The Plight Of The Displaced
Credit: The Guardian Nigeria Terror struck the morning of Sunday, 7th August 2014, when members of the insurgent sect – Boko Haram – took over Michika town in Adamawa State. Many people were not aware of the news until they began to see huge influxes of people into Yola, the State capital. People were on trailers and lorries, and jam-packed in other smaller vehicles. The fear factor reached fever pitch when news spread that the military had closed the gates of Mubi, keeping the fleeing residents trapped in the town. I was in the office, totally oblivious of what was happening, when I got snapped out of my false sense of security. One of my colleagues came in and said he had seen over seventeen army trucks lined up in town and many fleeing refugees with nowhere to go. When I went outside, it was to see other colleagues in a state of frenzy. I walked slowly, hoping to find out what was happening and telling myself over and again that getting scared wouldn’t help me. I realized that many people were making speculations and no one really knew what was happening. At that point, I was tired of the rush of emotions I was feeling and just wanted to go home. The company driver said he couldn’t head out because the roads were clogged. At that pronouncement, staff members – including those who had their own cars – decided to head out on foot. I followed them. I asked my program partner to join us and she was adamant because she didn’t know what we were going to be walking into. I was sure we would be safe but she needed some convincing. After a few minutes of cajoling and threatening to leave without her, she finally budged and then we set off. We took a short cut and came out on the main road after walking for about ten minutes. It wouldn’t have taken a magician to know that something was really amiss. The cars were lined up as far as one could see and at each other’s bumpers. All the cars were full, and in fact, over loaded with people, bags, properties and what not. Adamawa had become the latest to suffer at the hands of the insurgents. Months after that first major attack, there have been many more, which has prompted more and more people to flee into the state capital: Internally Displaced People or IDPs for short. They were talked about in the news, among traders and drivers and even among the elite. To many, they are nothing but statistics and numbers. But today, they were real to us. One of my colleagues decided to spend his birthday with these displaced people. He called on friends and family to support him by bringing clothes, food, toiletries and other necessities for the IDPs. The response was massive. People went all out to help in whatever way they could. On his birthday, we all headed out to the Bajabure IDP camp in Adamawa. There was a convoy of cars filled with materials for the people. When we got to the camp, I must say that we were a bit surprised. The camp was an estate built by Vice Admiral Murtala Nyako on the Numan road. The area is a bit far from town and the houses were largely empty. As a result of the overwhelming influx of people into town, the estate was turned to a camp for the IDPs. So you can imagine our surprise when we got there and saw a row of nice houses. When we got to the gate, the security man made a fuss about our visit and only let us in when the celebrant called the camp director or someone like that. As soon as we got in, people started trickling out to see the visitors. It wasn’t long before the word spread; visitors had come and they came bearing gifts! Soon enough, people started coming out in droves. We were suddenly surrounded by a sea of people. I must admit, I never knew they were that many. They couldn’t wait until the address from the celebrant was done. All they cared about was the piece of the bounty they were going to get from us. Some of the women and children moved closer to where I stood. Their murmuring drew my friends and I even closer. We asked what the problem was and they told us that we had to stay for the distribution of the items. When we asked why we needed to wait, they were quick to tell us that certain individuals had crowned themselves bosses and were hoarding relief materials for their personal gain. My friend and I shared a look. We proceeded to ask more people if these statements were true. It turned out that they were in fact true. A few people were using the pain these people were facing to dominate them and accrue more materials to their selfish selves. I spoke to a boy whom I’m going to call Kwaji. He sounded very intelligent, somehow knowing my Hausa was stilted and proceeding to speak in English. He didn’t speak the Queen’s English but he wasn’t far off. His tenses were correct and his grammar sound. I asked if he was a student and he said, quite clearly I might say, that he had been in Junior Secondary School 3 (JSS 3). My next question would have been what he wanted to be in life but looking at his condition at that moment, I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I kept repeating that it would be well, not sure whether or not he believed me. As soon as the distribution started, any dignity of their person fled. They crowded the distributors like ant to sugar. I was shocked at the desperation I was seeing. It was no surprise that a fight broke out and got out of control. People started clawing their way to get the items. I must admit
Children Should Not Hustle!
Young girl hawking sachet water.Image: The Guardian The little girl ran up to me, somehow balancing the crate of boiled eggs on her head and trying to keep her falling wrapper in place. Her feet were clad with slippers that were well worn and designed with holes. She couldn’t have been more than eight years old and as she reached me, the smell of her unwashed body repulsed me more than she could have imagined. As she raised her head to ask if I wanted the eggs, I had a full view of her face. She was made up, with a haphazard line taking center stage on her brows. Her eye pencil was dripping, making her lower lid look heavy. Her powder was in patches, with more shades of grey on her dark skin than there was on a wiped chalkboard. Her pouty lips were made more so with the red lipstick she wore and the very black liner she used to line her lips. She was wearing a torn Hijab made of a print material. The Hijab was bunched at her shoulders as she held the tray that held the crate. Her skirt was a different print from her top though they were similar in one way; they were both threadbare, dirty and reflected just how poor she was. I took all these in as she advertised her eggs. The makeup, dirty clothes, torn slippers and the over coat of unwashed funk all reflected one thing: poverty. In one glance, I could tell that this young girl was forced into child labor. It didn’t take Einstein to figure out that this little girl was doing this to make money for her family. She was probably going to walk up and down the town in her quest to sell the eggs. The more eggs she sold, the more likely her chances of eating something that night. If she returned the eggs home, she was most likely going to sleep hungry. As I continued to look at her, imaginations of how hungry she might be kept flicking through my mind. Though her smell repulsed me, I was drawn to her in a way that was against my personal principle. I was torn. A common sight in many African communities if the presence of child hawkers who are working to sustain their families.Image: Signal You see, when I was in primary school, I had a teacher called Mrs. Williams. She died. But before she did, she had imparted so much in me that I owe some of my life’s principles to her. She urged us always to be the best and always had little quips that stayed with us; with me. On one of such occasions, after a field trip to the airport, she said something that stayed with me till this very moment. As the school bus slowed at a traffic jam, some children ran up to it to display their wares. From candy popularly called ‘alewa’ to groundnuts and what not, these kids had enough to attract our attention. Many kids started pulling out their lunch money to get things and only refrained when Mrs. Williams bellowed. Thankfully, the traffic jam lessened and we got going. That was not before we saw the disappointed looks on the faces of the children as they saw us go. We had been their hope for some money but Mrs. Williams crushed that hope. I was, for the first time in my young life, furious at her. When we got to school, I was still furious. As we settled into our seats in class, Mrs. Williams demanded our attention. When she got it, she started teaching us about child labor and abuse. She told us it was wrong to send kids to the streets to hawk. She asked how we felt knowing our mates were hawking on the streets and highways when we were in class, learning and getting an education. In truth, we didn’t understand what she was saying – we were just in primary three – but the passion with which she spoke hit me. The message I got that day was that children shouldn’t work when they should be in school. As little as I was, I felt bad that I could afford to be in school while others were out there fending for themselves and their families. I really cannot remember if that was when I made the choice to never buy something from a kid but I know that as I grew up, my resolve strengthened. My ideology was that, as long as we buy things from kids, we were also promoting child labor. I felt that if children went home every night without selling anything, then their parents would be wise about sending them to the streets. At that time, all of these made great sense to me. As I grew older, I realized that the ideology I had was hard to keep, especially as child labor came closer to home. A close friend of mine, whom I will call Williams, had to work to make ends meet. Williams came from a comfortable family. He had two brothers and one sister. They had most of what they wanted. They ate right, dressed well and even went to good private schools. The fairy bubble burst when his father lost his job after the Kaduna textiles closed down. They were tiding over until they just couldn’t keep up the pretext anymore. They had to move to a much smaller house and even sell most of their stuff. After a while, his father travelled to find work and was not heard from for months. They had absolutely no idea where he was or even if he was alive. His mum had to pick up the mantle of leadership to keep the family going. She got a job working as a cleaner in a school where the pay was barely enough to cover utility bills. Gradually, they had to be pulled
Ripple Effect (II)
To get acquainted with the first part of the story, read (here) After what seemed like eternity, the lights came back on. He opened his eyes and saw himself. He looked around, noticing how small he had become, how very insignificant and…trapped! He felt the presence of seven different entities, all vying for dominion of his body. The angrier they got, the more they pushed his spirit into something smaller, something less significant. As the entities vied for power and control, he couldn’t help but remember just how bitter and aggrieved his spirit had been because of his deformity. He also recalled how he found out about the cause of his deformity; a result of a failed abortion by his mum. The memories came flooding in. His mum had wanted to be a career woman. Even though she said yes at the altar, she wasn’t willing to give up the power that came with independence. This was clearly defined when she refused to have sex with her husband without a condom for more than three years after the grand wedding. She definitely was not about to lose the career she worked so hard for just because her husband preferred to go skinny. A broken condom was how he had been conceived. A cliché indeed! Haniel remembered how he had overheard them talking about it one night when his mum was drunk. She had lost her job and found solace by befriending the liquor bottle. He remembered he had been seven then. As she shouted at his father, she called him a ‘freak of nature’, an ‘unwanted child’ and went on to call him a ‘mistake of the highest order’. As the forces continued to fight each other for dominance, he couldn’t help but think of the sadness he had lived with just because of his mum’s admission. He had hated her with all his might, blaming her (rightly!) for creating a freak of nature. While that thought danced in his memory, he also remembered how his father never came to his aid, never looked at him like a person, never hugged him nor allayed his fears. His brothers, who had been born seven years after him, were no solace to him. All attention shifted from him as his parents basked in the perfection they had created…and at one go. As his brothers grew up, they went from awed wonder at his difference to downright meanness. The picture of his brothers taunting him until he couldn’t cry anymore kept flicking in his head. He didn’t know when he had become hardened, but hardened he was. His only solace was porn and he was sure that if he hadn’t been addicted, he wouldn’t have been in the mess he was in now. A force stronger than the others bellowed from somewhere outside of him. He watched as a cloud hovered in front of, and around him. The cloud was both a person and not a person: there but somehow elusive. He was sure of one thing: he was freaking scared! Never before had he felt such a malevolent spirit like the one he was seeing. The others paled in comparison. He wanted to run, but even without the other forces, he was sure he couldn’t have been able to go anywhere. The spirit spoke in some language that could have been Klingon for all he cared. While it sent down chills up and down his spine, it had the effect of stilling the other forces. He watched as the spirit walked – literally – into his body, experiencing in totality all the vile forces which its invasion enacted. Even his cells seemed to shrink in the presence of the ‘being’. His body bent forward and began to convulse. His eyes bulged to the point of popping and the searing pain he felt in every nerve ending of his body was something he could not have fathomed possible. He wanted to die at that point! He begged death to take him, to have mercy on him. It seemed like forever but it was soon over. In his view, it was still the worst moment of his life! The being settled and all was normal…or as normal as it could be. As soon as it settled in, making sure the other forces were cowering in its presence, it made Haniel’s body stand up. It looked around, seeming to look for something. Then it (using his body) walked to the door, put its hand on it…and opened. He was no longer in control of his body. It had taken over and become one with him. With purposeful strides, it marched down the stairs and followed through to the dining room. Though he was completely taken over, he couldn’t help but enjoy a brief moment of satisfaction at seeing the horror and revulsion on his family’s faces. His dad dropped his wine glass, shattering it, while the clattering sound of his mum’s cutlery could have been deafening if he had not been enjoying himself so. The being strode to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. His brothers, with mouths agape, stared at him. ‘Serve me a plate mother dearest.‘, it said in a voice that was deep, husky and surprisingly very, very sexy; something his voice had never been. The pensiveness of the forces was escalating and they wanted to have a go at his family. They were bustling to escape his body, to attack his family. He was not surprised that he didn’t feel any iota of pity. In his view, they deserved what they were going to get. They had put him through so much and now, maybe they would feel a tiny bit of the pain he had had to suffer. He hated them and he was unapologetic for that! The domineering spirit turned in his body and looked at him. He cringed, trying to make himself even smaller (if that was even possible) than his minute existence. The spirit grew bigger,
Ripple Effect (I)
Credit: Google He was masturbating at his bedroom desk. He had become addicted to self-pleasure since he had clocked thirteen. The internet had become his haven and pornography his past time. The past three years had been a breeze for him. He didn’t have to deal with the abject rejection that spewed from his parents and the pity that came from strangers. It all began at his birth. Everyone balked at his deformity. He had lazy eyes, his mouth askew; resulting in a constant drool of spittle down the side of his chin. His arms and legs were thin and could hardly support his malformed torso. His head was constantly lolling to the side, requiring his shoulder for balance. As he grew up, it didn’t take him long to realize that people were repulsed by his grotesque figure. It wasn’t long before he learnt to keep to himself. He had asked his parents to remove the mirrors and all shiny surfaces from his room. Even he couldn’t look at himself. Whenever he looked at his body, he was greeted by the ugly, huge splotches like eczema traversing his entire body. He found they were called psoriasis. The only parts of his body that had developed well were his brain and his penis. At sixteen, his brain was as sharp as Albeit Einstein’s and though he hated it, his penis was as huge as Mandingo’s. While most people with a brain like that would have thought of changing the world, he couldn’t be bothered. The world had rejected him and he was returning the favor with a flip of his middle finger as the nice Cherrie on top! There were two things that couldn’t be taken away from him; his active imagination and libido. Put those two together and even the best porn sites couldn’t match the scenes he came up with. He pulled up dark, painful ways of having sex. His imaginations aroused him so much that he masturbated every day. It started out once a day until he was fully addicted to getting off. That was his only respite from the life he was forced to live. After all, he couldn’t pretend anymore that the looks from his parents were anything but hurtful. When, at fourteen, he told his parents he could home school himself (using the internet), it was all they could do not to jump in glee. They gladly accepted his proposal to shut himself in his room. Even his personal maid couldn’t look at him without that slight disgust ‘normal’ people gave the physically challenged. One day, he cooked up a plan to see just how repulsive he was to the world. He lay naked on his bed as his maid was about to do her routine. When she entered, her reaction was epic! Though her scream was funny, it showed just how much everyone in general (and women in particular) was repulsed by him. He wasn’t ever going to get laid by anyone, so he did himself. His room was his prison but the internet was his gateway to whatever world he wanted to see. His family would be having Sunday dinner now. The maid had brought his in and told him she’d see him tomorrow. Her jangling backside in her uniform had set him on edge. As soon as she closed the door behind her, he went to his desk with his body oil and opened his new fetish: lesbian porn. He was slowly working himself to pleasure when a pop-up ad caught his attention. ‘Want to have women flock around you and kowtow to your every desire?’ He stopped his rhythmic stroke and looked at the pop-up again. He moved his right hand to his mouse and moved the cursor to the ad. For a second there, he was torn between continuing his pleasure ride and finding out about women bowing to him. In the end, masturbation was okay but he wanted to bury himself in a woman. He clicked the ad and was redirected to the full webpage: Satan’s Lair. He quickly skimmed through the introduction and perused the website, mentally praising the creators for their ingenuity. He admitted to himself that the moment he saw the domain name, he thought he would see images of what the world defined as demons, but all he saw were well clad people and simple, everyday grammar that anyone could understand. He wanted to exit the page and continue his pleasure when the screen metamorphosed into a slide show of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. The message popped up again, this time, bolder. ‘Want to have women flock around you and kowtow to your every desire?’ At the base of the message was a simple ‘Yes’. No ‘Not now’ or ‘Maybe later‘ nor even ‘Cancel‘. He laughed a bit. ‘The devil is pretty cocky huh?’ He thought to himself as he clicked the ‘Yes’ button. The page expanded to show a sign up page. Odd. No ‘Sign In’; just ‘Sign Up’. He shrugged and started filling in his details, making sure to fill the wrong ones. Full Name: John Huge (he snickered as he typed that) Email: johnhugeD@yahoo.com Password: ************** Re-enter password: ************** I agree to all terms and conditions SUBMIT He hovered over the submit button, a small part of him urging him to read the terms and conditions, but he was too eager to see what the site could offer. He quickly submitted. The screen went blank! No icons, no nothing, almost like he had turned off the computer. He bent down to look at the CPU, and saw that the system was still running. He took his head back up just in time to see the monitor come back on; opening at the sign up page with his details. Like something out of a movie, his entries deleted themselves, one letter at a time, slowly but surely. His eyes were riveted to the screen, shocked beyond measure. That was when he felt the presence of something malevolent, something deliberately evil and very rotten at its core. He wanted
Here Comes The Bride!
Marriage Ameera was shaking. The lavish wedding ceremony was over. She was finally married to Alhaji Aminu Dahiru, a longtime friend and business partner of her father. She was brought to her husband’s house by her mother and her friends. They met a number of the groom’s relatives who told everyone but her mum to leave. These relatives were there to collect the sheets after the first sexual communion. They wanted to be sure Alhaji married a ‘good girl’. Though Ameera’s parents had furnished the house to her specifications, the purple and gold royal interior decor didn’t calm her raging nerves. Her mother took her to the bedroom, watched as her small figure changed from the wedding attire, showered and donned her very sexy night slip. She pretended the air conditioner was what was giving her the chills, but her mum was not fooled. Her anxiety was clear to anyone looking. Her mum rubbed her back, reassuring her in her own little way. The door creaked open as her husband entered. Her mother eased out of the room, quietly keeping her eyes on the floor so she didn’t have to see the look of absolute smug satisfaction on Alhaji Aminu’s face. As the door closed, and Alhaji Aminu drew close to Ameera, the bulge in his trousers was very obvious. He slowly took off his clothes, a feral smile on his face as he watched his wife. When he was finally naked, Ameera’s gaze widened at the sheer size of her husband. He was huge! Her fear seemed to be turning him on more and his smile got even more feral. She didn’t know if it was her fear that seemed to make him bigger or if he really was getting bigger. All she knew was that, she felt like she could faint just by looking at it. He walked to her and pushed her on the bed. Alhaji Aminu was no seasoned lover, and he sure wasn’t going to learn how to be with his fourth wife. With no further ado, he pushed her legs open and thrust in…or at least, tried to. Her vaginal opening was so tiny that he almost couldn’t penetrate. Like all men who felt that their pleasure was paramount, Alhaji Aminu forced his way in. Ameera screamed. She had not felt this much pain in her entire life. Her vagina seemed to have been torn all the way through and it felt like a thousand razors were tearing her still. Her vagina was on fire and she just couldn’t handle it anymore. She screamed again. Alhaji Aminu slapped her, shocked that she responded to his fervent lovemaking by screaming. ‘Had her mother not prepared her?‘ he wondered. Well, if she was not prepped, he was not going to be her teacher. He slapped her again and this time she got quiet…really quiet. Alhaji Aminu was not bothered that she was unusually still. His pleasure heightened as he increased the pace of his thrusts. He was soon in cloud nine and ejaculating his masculine essence into his new bride. After his grunts had subsided and his breathing normalized, he eased out of her and readied himself for sleep. He only took one minute to pull out the sheets from under Ameera and toss it out the door to his waiting audience before he came back and fell into a very satisfied sleep. It didn’t bother him that Ameera’s head was lying at an awkward angle and her little face was already bruising. He got a new wife and that was all that mattered. He went to sleep with the satisfaction that his new wife would ensure his business investments with Alhaji Musa Kaltungo – her father – was solidified and expanded further. Ameera woke up when her mother shook her vigorously. The sun was streaming into the bedroom. It was morning already. ‘Wake up foolish girl! Do you want your husband to think we did not train you well? Get up now, get cleaned up and prepare his bath water. When you are done, get his breakfast ready’. Ameera couldn’t think past the shrill tone of her mother. She was still disoriented. She didn’t recall what had happened. She tried to get up and saw that her legs were spread. ‘Why was her legs open for all to see?‘ she thought. Mortified that her mum had seen her ‘private part’, she quickly tried to close them. As she tried, she regained all consciousness when a very sharp pain traveled up the walls of her vagina, prompting fresh drip of blood to flow. Then she remembered! She couldn’t close her legs. She just couldn’t! Her mother finally realized that her daughter was in pain when she saw the blood dripping and the tears on her face. ‘Don’t worry my daughter, it will get better’ was all she kept saying. Alhaji Aminu entered the room and bellowed at his wife. ‘Are you still in bed? Are you crazy? Who will prepare my bath water and breakfast? Who will take care of the house? Get up you lazy girl! Nonsense!’ He turned to her mother. ‘Hajiya, what kind of a bride did you give me? Still asleep at 7 am?! Is this the type of nonsense I should expect in my house? Better do something about it because I can assure you that even though Alhaji is my friend, I will not hesitate to take my koboko to her naked skin! So, get her in order!’ He said as he marched out of the room. Ameera’s mother helped Ameera up, struggling to get her to stand up straight. Ameera wobbled into the bathroom, wincing at each step taken and taking care to keep her legs apart as she walked. Her mother left her to herself when she got into the bathroom. She knew peeing would increase her pain, but she had to obey her bodily functions. As the pee slowly descended, she wanted to cry out again, but she stilled herself by biting her lips. The taste
They Don’t Care About Us
The impact of the long trek Huzaifa had just had was beginning to show in her carriage. Her refusal to buckle was entirely due to sheer will…and the fact that her babies would suffer in her fall. She had been carrying Aisha on her back and Musa on her neck. It was hard work but at least she got these two out. The whereabouts of Jamilu, Hassan and Hussaina was something she didn’t want to dwell on. All she could focus on was ensuring she got as far away from Mubi as possible. Her bare feet were chaffed and had blisters running from her toe nails to her heels but she couldn’t let the pain sink into her thoughts. The weight of Musa on her neck had given her a hard knot around her shoulder and if she so much as moved her current position, she was sure that the muscle would snap. When she finally got to the Hayin Gada Bridge, all she could think of was crossing the bridge. ‘She would be safe in Yola’, she thought to herself. She just needed to hold on until she got to Yola. Huzaifa was not the only one fleeing Mubi. She was one of the thousands who had fled when the insurgent group, popularly called Boko Haram, invaded (and captured) Mubi, the second largest city and most viable economic epicenter in Adamawa state in October, 2014. John was another. He had run from home as soon as he had heard the tata tata ta of guns firing. He left his wife and four kids, taking with him only his phone, his wallet and the clothes he was wearing. John had thought through his predicament and realized that being a man, and a young one at that, his fate was either to join the insurgents or a certain death. He didn’t want to be a part of a group of men whose ideals meant that they could kill, pillage and destroy communities at whim and he sure didn’t want to die. As he ran, he hoped his children would be safe though, the fate of his wife was a sure thing if she was captured; young and beautiful as she was. He dulled the thought of his wife and kids as he zigzagged his way in the bushes. After two days in the bush and his endurance of a major heat stroke, he finally found a taxi, albeit an expensive one, heading to Yola. He needed to get to Yola. Once he got there, he would think of the family he had left behind. These examples (and many more) are the stories coming out of Mubi. Whether it is students running into Cameroun or people piled on each other on tricycles, motorcycles, cars, or trailers, the main issue is that the story coming out of Mubi is horrible. And worse, there were no Christians, no Muslims and no atheists. All there was were Nigerians running away from a common enemy. Heck, even the soldiers were running away in the face of the heavy artillery wielded by the insurgents. The insurgents behind the escapees were not their only problems. As they ran through bushes, in the stifling heat that is characteristic of Adamawa, many of these people were without food or water, resulting in massive hunger. Now, the adrenaline pumping through their veins may have pushed the thought of food out of their minds but running without water in a hot (hot) place is akin to embarking on a suicide mission. Many people were reported to have drunk water from sources as filthy as gutters or roadside puddles. These were not the worst of their problems though. As people strove to get away from Mubi, imagine their relief when they saw cars lined up, also fleeing from the insurgents. Many ran to such vehicles, pleading to be taken along. The drivers, while running for their lives, didn’t let the opportunity to make a quick buck pass them by. Transport fares from Yola to Mubi was usually around N1,500 but, as soon as the drivers saw the fleeing citizens, fares went as high as N7, 000. And boy! Did people pay! If you didn’t have any money, then ‘GOD save you’ was the meted response. People had to trek from Mubi to as far as Hong. In the end, the governor, Barrister Bala James Ngilari, had to send, (as released by the press secretary) a total of seventy-seven buses to fetch those on the road. One would think that getting to Yola would mean some form of respite for the displaced people but it wasn’t. The NAPEP riders in Yola also hiked their transport fares, collecting one hundred naira (N100) instead of the stipulated fifty naira (N50). People would have paid two hundred naira if possible but the vehicles just weren’t there. The buses had been just enough for the residents of the Yola metropolis but with the massive influx of people into town, buses were scarce. People literally had to jump on moving vehicles and be packed like sardines. Buses that normally carried about 10 passengers with the driver and conductor making it 12, were carrying as many as 15 and in some cases, up to 18 or 20 people. It was not a pleasant sight at all. At a point, people just gave up on waiting for the buses or NAPEP and took to walking long distances within the town to get to where they were going to. And trust the security men to become active after there has been an incident. The checkpoints that were a common site in Jimeta and Yola soon doubled. The traffic gridlocks soon became unbearable. It wasn’t as if any checks were being done, but the security personnel had to look busy. The only people credit had to be given to, were the men from the Federal Road Safety Commission, who worked tirelessly to ensure that the gridlock was broken and traffic was relatively smooth. Apart from that, the Police as usual set up checkpoints close to where the Army had
Family Planning For Sustainable Development
I woke up one morning and realized that my neighbors had used up all the water in the house and had not called the Mai Ruwa to refill the containers. I usually don’t go out myself to call him but since I was the only one preparing to go out at that time, I put on my slip and went out in search of him. The Mai Ruwa lived just opposite my house, so I didn’t have to walk far to find him. Because it was quite early, there were few people on the street, so I didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing my messy hair (which is almost always messy) or my oversized slip. As I crossed the street, I saw that the gate to the Mai Ruwa‘s house was open. When I reached the gate, I raised my hand to knock when this little Fulani boy – who bore a striking resemblance to the Mai Ruwa – came to the gate. ‘Ina Mai Ruwa?‘ I asked in Hausa. The boy just looked at me and pointed to the security guard’s corner of the house. I didn’t know that the Mai Ruwa doubled up as the security guard of the house; though, I should have known a Mai Ruwa couldn’t own such a prime piece of property. I walked towards the small apartment and saw the Mai Ruwa emerge from the room. As he approached me, I couldn’t help but notice that there were kids lying on the floor, almost like the arrangement of fish in sardine packages, with the youngest closest to the mother. From my count, there were four children in that tiny room. Add that to the little boy I just saw outside, and it meant that the Mai Ruwa had five children. Maybe the Mai Ruwa saw my prying eyes, because he quickly pulled his curtains down. I straighten and asked that he brings water to our house. He told me he would be there as soon as he could. As I returned to my house, I wondered how a man who doubled up as a Mai Ruwa and a security guard could have five children and have all of them living in one tiny room. This was a shock to me because I had done an in depth radio show on family planning in Adamawa, with resource persons from the Society for Family Health who explained the necessity for planning. I thought the issue was more rural but here I was, right at my door steps, in a very urban area, faced with an unplanned family. I consoled myself with the thought that the Mai Ruwa already had his children before my program so, maybe he wouldn’t have a sixth child. I went there a couple more times and realized that the spacing of the Mai Ruwa‘s children couldn’t have been more than one year between each child. They were literally just following themselves. In Northern Nigeria, many families are like the Mai Ruwa‘s; poor, not gainfully employed and surprisingly large. The issue of family planning – or the absence of it – is a big problem in this region. The problem is eating deep into the fabric of society. In the Northern part of the country, there are particular reasons why people have an aversion to planned families. 1. Religion: Nothing is a bigger determining factor than religion on the issue of family. Many people are of the belief that God is the one who gives children and as such, are totally against ‘planning’ a family. This phenomenon cuts across the two major religions in Nigeria. The Bible’s stance on family planning is almost non-existent; I used the term ‘almost’ because many people use the story of Onan and Tamar as a point to ‘prove’ God is against family planning. In Genesis 38:6-10 (better understanding will come if one starts from verse one), Onan kept pulling out of Tamar (that is, the withdrawal method) just so he wouldn’t perform his legal duties to his late brother Er as stipulated in Deuteronomy 25:5-6. While this Bible passage may seem to be against family planning, I don’t think it is. If you take a holistic view of the story, you will see that God was angry at Onan not necessarily for withdrawing during sex, but because he did that with the evil intention of not wanting to share his inheritance with any child Tamar bore; a child who would have been the true heir of their father Judah’s estates. In essence, the Bible’s view on family planning is relatively mute. So why are many Christians against planning their families? I believe it is because many of them are uneducated or not properly educated on the tenets of the Bible, which makes them accept any and every thing their leaders tell them. So when a preacher is against family planning, all he has to do is rally against it from his pulpit and his followers will accept it. And for those who take out the time to study, many do not understand the nuances that are in each scripture and that each scripture is inherently connected to others and thus, the whole Bible. They just latch onto one verse and solidify their opinions rather than take each verse as a small part of a whole. So anyone reading about Onan and Tamar would say, God is against planned families. Similarly, many Muslims say that it is against Allah’s will to plan their families, seeing it as a western idea postulated to pull people away from the ethics of Islam. That been said, I tried to research what the Qur’an says about the concept, but there seemed to be no direct verses about family planning. There are however verses on killing children (Qur’an 6:151, 17:51). I read an article by Jamal Zarabozo titled ‘Is Family Planning Allowed In Islam?’ on Islam Women and he said research has been done by Islamic scholars and they have come to the conclusion that spacing children is allowed if the parents have mutually found a reason that is Islamically acceptable to space them. He went further to explain that
Copy Copy
Copy Button.Image: Free Images Live Okay…Nigerians are technically, the most effective ‘copiers’ in the world. The Chinese used to be the ones adept at replicating whatever they saw, but Nigerians have really taken over from them. Now, this needs to be clarified. This is not replicating advancing technology, or improving strides in medicine or stuff like that. It definitely isn’t that. What this type of imitation does is copy the things that are unimportant and in some cases, just plain wrong and stupid! It seems like copying became mainstream when Blackberry phones came into Nigeria. People were buying the phones like their lives depended on them. Some women were trading sex for a Blackberry. The movie ‘Blackberry Babes‘ seemed to show a clear picture of just how far women went in order to own the latest Blackberries. Men who couldn’t trade sex for a Blackberry were doing all manner of criminal deeds to earn money for them. As the phone gained more acceptance, the Blackberry Internet Services (BIS) subscription also followed suit; after all, what was a Blackberry without subscription? Telecommunication companies made it easier and easier by reducing the subscription fee until it became very affordable. Even at that, many people had to starve themselves to subscribe. Many women who were serious snobs all month, would suddenly become cute and cuddly when they run out of subscription or were about to run out of it. I remember in school when male friends used to lie to their parents to get money for handouts and upkeep, only to subscribe for BIS as soon as the money came in. Let us also not forget the parties that were done with certain Blackberries as the pass or ticket; today a Bold 2, tomorrow a Bold 4. It got to an all-time high when, on meeting someone, one of the first questions asked was, ‘What is your pin?’ Oh! Woe betides you that you say you didn’t have one; the look you would get could melt a lesser person. Where did the craze come from? And why did we feel the need to copy? The first time I heard about the Blackberry phones was in a fiction novel, one whose name I cannot remember now. In that book, the lead character had an everyday phone for personal contacts and a Blackberry for his business deals. My first view of the phone was a device that could help business people connect and transact business. When Nigerians copied the United States and some of Europe, it wasn’t to foster business deals but to oppress one another. This oppression was so much that Blackberry officially announced its Nigerian market as one of the most thriving markets in Africa. It must have enacted a lot of laughs among the top brass of the company when their Nigerian users were notably unhappy about the sale of the BBM app to android phones. In spite of the entire online petition by Nigerians to maintain the exclusivity, BBM was still introduced to android phones. This should have been a clear warning to us that copying doesn’t help us in anyway and it sure doesn’t give us the right to change corporate decisions. When the Apple products came into the country, the same frenzy was seen; only much worse. People could do all types of crazy stuff to own an iPhone, iPad or a MacBook. The craze is still on! Reflect back to when the iPhone 6 came out? Ha! Crazy stuff! Another glaring way our people copy things is shown in our art; from music videos to movies to our fashion and more. We have seen cases where music artists have copied already existing videos when making theirs. This is a case clearly shown in the ‘Skelewu’ video of music artist, Davido; the one directed by Moe Musa is the one I’m talking about. It was an obvious rip-off of the ‘Party Rock‘ video by LMFAO and the movie ‘28 Days Later‘. The question that comes to mind is, ‘Do foreign music artists copy stuff?‘ The answer is yes! But do they do this as blatantly as Nigerian artists do? I wouldn’t be so sure. The same trend is seen with Nigerian movies that are just poor replicas of Hollywood and Bollywood movies. This is especially sad because our talents are now being exported to the world. What message are we sending?! Other ways where copying stuff has been glaring are with social media, and most predominantly, Twitter. A while ago, #FollowFridays was the rave. Timelines were flooded with people who were all too eager to jump on the follow wagon. Then came the #FollowBack wagon and then #TwitFights. Like candy given to children, the twit fights became so popular. The fights ranged from amateur to downright mean and dirty and it even had some people permanently deleting their twitter accounts. Protesters demand a return of the Chibok Girls who were abducted from their school on April 14, 2014.Image: Ayiba Magazine All of this was good and dandy until the abduction of the girls from Chibok took place and became an international issue. Many Nigerians were as unconcerned about those girls, as the President was. When human rights agencies brought it up and began talking about it, social media imploded. That was when Nigerians showed an iota of care. As soon as people saw Americans, Asians, Europeans and even Arabs holding up placards with the hashtag #BringBackOurGirls, Nigerians began to care. Or should we say, Nigerians love a good trending topic to jump on and they got one. It wasn’t long before trendsetters (or more appropriately, trend followers) put up pictures of themselves wearing somber expressions while carrying placards with #BringBackOurGirls boldly written on it. It also was no surprise that as soon as the international media got bored with 240 missing African (and worse, Nigerian) girls, we also copied their apathy. We followed through by forgetting the girls because it just wasn’t trending anymore. This attitude told other countries two things: as a nation, we were not bothered with what happened
Getting It Right With Arthritis
Photo by Ricardo Fontes Mendes on Unsplash by ABE ONCHE It creeps into your joints and plays havoc with your nerves, and at the worst times it keeps you up late at night. It leaves you spontaneously swelling, sapping your strength and before you know it, the simple joys of going down the stairs or pressing a remote control become a waking nightmare. You can hold off the call to your pastor, though. It’s no malevolent spirit, it’s more likely ARTHRITIS. What is Arthritis? This is a bit like asking a mechanic what is wrong with your suspension. Arthritis is a common term used to describe a joint disorder that features varying amounts of pain, reduced flexibility and dexterity, as well as fatigue. The tissues, muscles and bones of the joint all show varying signs of damage that worsen as the condition grows. There are several forms of arthritis that are classified for the specific characteristics that people exhibit. Is it genetic? How is it contracted? The major causes of arthritis are trauma to the affected joint, infection and aging. “Trauma” refers to differing degrees of injury that collectively lead to wear and tear within the joint. Infection, mostly by bacteria, is also capable of producing similar trauma to the joints. This damage features eroding the bone and tissue until they grind together like old gears. In infectious cases, called septic arthritis, damage to the joints is controlled by rapid detection and administering antibiotics. What are the predisposing/contributory factors? Obesity, sedentary living and a previous history of injury to the joints are the things that predispose people to arthritis. An unbalanced diet low in calcium has also been suggested among the culprits. Arthritis is mostly associated with older people, especially women, primarily due to the most common form called osteoarthritis which is coupled with decreased calcium retention in the onset of menopause. Women by the age of 60 tend to have some osteoarthritis, so when Mama starts to complain, you should listen. Osteoarthritis is less common in men, and almost rare in children. However, other forms of arthritis affect a much broader population, with notable examples like septic arthritis, rheumatoid arthritis, lupus and gout. Major symptoms of arthritis · Pain – all victims of arthritis suffer from pain in the joints · Swelling – more common in rheumatoid and gouty arthritis · Difficulty moving the joint/loss of full range of motion · Poor sleep and general discomfort What are the available treatment options/procedures? Diagnosis of arthritis is by clinical examination following a study of the history of the joint, and x-rays are likely to be performed. Recent research has been able to pinpoint biomarkers for rheumatoid arthritis. Think of them as Nature’s little red indicators that can help very early diagnosis. There is no cure for arthritis, so forget about popping pills and laying back. Arthritis is best handled by physical therapy and lifestyle changes. In more extreme cases, orthopedic braces are required and even surgery (a procedure called arthroscopy) can be performed but it is universally accepted that physical therapy is the most effective.
Side Chick II
People at an airport. To get acquainted with the story, read SIDE CHICK I here . This sequel was written by Abe Onche. Would the police be waiting for her? She wondered if she was wanted or not as she idly flipped the pages of her passport. With nothing but her hand luggage, she was intent on not staying too long in the airport. The busy streets of Lagos would welcome any stranger and it wouldn’t really be that hard to disappear. It was good to be home again. The humidity of Lagos was never to be missed, but still, it was more Nigerian than any other place in the country, and it was a perfect contrast to bring her memories of Paris bubbling back up to the surface, not unlike her last glass of champagne down by the Seine. More nerve-wracking than she’d admit, she approached the immigration workers who searched her with dull, tired cow eyes and waved her off. Well, not completely. There was one gentleman who seemed to focus on her for just a little too long, but she didn’t press the issue when he turned awkwardly away as she shot him “the look”. Toasters…Ugh. She had fifty-seven messages by the time she remembered to put her SIM back in her phone, though it wasn’t strange considering she had just up and left for two weeks. She spent most of the ride to the local terminal laughing over the myriad texts from her besties. They all thought she was dead, and she knew she would be once they found out she’d up and gone like a shot to the City of Lights. “Good thing I brought treats”, she chuckled. There were a few more serious text messages from her boss. The old lech must have been worried sick over where his golden goose had gone off to. No doubt he would have tried to reach…”him”…but Masha reckoned “he” wouldn’t have been entertaining too many calls considering the state she left him in. No…he wouldn’t be entertaining anything for a while. *** Port Harcourt was home, and Masha felt exactly that. She had managed to forget virtually everything that had happened in the past month, what with all the busybodies that surrounded her constantly. Her sisters were ecstatic going through her phone, cooing at all the selfies Masha had taken with the crème of Paris. It was a good thing her childhood homie had up and become a designer straight after secondary school; otherwise she might not have swung it. It was hell and a half to salvage any of the clothes she bought from them, but she laughed at the wardrobe nostalgia. Port Harcourt was turning out to be as much fun as she could have at home. Mildred and Zeke – Who-Must-Not-Be-Izzy, her BFFs, came in from Warri and spent a whole weekend catching up. They all skirted around Kaduna until she was ready to talk about it, but she never mentioned Nonso, or what he did to her… or what she did to him. She had buried it deep behind her smile, and it wasn’t that hard since she could get lost in the lives of everyone around her. They went to the cinema after one particularly slow morning though, and they relished the chance to see something new besides Masha. For some crazy reason, they had the hall all to themselves so they were more than happy to recline on the cushions, put their feet on the headrests and throw stale popcorn at each other. It was just like old time, with a little twist though. Mili and Zeke had apparently started dating when they met up in Warri, and they’d been dying for a chance to tell her in person. She’d seen it coming a mile away; they were so in love it was almost annoying. Whenever they looked at each other, they were so warm and fuzzy, they made her feel warm and fuzzy. She was happy for them, truly, but she couldn’t help thinking of herself, how she had been happy and now she wasn’t. “Mash! Snap out of it already! You’re zoning out again!” Mili poked a carefully lacquered fingernail gently into Masha’s cheek. “This is Houston calling Masha. Please respond.” “Careful.” Masha said, chuckling “I’ve seen people lose fingers like that.” “Oh puh-lease dear. If one finger is going to get you back from the twilight zone, then girl, there is a reason Zeke here has ten.” ‘Hey!’ Zeke quipped. ‘I need these too y’know. Who’s going to play the piano on Sunday?” “Sunday” made something lurch in Masha’s stomach. Like some kind of password, it rushed blood to her face and suddenly she felt oven hot and clustered as though she were in a boiler room. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself down. Zeke and Mili were chatting on, oblivious of what was happening to her. She did her best to zone them out, trying to focus on breathing. Then like a surge, memories began to flash in her head, conversations with Annie, being at Our Family Church, the choir over and over again, singing the same songs, the voice of the pastor talking about priorities, Annie bringing more membership forms, loading up the bus on Kaduna road, the prayer sessions….the speaking in tongues, the kabashing, droning on endlessly in her head…Nonso kneeling in front of the bed, praying…naked Nonso kneeling…Nonso getting on the bed, touching her…Nonso tied on the bed…his eyes focused, his mouth moving with no words coming out…the knife in her hand…Nonso in her hand… “MASHA, CUT IT OUT!” “Jesus!!” she yelled out loud, nearly jumping out of her seat. She turned to Mili and Zeke, who stared at her as pale faced as two Africans could be. “Mash, what the hell is wrong with you?” Zeke’s tone told her he was in problem solving mode and she knew the jig was up. An interrogation was bound to happen. “We have to go,” she said. *** “WHAT WERE
