I got one, but it wasn’t his. “BOY 1: I find ur logic pretty twisted…….may be we shud stop “repressing” armed robbery as well! In fact we shud live without code of conduct and allow our animal instincts dictate how we live. “Repressing”!!!” When I saw this, I was like ‘Hol’ up! Urhhh…..what is he talking about?’ Then I replied; “ME: @BOY 1….lol. I am glad you find my logic ‘twisted’. While you may not care about freedom, I am glad you realize that there is evil everywhere…or I hope you do. Maybe you should acquaint yourselves with the number of closeted homosexuals in countries that have….how did you put it…’code of conduct’? Covering up hasn’t prevented men (and women) from being evil; flirting, having multiple partners or even deviating by having sex with children, animals and the likes. So, while I may be ‘twisted’ in my logic, I do realize that society is innately evil and nudity or the absence of it does not make one society any better than another. Get knowledge and be balanced in your ideologies…or quite frankly, take a dive.” Okay…I agree I was a bit harsh. I could blame it on BOY 1 commenting when he didn’t understand what I was saying, but I wouldn’t. It wasn’t long before BOY 1 returned. “BOY 1: Take a dive?………not a chance. But besides dat, if fredoom [sic] were absolute we wouldn’t be having prisons don’t u tink?” To which I responded; “ME: @BOY 1…Freedom is never absolute. NEVER! I’m just saying that people should be balanced in their analysis. Quite simple if I dare say.” “BOY 1: Balanced kuma? (‘balanced again?’ for none Hausa speakers) Am [sic] lost…….” I realized I needed to douse the tension, so I responded with something I hoped will make him laugh. “ME: I pray you get found.” To which he sent a smiling smiley face. Now, as we were having this conversation, the author of the post had not said anything. But that changed after a while. AUTHOR: Yusuf Jnr Interesting! I have missed a lot’ooo….just where have I been all these while? ‘Ramadan tinz’. Yeah……it should be just that. OK, where do I begin? Tomorrow is another day In-Shā-Allah….am gonna cool off and come back a little calmer. From his response, I had a premonition that we weren’t going to ‘rub minds’. While he was cooling off, another friend of his came to the party. “BOY 2: Something Ramatu something, you made your point. Now who said “Arabians” (I think you meant to say “Arabs”) were saints? Arabs are humans and there are sinners among them. But get this clearly, no ‘straight’ government in this world would do this. America is gay. Well, now technically they are. And whoever finds this post offending could be the opposite of an arrow…If you know what I mean. Lastly, before you sing your narrow minded song about civilization [sic], and America being civilized [sic], zip it! I don’t see si.vi.ly.za.shon as sky scrapers and extreme atheism. Si.vi.ly.zay.shon is simply what it is…dunce. think about it, Summun-bukmun!” I am sure you can imagine the look on my face when I read this post. ‘Who the flying French was this guy?’ I asked myself. He even refused to recognize my other names because they didn’t sound like what he believed, instead using ‘something’. What a laugh! I was talking about something, and he was saying something else. And since he felt he needed to correct my mistake, I was quite surprised he made some of his own. Then I saw the words ‘dunce’ and ‘summun-bukmum’. Dunce I know; the latter I didn’t. So, Google to the rescue! When I typed in the phrase,
Buhari, Now That You Have Finally Settled Into Aso Rock II
(To get acquainted with the first part of this piece, click here) President Muhammadu Buhari in his office. Dear Mr. President, the first part of my advice may have packed quite a punch but I hope you can look beyond that and see the issues raised within. I am calling this part of the advice the second phase. This requires that you meet with technocrats and stellar business minds to see what can be done to make this a reality. They are not less important than the first phase. If anything, they are equally important. 3. Make Proper Education a Priority You cannot overhaul the economy without proper formal education…and yes, I said formal education. In this sense, education is allowing the mind to be free and open to think up innovative ideas and not filling it with supposed outdated knowledge. I got this definition from Innocent Usar of Innocent Minds. You should consider working with him. We need a school system that encourages innovation rather than one which celebrates certificates. Certificates should only be as good as they can be translated to solving everyday societal issues. With proper education, a door to infinity will be opened in the minds of the recipients. Let me tell you a story. My younger sister who is a mechanical engineer passed by a mango tree. She stopped abruptly and turned back. She stared at that tree for a bit and came back home. When I asked why she acted that way, she in turn asked what I noticed about the tree. I told her I noticed it was a mango tree with lots of rotten fruit beneath. Then she asked me if I have ever had vodka. I was surprised because she knows that I am a teetotaler. She laughed and said abstinence was no reason to pass up a chance to make money. Yes…like you, I had a stupid look on my face. She smiled and asked me which country drank vodka more. I said Russia or Germany…wasn’t too sure. Then she said, ‘Do you know vodka can be processed from rotten fruit?’ Then it hit me! My Biochemistry came back to me in that instance. She said we can export rotten fruit to Russia for their vodka and make some money out it. Talk about waste-to-wealth! Only the illumination that comes from proper formal education would have made her open her mind to the possibilities that was beyond what she saw. If schools are properly furnished and equipped, have teachers who know their onion and are willing to not just teach but learn and students are made to understand how important their collective visions are to the country, then research and development will shoot at tangential velocity until as a nation, we become a force to be reckoned with. 4. Revamp the Military As a former military general, it shouldn’t be hard to realize that our military needs a touch-up. Get the military to look inward. Let them design weapons, machinery, and strategies that prepare them for unplanned circumstances. I’m talking tactical knowledge that can rival Jack Bauer in 24, or Sherlock Holmes in the BBC series, Sherlock. The military should be so elite that physical strength is not the only criteria to get in. I want to see a military that can hold its own without having to beg other nations for help. New and innovative maneuvers and tactics should be common place. You need to bring the glory and pride back to the Nigerian military. You can do this by flushing out redundant military top brass and propagating fairness in recruiting and admitting military personnel. As you prepare towards that, buy advanced arsenal and train and retrain our military personnel for the uphill task they have ahead, a task that will ensure that Nigeria is as safe from foreign invasions and attacks as is humanly possible. 5. Make Security a Prerogative Security was not my first point because I know that when the things I have mentioned above are in place, especially regarding our military, security will naturally fall into place. But, you can still go further on the issue of security. You have to make do on your promise to end the insurgency that brought this nation to her knees. While doing so, you also have to make sure the military, police and other paramilitary agencies are prepared for another form of terrorism that may or may not spring up from the South-South region of the country, or anywhere else for that matter. Security agencies, especially the police and paramilitary outfits, need to be trained on intelligence gathering, quick response and the ability to nip crime in the bud because in truth, many of these personnel are not proactive in carrying out their jobs. Get security personnel to curb armed robbery and kidnappings so that foreign investors and citizens can go about their duties without fear for their lives. Urge the police to respect the basic human rights of anyone they address and/or arrest. Nigerians need to trust the police and other security agencies to be able to effectively carry out their jobs. 6. Ensure that there is Proper Healthcare This especially has to start from you. You need to use your veto power to prevent ALL public office holders from going abroad for treatment, even if abroad is our neighbor Ghana. This will mean that our lawmakers will ensure proper legislation for the health care sector. This is how you can do this. · Ensure that all Federal hospitals are well equipped with state-of-the-art facilities and well trained and empathetic personnel. Many people do not go to Federal hospitals because, even though it is cheaper than most private hospitals, the staff can be completely apathetic to the plights of patients. I have two examples. My mum had a car accident sometime in 2012 and was taken to National Hospital, Abuja. After stitching her up, they discharged her that same day. I was shocked because she had head wounds. In my view of what standard procedure
To Hell With Saying ‘I Do’
Loulette Bride. Image: April + Galina Potography As soon as Biola clocked thirty, the pressure on her to get married reached fever pitch. She was an extremely hardworking TV personality with the leading entertainment channel in Nigeria. She had over N50 million in her account and ten plots of land. She drove her own Sedan and rented her own house in an upscale part of Abuja. In her view, she had everything and that was why she was constantly tired of the prodding urging her to ‘settle down’, ‘start a family’, and to ‘become responsible’. She couldn’t go anywhere without people reminding her that she was ‘advancing in age’ and should be worried about ‘what people will say.’ Though she had lived almost all her life in Ibadan, she didn’t hesitate to move to Abuja when work opportunity came. In her view, she had freedom; what blissful freedom. Or so she thought. ••• Her aunt – Aunty Folake – called her once a week to remind her that she needed to get married. She laughed and usually responded by telling her that she would. ‘Biola mi, you are thirty. Time will not wait for you oh! Your mother might not be worried but the rest of the family is. Ha ahn! When will you have children? Do you want to be old before you give birth? As a nurse who has worked for 25 years, I can categorically tell you that pregnancies of women advanced in age are usually trouble pregnancies and the risk factors for the child are high oh! Is that what you want? Ehn?!’ To which Biola would always respond, ‘Aunty mi, I will get married soon. Don’t worry.’ After which she would look for the slightest excuse to end the call. She was surprised at her Aunty Folake’s insistence that she marry. Her aunt had been married twice before deciding to settle down with her current husband. She still got angry when she talked about her ex-husbands, especially husband number one. He had deceived her into thinking he was comfortable enough to take care of her. It wasn’t until they were married that she realized he was poor. He had a mat, two plates and one spoon. He spent all his money trying to live a lie and something as basic as feeding had been a struggle for them. When he had any money, it quickly disappeared in the gambling pits in town. She had hated him because she suffered real poverty with him. It wasn’t until she got a job that things got better; better being that she filed for divorce and left him. Her second husband had been the worst. She had come home one day to see him sexually abusing her adolescent daughter. She nearly killed him with a knife. The only reason she didn’t was that the neighbors stepped in and stopped the fight. He spent some hours in the police cell but was released because he was an aspiring politician who had a lot of money to bribe the police officials. Her current husband was nothing more than a Muppet in the hands of Biola’s aunt. He had no say in the house and visibly resented his powerlessness but Aunty Folake would have it no other way. ••• Evelyn Oshoeke, her hair and makeup stylist was another person putting pressure on her. ‘Biola, there is this man that wants to meet you. Girrrl, he is loaded! He is a commissioner and men! He has money!’ she blurted as soon as Biola came in for a touch-up. ‘Evelyn, drop it all ready. Like I’ve said over and over again, I will not get married.’ Biola said defiantly. ‘You are a beautiful woman. You don’t even need this make up. You are successful and loaded. Why then won’t you want to be complete? Girl, you know I will keep asking until you tell me the reason.’ she said as she tried to contour Biola’s cheek. Biola shifted angrily and huffed! ‘You want to know why I don’t want to get married?! Simple! I will not have any man try to limit me to kitchen and bedroom duty when I have so much to do in this life. I intend to leave my name in the sands of time and trust me; I will not put my goals on hold to please any man!’ Evelyn looked at her and frowned. ‘First, you just messed up my work and I’m none too pleased. So keep your face in one place so I can do my job.’ Biola eyed her a bit but obeyed. Evelyn started working again. ‘Second, a man doesn’t have to limit you. He can be your greatest supporter. Take my husband for example; he is helping me achieve my dreams and so much more. When I was just plaiting my friends’ hair, he pushed me to go to take a course in beauty regimen and when I was done, opened this big shop for me. He is my biggest support and you could get someone like that too’. She continued talking but Biola wasn’t listening. She remembered when Evelyn had come to the shop with a swollen red eye which she had tried to hide with her makeup. Upon further investigation, Biola found out that Evelyn’s husband, “her biggest support”, beat her up for the slightest infraction and that she had been beaten badly on so many occasion that she lost three babies as a result. A day after she returned home from giving birth to her first child, her husband had slapped her for being too slow in bringing his food. And here she was, gushing about her husband and using him as an example for why Biola should get married. Biola let her talk and when she was done, she left more resolute not to marry. ••• Mrs. Kayla Griffin was an affluent branch manager of a telecommunication company in Abuja. She was a beautiful, well educated, cosmopolitan woman. Her company was one of the sponsors of Biola’s
Inconsiderate Neighbors
Flustered Black Woman.Image: Huffington Post. Papa Emeka was home. Oiza knew this because the horrible sound of his rickety generator set woke her up from her first opportunity to sleep in five days. And this time, she was pissed! The stress from her office was enough to down a mule and whenever she got home, the sound of a generator badly in need of repairs kept her awake at night. She got up with such fierce anger and decided enough was enough! She was going to give Papa Emeka a piece of her mind. As she put on her slip, she remembered how she had reached this point. ••• Oiza Anave was the only daughter of Adam and Ozohu Anave, a middle class family who lived a comfortable life in Kaduna. Being the only girl in her house, she was the easy favorite of both her parents. Coupled with the fact that she was the last born of their five children, she held a good spot as the baby of the house. Like most last born children, she was almost smothered with the fierce protectiveness of her father and brothers and the unabashed love of her mother. She grew up almost in a cocoon and didn’t have the opportunity to venture out, make friends or even date. But university cured her of all that. As soon as she tasted freedom, she couldn’t go back to being caged by her family’s love, no matter the good intention. She prayed her compulsory National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) would take her as far away from home as possible, hoping that she could finally get to live in the bustling city called Eko, or to non-indigenes, Lagos. She didn’t get Lagos but at least one of her wishes was fulfilled; she got sent to a faraway city; Gombe. As soon as she arrived Gombe, she promised herself that she was not returning home. She was finally her own woman and could live how she wanted and follow her own dreams and aspirations. When she was done with her service, she stuck to her word and refused to go back home. Despite pleas and threats from her parents and siblings, she remained adamant. To try to convince her, her father got the family together and commanded everyone not to send her money or render any help to her. She wasn’t bothered. She had learned to manage what she had and had saved N50,000 from her NYSC ‘allowee’. She set out looking for a house and got one that cost the exact same price. The house was in one of the less affluent neighborhoods but that was the only option she had. She needed to vacate the ‘Corpers Lodge’ and houses in better suited areas were either too expensive (N90, 000) or not even in her price range (N350, 000). In the end, she felt she could live in a gutter and still be comfortable if she really wanted to. So, she got a friend to loan her the rest of the rent and went to pay for the house. When she got to the house, she realized how crappy it was. She had only been told of a house and had not seen it before hand. As she looked at the house, she saw that the paint was peeling off as a result of water rising through the blocks. She also realized that there was a permanent putrid smell in the room and upon further examinations, discovered that a gutter ran directly behind it. It was a two bedroom apartment without a toilet and kitchen, which meant that Oiza would have to share with other members of the compound. The toilet was not a pit latrine as is expected in public houses but a water-closet system. Oiza didn’t like that one bit. Diseases could easily be transmitted from her neighbors to her. What was worse was that the toilet was really dirty when she glanced in, prompting her to quickly scrunch her nose and pull her head back out of the toilet. Though Oiza was in no way happy with what she saw, she still paid for it because of the pressure to move out of the lodge. That same day, Oiza moved into her new house. As Oiza settled in, she started noticing some really horrible attitude of her neighbors. Now, there were ten two-room apartments in the compound and each room, with the exception of Oiza’s had at least four people in them. There were whole families and friends just living together to cut costs. So the compound was really full. As soon as they restored electrical power, the occupants of each room – seeming to compete with the others – would put on their radios and television sets at the highest volume. It was usually a competition between some Bauchi-based Gospel artist and the likes of Don Moen; a horrible mix for all she cared. And to make matters worse, the loud music always competed with the sounds of Catalina fighting Diego and Amarachi placing the curse on the people of Akpogwu! There was never any peace or quiet in that compound. Since Oiza spent almost all her time at the office, she felt she could handle it even though it irritated her to no end when she was at home. What she couldn’t handle though were the dirty toilets and bathrooms. They were never washed! They stank like dirty toilets should and Oiza felt poisoned every time she went in. People – grownups – used the toilet without flushing, leaving their disgusting fecal matter for others to see. One night Oiza was pressed and she ran into the toilet. The smell hit her before she turned the light on. What she saw made her rush back out without much ado. She didn’t use the toilet again for a whole week! Each time she felt pressed, the sight she saw came rushing back. That was enough to shut her excretory organs.
The Gods So Decide
Image link here. Amara was still shaking. The village juju-man, Opowkri, was baffled by the blatant refusal of the evil spirits to bow to his incantations. Did the spirits aim to ridicule him? And in front of the entire village?! Well, he was having none of that! He cast a furtive glance at her parents who were huddled in the corner and quickly turned his attention to the shivering girl lying on the thatched mat in his dimly lit mud hut. The room was smoky from the tiny calabash filled with dry, burning herbs and he had to refrain from coughing as the smoke choked him. He was, after all, the intermediary between the gods and the people. He took the white speckled fowl he had asked her parents to bring and raised it to the sky. He implored the gods of hale and hearty health to prove the uninvited spirits wrong; to show he was stronger than these spirits. The fowl cackled, seeming to know that its end was near. Its loud crows were nothing compared to the cacophony Opowkri was making. He finished his incantations and in one fell swoop, pulled out the head of the fowl from its neck. Blood spurted everywhere. He quickly directed the spurts towards the naked body of the girl. In normal times, her parents would never have allowed their daughter to be naked in front of a man but these were not normal times. He had insisted that they removed her clothes so he could work his voodoo. And as expected, they quickly obliged. She was their last surviving child; having watched six of their children die in the last three months. They didn’t want to lose her and at that point, they would have done just about anything. Opowkri rubbed the blood all over Amara’s body, pausing ever so slightly on her breasts and trying his best to hide his arousal. As his hands traipsed over her body, he muttered incantations that were only understood by him and the gods. The fetid smell of fresh blood mixed with smoke from the burning herbs was enough to make anyone retch; and that was what he was going for. On cue, Amara raised herself up and retched, only managing to miss hitting him by a few inches. ‘Yes! Get out of her you evil spirit! Get out of her! Remove him from your body my child!’ And he went into more incantations. He started dancing around Amara, chanting, beguiling and asking the gods to show them strong. ‘Wa….wa…I ne…eed wat…ter.’ Amara croaked. The juju-man paused in his dance and shouts and watched her for a second. Her parents scrambled to give her the calabash filled with dirty stream water. ‘NO!’ The juju-man bellowed! Her parents cowered and froze inches over her face. ‘The spirits are getting weak and they need to increase their strength! She will not be given anything!’ Her parents retreated to their corner of the hut and held each other. The ‘dance-cantations’ continued for two hours; two hours where Amara progressively got weaker, threw up five more times and croaked for water over and over again. The filth was not cleaned up nor was her thirst quenched. The smell in the room was worse than the village outhouse at the edge of the forest. The last time Amara vomited, she didn’t even have the strength to raise herself up. She just threw up and gargled in her own vomit. After that, she stopped shaking. She was no longer hyperventilating or as Opowkri came to find out, breathing. Her parents started screaming. ‘Get out!’ The juju-man shouted so loud, her parents fled the hut. That didn’t stop the whimpers of her mother from filtering into the silence of the hut. He checked Amara and saw she was perfectly still. Her skin was losing the hotness that it had a few minutes ago. For the first time since she had been brought to him three nights ago, she looked peaceful, finally at rest. He didn’t need a fancy white cloth and a rope around his neck like that missionary medicine man in the village square to know that Amara was dead. This was the twelfth child he had seen die in the last two moons; and all of them in his tiny hut. He had told the parents that the gods were punishing them for taking the little drops of evil liquid from the missionary medicine man. The evil man had invoked the anger of the gods when he said the gods were non-existent. He had gone further to say that diseases were not from the gods to punish them but as a result of their dirty environment. He said he had a thing that could prevent diseases and that was when he convinced some parents to take those little drops of his own type of voodoo. It didn’t matter that every child who wasn’t sick before they had taken the city man’s evil medicine was still hale and hearty. It didn’t matter that the families who had made certain lifestyle changes like weeding the grass in front of their houses, boiling and filtering their water and using his fish net to sleep were healthier than those who didn’t. It also didn’t matter that the man had insisted that Amara was suffering from the disease of the mosquito and dirty water and that he had something he called ‘drugs’ for them. What mattered was that he wasn’t going to allow any other medicine man take his place in this village. His father had been the village juju-man as had his father before him. He was definitely not going to allow a twit from the city come up and outwit him. His mind made up, he got up from his kneeling position in front of Amara and wiped some vomit off his knee, unaffected by either the smell or the grossness. He turned to the door…and walked out. The people gathered around him. He shook his head and
Hustle! Hard!
African man arranging his tomatoes to sell.Image: The Fiscal Times. I am really irritated with able-bodied people who are lazy. Let me start by telling you a story of someone I am going to call Ahmad. I went out to get some eggs one evening. The shop which I usually get provisions from was out of eggs and I was directed to the nearest Mai Shayi. When I got there, I saw a line of men waiting to be served. The speed with which the noodles and eggs were prepared was a testament to constant practice. The Mai Shayi had all four of his stoves on, plus a firewood fire for the huge pot of tea. It was a study in efficiency. I am sure Ahmed must have thought I was waiting for dinner like the rest of the men. He didn’t speak to me immediately but I was fine with it. It was an opportunity to watch him and how he ran his business, how he interacted with his customers, how he timed his meals, and how he served said meals. I watched him for about 15 minutes before he saw me. He asked what I wanted. I said eggs. He asked if I wanted pepper with my eggs. I said I just wanted raw eggs. He said they were N35 each. At this point, I smiled. Even though most people sold eggs for N30 apiece, I told him to give me two. As soon as he had answered me, he completely deleted me from the framework of his mind. This was at 9:20pm. I went home quite impressed. He had shown a good degree of management in running his small business. I wished more young people were like him, eager to work hard and make that money. On another day, this time in the morning, I went out in search of a place to charge my phone. You see, we had not had power for days and though my Nokia battery was faithful, it had given up on me. As I walked down my street, I took my time to search for a phone shop. It wasn’t long before I got to Ahmed’s shop. He was already busy at his shop. As usual, he had a line of people waiting for him. As I registered the fact that this guy worked for at least 12 hours every day, I caught sight of a charging joint, which was a surprise to me because it was just adjacent to Ahmed’s shop. I quickly went there and realized that the shop belonged Usman; who turned out to be Ahmed’s brother. I felt really inspired by these two brothers. They ran businesses for at least 12 hours per day and they seemed to be doing well. What was really interesting to me was how obvious it was that they were not formally educated yet so industrious. On the flip side, many young people are unproductive because they feel they are graduates and should be paid at least six figures in a plush company with heavy benefits and vacation in Fiji before they should work. I must say I was quite impressed with Ahmad and his brother. Another thing I saw that really inspired me was a Mai Ruwa who was physically challenged. Now, for many people who do not understand the concept of a Mai Ruwa, let me explain it a bit. A Mai Ruwa is a person who pushes an Amalanke (a mini truck or maxi-wheelbarrow as the case may be) with about fourteen or sixteen 50-liter jerry-cans of water. It requires large upper-body strength to push the Amalanke uphill (as most Northern towns are). Most Mai Ruwa are lean, lithe and very strong. Back to my story. The Mai Ruwa, like I said, was physically challenged. He has just one hand. Looking at him, I could tell that it was a lot of hard work pushing his Amalenke to his customers, balancing it when he needed to stop, maneuvering it when it got stuck in sand or a collection of gravel and generally, transporting each jerry-can to the homes of his customers. Yet, with all these limitations, he still gets up every day, heads out to where he fetches the water, transports his goods and sells them. If that is not inspiring, I don’t know what is! One of the secretaries in my former office whose name is Mary is a very industrious and wonderful lady. I don’t know anything about her academic background but I know that she can hustle! Her 8-4 as a secretary is quite stressful but it doesn’t deter from going to her shop to sew clothes for people as soon as she closes. She seems to make lots of money from that venture – or so I assume – because most ladies in the office use her services for their African dresses. And to add to that, she bakes! And girl can bake! Her cakes are great; they might not stand a chance against Cake Boss’ but they are okay. And when she is free, she also plaits women’s hair. In essence, she is an enterprising young woman who knows how to get her hustle on. Why am I inspired by these people? It is quite simple. In a country where many youth are 25 and lazy, depending on the government to provide jobs, refusing to be innovative and what not, these people are shining examples of productivity. Nigerian youth are content with hand-me-downs instead of maximizing their exuberance. Quite frankly, it really is telling on our economy. I have to give it to the Igbo people though; they know how to hustle hard! They begin to groom their kids from about age ten in business and enterprise. Before they are eighten, these kids begin to branch out with their own side hustle and though I have never been to Aba or Onitsha, I know that great goods which could boost our economy are created there. Already, we have made-in-Nigeria cars by the Innoson group. Add that to the vast human
