I Have an Idea About Prison(er) Reforms
Image: New Stage We have all heard the stories of prisons in Nigeria; dinghy, overcrowded, desperately inhumane and busting at the seams with more people awaiting trial than convicted felons. Personally, I have not seen any of it. The closest I have been to a prison was sometime in 2003 when I stumbled onto the grounds of the one in Ungwan Sunday, Kaduna State, because I thought there was a masquerade parade going on there. Yes; weird story. And no matter how I explain it, it is still weird, so…let me just skip that. What I would never forget were the shouts from men calling me to come back. I didn’t understand what the fuss was about and so, didn’t respond. In my defense, I didn’t know it was a prison either. I kept on going in until I met a warden who said, ‘young girl, go back. Or… do you want to be raped?’ I didn’t need anyone to tell me to turn back at that point. But, I digress. As I was saying, I have never seen the insides of any prison in this country. But I have heard the stories. The first one that comes to mind is the juvenile prison (Borstal) in Kaduna State. A classmate who had been so… ‘stubborn’… was sent to one. Before this happened, he had become a bit of a terror to the school and neighboring communities. He fought people, beat up others, threatened to abuse girls and was generally feared. Even though I feared him too, we were cool. (Not surprising anyway. I gravitated to all the ‘bad kids’ when I was younger. Can you guess why?) Anyway, teachers who punished him in school would watch him laugh in that menacing way that foretold doom and you could bet that they would almost always get attacked on their way home. He was threatened with being locked up in Borstal, an institution whose reputation preceded it. The sound of that name (even today) sends an involuntary shudder down my spine. He, however, couldn’t be bothered. When he was finally sentenced to time at the facility, there was palpable fear among the rest of us and the stories were used to scare us into behaving better. Years later when I finally saw that classmate and was contemplating whether to take a detour or not, he caught my eye and the option was made for me. We got talking and I saw that he was such a changed young man. It almost felt like he had been replaced by aliens. My fear for the institution deepened. Side note: He is a warden at the institution now. Also, not surprising. Then I heard about the ‘world famous’ Kirikiri prison; more like read about it. The instances of abuses I read about shocked my young mind. I couldn’t wrap my head around such cruelty. It is said that people go to Kirikiri to become even more hardened criminals. Imagine a correctional facility that makes people worse than they were when they went in. Which brings me to this question: are Nigerian prisons correctional or punishment facilities? In my opinion, the latter. Technically, prison sentences should serve as punishment for crimes committed against individuals, a group (or groups) of people or the State defining the crime according to the law. But, prison sentences should not just be about punishing individuals; it should also be about reforming them. I think this should be the biggest reason why prisons exist. In Nigeria, I cannot say for certain how much reformation is happening in the prisons. This is not to negate the work of non-governmental or not-for-profit organizations aimed at reforming prisoners. For the sake of this article, I am focusing on the role of the government in correcting and reintegrating former felons into society. Reading about the history of Nigerian prisons, you would see that before 1968, Nigerian prisons weren’t always this punishment-only centers they are today. Yes, when the idea of having justice systems made up of the police, courts and finally prisons was first established around 1861, they served mainly to please the colonial masters and their interests. There wasn’t much regard for Nigerian lives and, why would there have been? We were a slave territory and the ‘masters’ had all the power. But between 1934 and 1955, two men – Colonel V. L. Mabb and R. H. Dolan – brought about a new order to the way prisons in Nigeria were run. Dolan was especially instrumental in putting up structures that recognized that prisons needed to be as much about correcting and reintegrating individuals into society as they were about punishing them for their crimes. Here is an excerpt about Dolan’s work as found on the Nigerian Prisons website. ‘He also made classification of prisoners mandatory in all prisons and went on to introduce visits by relations to inmates. He also introduced progressive earning schemes for long term first offenders. He also introduced moral and adult education classes to be handled by competent Ministers and teachers for both Christian and Islamic education. Programmes for recreation and relaxation of prisoners were introduced during his tenure as well as the formation of an association for the care and rehabilitation of discharged prisoners. But above all, he initiated a programme for the construction and expansion of even bigger convict prisons to enhance the proper classification and accommodation of prisoners.’ Dolan had the right idea, which is similar to the one that I have. So, let get to it. The official national prison population in Nigeria is 73,995 people. If I know anything about statistics and data in Nigeria, then this figure is the most conservative figure the government could put out without looking bad. Which means that there are way more people in Nigerian prisons than the government is letting on. This has been corroborated by many sources who report cases of overcrowding in the prisons, with facilities stretched far beyond the numbers they were created for. Take Kirikiri prison for example. Its capacity is built for 1,056 inmates. As at March 2018,
(Mis)Diagnosing Depression
Photo by Ian Espinosa on Unsplash I was at a literary event recently when the conversation swung to depression. It started when a man presented a poem about this state of mental health and suggested that ‘a smile, a hug, and some love’ could get people out of their depressed state. For the most part, the poem resonated with people because it was relatively well written and delivered, and being a sensitive topic, people could relate; or so I assumed. While I was processing the words of poem, someone mention that it was important to note that depression was not ‘having a couple of bad days or being sad. It is a clinically diagnosed illness and must be treated that way.’ In the past, I would have nodded my head in agreement. I understood the sentiment and the need to be sure that people weren’t misdiagnosing depression when in the real sense, they were briefly unhappy or in a funk. But, my idea about depression changed a while back. Before I get into what caused the switch, let me share a train of thought that I followed through as I listened to the debate. Have you ever had a blinding headache? Those things can be the worst! You can’t think, you can’t sleep, you can’t eat, you think you head is about ready to split, and if it is really bad, you are almost crippled from the pain. When you go to the hospital, the doctor may diagnose a headache, migraine or something worse. In essence, the doctor is affirming what you already feel. You know the intricacies of the pain you are feeling. What the doctor does is to give you a ‘fancy’ name for what you are dealing with, and hopefully, a medical solution. So, let us say that you don’t go to the doctor. Do you still have the symptoms? Yes. Can you tell that you are in great pain? Yes. Do you know that something is wrong with you? Yes. What you may not know is the technical term for what you are going through, but you knowthat something is wrong. In some cases, you know that if you can just sleep, you may be better for a bit. In other instances, you know that seeing a medical personnel and taking some drugs can help you get better. And while you may want to take that option, you know that sometimes, there are a number of factors that may prevent you from seeking that help. So, you sleep. Or eat. Or rest. Or just lie down because you know that it would get better…until the next bout comes up. In this case, does the absence of a medical diagnosis negate the existence of your headache? I think the answer is no. The same is true for depression. People who are suffering from depression know that there is something wrong with them. They knowthat the gnawing emptiness they are feeling is a symptom of something bad. They understand that those panic attacks are not normal. They realize that their appetite – whether they are eating very little of way too much – is a sign of something troubling. They wish they didn’t have to sleep so little…or so much. They get that their complete lack of desire for anything, and sometimes, their only desire which seeks to end it all, is a product of a situation that is…bad. They know this. They also know about the days when pretending to be fine is the wall they need when their entire essence is crumbling apart. They understand the need to reach out, and the countering need not to be a burden. They can taste the fear of not knowing whether they would be understood or dismissed, or the hope that someone would see through their façade and help them. They also remember all the times when the voices in their head tells them, ‘didn’t I tell you? Nobody cares about you.’ They know this. What they may not know is the fancy name for what they are feeling. A little over six years ago, I began to feel sad and unhappy about my life. I didn’t seem to be making much progress for the timelines I set for myself and I started having this feeling that I was failing at this thing called life. It was a gnawing feeling that seemed to be here today and gone the next. However, I noticed that, with each session, the sadness seemed to take deeper roots. It felt like I was in quick sand and while I was only ankle deep, I couldn’t get out. As the years wore on, I continued to descend into the abyss until it got to a head a little over two years ago. I lost my mind. I started having repeated panic attacks, and once, when I could feel my heart closing up and my lungs refusing to draw in enough air, I thought I had come to the end of the road. When it passed, I felt empty. For one week afterwards, I didn’t have a shower. My bedroom was a dumpster; filled with plates from days before, wraps from junk food, bottles and clothes strewn everywhere. I was listless and couldn’t feel anything beyond the overwhelming emptiness of what was my life. I was depressed. And guess what? It started with a couple of days of sadness. It started with some unhappiness. It started with days when I was in a funk. Which is why when people say, ‘depression is not having a couple of sad days and being unhappy’, I shake my head. Only a person having those feelings can tell you what they are feeling. Only a person having those feelings can tell you how deeply lost they think they are. Image from Twitter It is important to note that people who are depressed do not share the extent of their listlessness with other; one, because explaining it is hard, and two because, there is
BMI, Beauty Standards and Fat Shaming
Girl working Out.Image: Health Magazine I have a problem with Body Mass Index (BMI) as a measurement of health. Almost everyone has heard the acronym; BMI. And while many have an idea what it is, let me start my arguments – and yes, they are arguments – with the definition of the term. ‘BMI is a person’s weight in kilograms (kg) divided by his or her height in meters squared.’ This is one way to define it. Simple, huh? But don’t be fooled. This seemingly simple definition is anything but. However, this isn’t the time to jump the gun. So let me layer on the science of it. BMI can also be calculated using other variables like pounds (instead of kilogram) and with some calculators, it can be computed using feet and inches instead of meters. The main components are weight and height. For the purposes of this article, I will use kilogram to meters (or feet and inches) for my measurements. Let us get into it, shall we? For a little over a hundred years, BMI has been used as the standard of body measurement since Adolphe Quetelet, the Belgian Mathematician, Astronomer and Statistician, developed the unit of measurement. It seeks to measure whether a person is underweight, normal, overweight or obese. Right now, the formula for calculating BMI is; BMI = weight (kg) / height (m2) And generally, it is accepted that: A BMI of 18.49 or below means a person is underweight; A BMI of 18.5 to 24.99 means they are of normal weight; A BMI of 25 to 29.99 means they are overweight; A BMI of 30 or more means they are obese. Until sometime last year, I accepted this measurement as truth. I studied Biochemistry and I remember thoroughly enjoying the nutrition classes because we dealt with things like BMI. I was especially happy about it after I learned how to help malnourished babies get back to ‘normal’ weight. Those were the aspects of Biochemistry that made me love the course. But recently, I had a run in with a loud-mouthed doctor when I went to the hospital with my mum. She had suffered a heart attack. The doctor stabilized her and after she had taken the drugs he gave her, she stood up and went into the restroom. As soon as my mum was out of earshot and we were alone, the doctor said something to the tune of, ‘if you don’t want to suffer what your mother is suffering, you need to lose weight quickly. Can’t you see that you are too fat?!’ (And yes…that was almost verbatim). At first, I feigned laughter because he was a much older man and I was worried about my mum. And then I wondered why he was making the comparison because my mum is way slimmer than I am. He persisted. ‘Climb the scale there. I am sure your BMI will confirm what I am telling you. You are too overweight!’This time, I didn’t laugh. And because I am not one to suffer a fool gladly, I made sure I spoke pointedly at him so that he would get the message. ‘I am not your patient. Your job here is to get my mum better; nothing more. Can you KINDLY focus on that?’ I am sure he hadn’t been spoken to like that in a while. He kept quiet and waited for my mum to return. When he was done with his duties, my mum and I left. It wasn’t until later that I heard he told my mum I was a rude child. It gave me so much pleasure to have put him in his place. But… I digress. That day, I was so mad at the doctor. I saw what he did for exactly what it was; fat shaming. The man didn’t really care about my health. He didn’t have my medical history nor had he engaged me in a conversation to find out about my lifestyle. All he saw was a fat girl that he thought he could talk to in whatever way he felt he could. I wished I hadn’t been so ‘respectful’ of him and had given him a proper tongue lashing. And the more I thought about it, the angrier I became. But then, the anger passed. I looked at myself and admitted what I already knew; I am fat. My BMI says I am obese. But the question I asked myself after reacceptingthis fact was…am I healthy? This question prompted another. ‘If BMI used just weight and height to classify people into normal (which is translated to mean ‘healthy’) and obese (which is translated to mean ‘unhealthy’), could the unit of measurement be more about aesthetics than it was about health?’ I decided to pursue the thought. With almost 8 billion people in the world ranging from the shortest person – Chandra Bahadur Dangi who is just 54.64 cm – to Robert Wadlow who is said to have been the tallest person in the world (standing at 8 ft 11.1 in), there couldn’t possibly be a ‘normal’ height for people. This also meant that there couldn’t possibly be a ‘normal’ weight for people. As I processed these thoughts, I wondered: if you can’t have a normal height or weight, how can we have a ‘normal’ BMI? Because, what may be normal to a 5’9 man weighing 70kg may be underweight for a 7’1 person of the same weight, and overweight for a 5’4 woman of the same weight. So…if there was no constant in all this, how could the BMI be accepted as the appropriate unit of measuring ‘normal’ health? To process this thought further, I started doing some basic mathematics in my head. It was too stressful for me, so I found a BMI calculator that used the kilogram to feet and inches ratio. I started to calculate BMIs for a
The 2019 Writivism Festival
The 2019 Writivism Festival is here and we are pumped! Here is all you need to know about the festival…and why you should definitely attend. When you come to the festival Expressed in modern diction, “Ugandan party life will finish your money.” The plus side here is; no one has to spend on an entrance free to join in on the fun. At no cost, you get the chance to be entertained by the most sought after performers in the creative realm. The Writivism festival is a unique merry-making ceremony. The event celebrates African culture with emphasis on creative arts in every aspect that is; photography, poetry recitals, fashion, music to say the least. The festival is also held to celebrate African literature and remind you that books are very much enjoyable; you just haven’t landed on a good story yet. Artistic performances; every play, drama, concert, poem is formed out of words then brought to life through melody, body language and speech. Performances by award winning writers like Harriet Anena, Joshua Mmali and several short films will be screened. The festival is a family event. We have organized children’s activities too to make it as inclusive as possible. There will be a kid’s corner too facilitated by the celebrated Acan Innocent who has just recently released a kid’s book titled Black, Yellow, Red. Key note conversations; on topics like race and nationalism featuring figures like Apolo Makubya and Jennifer Makumbi not forgetting book launches. The annual festival is arguably East Africa’s leading literary festival and has become a fixture on the arts calendar of the region. Important books like Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi’s Kintu which won her the Windham Campbell Prize for Literature and No Violet Bulawayo’s We Need New Names, shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, among others were unveiled a tour festival. Legendary figures in African literature like Uganda’s John Nagenda, Zimbabwe’s Tsitsi Dangarembga, Kenya’s Mukoma Wa Ngugi, Nigeria’s EC Osondu and Chika Unigwe and South Sudan’s Taban Lo Liyong have spoken at the Writivism Festival. Mention any important name in contemporary African Literature and intellectual circles and they have appeared at the Writivism Festival at some point. The 2019 festival brings back Ugandan Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi (Chair of the Writivism Short Story Prize judging panel, winner of the Kwani Manuscript Prize, Commonwealth Prize and lecturer of Creative Writing in the United Kingdom) with her new book,Manchester Happened as well as Zimbabwean Panashe Chigumadzi (winner of the K. Selo Duiker Literary Prize and doctoral fellow at Harvard University) with her new book, These bones will rise again. Activities of the festival Photography Exhibition Short films Fashion, Music and Poetry Night Kids’ book club Book launches Book Party: 2017 and 2018 Writivism anthologies Poetry Performances Film Night Books, T. Shirts, alcohol and other merchandise on sale Happy Hour alcohol party Follow the conversation on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram using the hashtags; #Writivism2019 #UnbreakableBonds #EastAfricaArts More information below.
We Are Going to the 2019 Abuja Literary Festival!
The Abuja Literary Festival is back! I attended the Abuja Literary festival for the first time in 2018. I think it was the first edition of the event and my first literary festival. In all honesty, I assumed the event was going to be snooze fest of reading and panel discussions. I specifically picked aspects of the festival to attend that I knew would most likely be fun; poetry slams, movie screenings and a panel discussion on marketing films in Nigeria and to a global audience. But by God! I was wowed! The first thing that was a pointer to the fact that I was going to have a great time was the number of books I saw on sale. It was positively orgasmic to see that many books in one place…and at the price they were going for! It wasn’t too long before I was busting out my card and picking up new ‘buddies’. Oh! I went hungry for a while after that but it was well worth it. The panel sessions I attended were genuinely interesting and the conversations greatly appreciated. I felt everything! If you had been looking at me, you would have seen me nodding my head in agreement with feminists, nearly cussing out a white man who said something along the lines of African writers needing to ‘stick to their own culture’, getting pissed the hell off when people said things that were just plain wrong, and even finding a new crush whose voice was just amazing! (I know! Weirdo!) I was supposed to attend a screening of 93 Days, a film by Steve Gukasshowing how Nigerian doctors led by Stella Adadevoh help curb the spread of the extremely deadly Ebola outbreak in Nigeria. Due to technical difficulties, the movie time kept getting shifted and because I lived in the outskirts of town and couldn’t be out too late at night, I didn’t see the screening. It was a sore point for me and I almost didn’t return to the rest of the festival. Then I heard that Dike Chukwumerije, the renowned spoken word and performance poet and award winning author was going to have a performance. I was elated. Oh! I had never seen Dike perform, nor had I heard about his performance but since I hadn’t seen a play in forever, the thought of being immersed in live performance had me giddy with excitement. It was, without doubt, one of the best moments of my entire year! My goodness! There were a million times I wanted to just jump out of my seat and hug the essence out of him! The play was thatgood! I laughed, cried, danced, reflected and hoped for a better Nigeria. I think this begs to be said again; it was, without doubt, one of the best moments of 2018 for me. So when I heard that the festival was coming back for a second year, I was just about ready to bust out my dance moves. Here is the official poster of the 2019 Abuja Literary Festival. Can. You. See. Our. Logo. Right. There?! Yes! It is with great pleasure that I announce our big news; Shades of Usis supporting the Abuja Literary Festival this year! Can you tell how EXCITED we are?! (If you are new to my blog, you will see a lot of ‘we’ when I talk about the blog. If you stick around, you will figure out why.) Okay…I am going to taper down and explain this better. My entire experience made me really look at the festival as a whole. It is an opportunity to discuss social, economic and political issues from the literary point of view. This is in line with my overall goal with Shades of Us. So I had this A-ha moment where I wondered how I could support this movement, and what it would entail. I spoke to the convener of the event, Buchi Onyebule, and we got talking. It was such a pleasure to have him accept my contribution to the festival. As can be seen on the poster, the theme for the festival is ‘Art and Social Consciousness’ and it would feature panel discussions, book readings, movie screenings, performances and a host of other events. I am eager about the movie that would be screening – as expected – and I want to see what plays would be showcased. This year however, I am not going to cherry pick the events that I would attend. As much as I can, I am going to be totally immersed in the entire festival! I would be there from the opening ceremony to the last hurrah on July 13th. This is where I ask you to be part of the event. I can talk about how great it would all be but… it really wouldn’t do justice to it. You would have to experience it to enjoy it. As you are well aware, putting up a festival like this costs a lot of money. Where you can, reach out to Buchi and ask how you can sponsor an aspect of the festival. You can also volunteer your time to help ensure the entire process is flawless. And the easiest thing you can do is share the posters on your social media platforms to help increase visibility and engagement. I am hoping that if nothing else, you would do that. While I would not have a stand nor do I have a physical product to push, I would most definitely be interacting with as many people as I possibly can. We are keeping the introvert at home for this one! I can’t wait to see you at the 2019 Abuja Literary Festival! If you see me, holla at your girl. Let us talk, interact, share ideas, promote reading and literacy in Africa, and generally just enjoy ourselves. I am excited! Are you?! Ramatu Ada Ochekliye, Founder and Content Creator, Shades of Us
The Male Identity Crisis
Man staring intently.Image: Pexels Most of us have probably heard that a woman’s identity is tied to a couple of things; her beauty, skin tone, demeanor, chastity or purity, and ultimately, her ability to use these qualities to square herself a husband and bear ‘his’ children. This can be further expanded into the duties she is supposed to play in these roles of wife and mother; roles defined as the epitome of her womanhood. And we all know that those duties are many, unreasonable and often times, downright wicked. But these roles are so firmly woven into the fabric of society that choosing a different path almost always results in backlash, shaming and in some cases, physical and sexual abuse. Very few people expect a woman’s identity to be tied to her intellect, career, goals and aspirations, or achievements. It why women are constantly asked about their husbands or children; regardless of what other achievements they have outside of that. So…yeah. Everyone has an opinion about what a woman’s identity should be to be considered ‘complete’. But…have you wondered what a man’s identity is connected to? I believe that men’s identity is tied to two things; the size of their account balances…and the size of their penises. Yes; I said that! And…I will say it again! So, let us really get into it, shall we? I was having a conversation with a ‘friend’ when he told me he was interested in a girl. Looking at him, and looking at the girl, I didn’t think he could get with her. It was not that he wasn’t good looking – because I genuinely believe everyone is good looking – but, this girl was a stunner. She seemed like the kind of girl who spent at least two hours every morning putting on her face. She smelled of class, money, and exotic fragrances. She carried ‘designer’ bags that were so good, they almost looked real and she generally had this air of you-can’t-get-me-even-if-you-tried thing about her. Honestly, I didn’t think my ‘friend’ had a chance; and I said so. He laughed in that overly confident way that men do when you present them with a challenge. ‘Forget all her paparazzi. She hasn’t seen life like that. I have set up a budget of N100,000 for her. I will take her to a really expensive restaurant, so she can have a taste of my kind of cuisine. When she sees how much I am willing to spend to give her a good time, there is no wayI will not knack.’ Yes; desperately sexist and misogynistic. Anyway, I called him out and told him spending money wouldn’t get him the girl. Again, he laughed and went, ‘Ramat, there is no girl that will see my car, see my house, go out with me and not be impressed. When she knows I can spend that money, she has no choice but to trip.’ I wanted to rile him up, so I asked if he was okay with knowing that a girl would only be interested in him because he was flashing money. This time, the laughter was snarky; I had hit a nerve. ‘See ehn Ramat, girls only like two things: money and big dick. And I have both. So, after I spend on her and knack her, she will definitely fall in love.’ I know you are probably as turned off by his crudeness as I was, but I remember laughing at him and telling him to keep wishing. I was so sure he wouldn’t get the girl. But…he did. Turns out his budget impressed her, and she became interested in him. While it wasn’t the first time I had heard a man make that statement and follow it through, it was the first time I has seen that level of brashness displayed by a guy whom I would never have considered a ‘catch’. There were aspects of him that were great, as with most people, but he wasn’t the oozing-with-Idris-Elba-sexiness kind of guy. But all that didn’t seem to matter. Soon enough, I was introduced to his many girlfriends, with each seemingly hotter than the last. One day, a girl came to see him with meals prepared for his week. I smelled her before I saw her and by God, I was mesmerized. This lady was so gloriously beautiful! Her look was the arresting kind; perfectly done hair, makeup, and nails, shoes, clothes and bag to the nines, and an entire aura of sexiness about her. If I thought the girl he budgeted N100,000 for was sexy, this one definedthe term! I am even going to go as far as saying that I felt like a dull glow in the presence of that much aura of sexiness. He quickly introduced her as his girlfriend and being his ‘wingman’, I acted like she was the only one in his life. Yes, I know I used to be disgusting too. But as soon as she left, I couldn’t hide my awe: how in the world did he get a girl like that?! He laughed as he told me his money made him all the more appealing. The opening line of Mayorkun’s ‘Bobo’ quickly came to my head. I was beginning to see that truly, ‘na money be fine bobo’. And judging by how big a hit the song became, it wasn’t hard to see why men totally connected to it. Still talking about that same ‘friend’, a time came when he made some poor investments. He lost a lot of money and was, for the first time in his life, really and truly broke. At about the same time, he got into an accident that totaled his car. He was lucky to have come out of the situation unscathed. For almost 6 months, he was in the dumps. He had to use public transport and learn all the inglorious aspects to it. I watched him shrivel into a shell of himself; ‘my guy’ was struggling.
Policing Childbirth and Risking Women’s Lives
Woman breastfeeding her newbornImage: Feature Shoot My first experience with childbirth was when my youngest sister – Sadiya – was born. I was seven years old then. I remember my mum trying to put on a brave face as she was aided to the car. In all honesty, I didn’t understand what was going on, but my aunts and uncles seemed to be in a panic. I can’t remember what my father’s demeanor was, but I know we didn’t see our mother until the next day when we were introduced to our newborn sister. There was happiness, excitement and an air of love all around. If my mother was frazzled after the birth, she didn’t show it or…I didn’t notice. I gradually began to see women around me give birth to babies and carry on with their lives. They didn’t pause to take a break or stop taking care of their families. Life just went on. Then sometime in 2013, I went to visit a friend in Garkida, Adamawa State. I was a serving corps member then and my friend – a doctor – had been posted to that community for his service to the nation. I went on his ward rounds with him and as usual, was depressed by the smell of the sick mixed with pungent anti-bacterial detergents and caped off by the stinky attitudes of nurses. But the most unnerving thing I saw was the sad look of dejection on the face of a frail woman who was carrying a child on her back, with a branch of leaves hanging from the side of the baby. Without being told, I knew something was wrong. I asked my friend if carrying her baby with the leaves like that was healthy, and if he could do something about it. ‘The baby is dead. The leaves is to let everyone know.’ I looked at the woman again and felt a wave of sadness wash over me. It wasn’t that she was crying; because she wasn’t. Beyond the air of brokenness around her, she seemed so stoic in her resolve as she walked out of the hospital and into the surrounding hills. When I asked my friend what was wrong, he explained. ‘She is a nomadic Fulani woman. From my experience with them, their culture demands that they give birth with the least fuss possible. When they go into labor, they usually look for a corner and squat. They then begin to push as quietly as possible until the baby comes. Many of them are so weak by the time the baby comes and it is not unheard of that a great number of them die in the process. And in many cases, the children do not survive either. In that woman’s case, the baby came out sickly; jaundice. If she had given birth in the hospital or had come in as soon as the baby was born, something may have been done to save the child. But they wait until almost nothing can be done and by the time they make the long trek to this hospital – which is the only healthcare facility that is in this town – the baby would have died.’ I was heartbroken. Not only did the baby not have a fighting the chance, the mother also had to trek a long distance after newly giving birth; when she herself had not even healed from the traumatic experience that she had gone through. And what was the cause? A culture that said Fulani women were strong; that these women should give birth at home; that giving birth should be done silently; and one that only sought the hospital when things had gone awry. The memory of that woman walking into the hills with her dead baby strapped on her back stayed with me for a while. Soon though, the thought of childbirth went to the far recesses of my mind. A few month later, I fell ill and had to be admitted to the hospital. It was a private hospital and by the time they were ready to give me a bed, there was only one space left; the maternity ward. Two incidences happened in my brief stay in the hospital that brought the childbirth conversation back to my radar. One woman came in about ready to pop. She kept pacing up and down with barely any sign of the contractions wracking her body beyond the occasional wince. Soon, she was called into the delivery room where she had the most quiet delivery possible. When I say quiet, I mean she didn’t scream, didn’t shout, and barely even moaned. The only time she cried out was when – in my opinion – she was being stitched up after the delivery. The nurse kept saying she was such a strong woman. Less than an hour after she gave birth, she was dressed and ready to go. As soon as she entered the ward, everyone started praising her; ‘strong woman’, ‘Hebrew woman’, ‘real woman’. Even though I was weak from the receding plasmodium in my system, I couldn’t help but give a small clap when everyone did. She smiled slightly, basking in what I had come to see was the ultimate praise. Hours after she left the hospital, people were still talking about her and how ‘strong’ a woman she was. But we didn’t stay on her case for long. Another woman came in to deliver her baby and she cried like hell. She shouted, screamed, yelled and any other word that connotes expressing agony. The nurse – same one who delivered the first baby – screamed right back at her. ‘Abeg no disturb us with shout here. When you dey fuck, you no shout. Now, you wan tear our ear. Abeg! No shout for us here. Na we cause am?’ I was desperately shocked. Why the hell was it okay to shout at that woman?! Why was it okay to insult her?! Did the nurse
A Culture of Animal Cruelty
Sad Dog Image: Petfinder Have you seen where dog meat is prepared? It is the epitome of cruelty and wickedness. The dog is tied in a sack and kept in a circle of men wielding sticks. Once they are sure that the dog cannot escape its confinements, these men begin to beat the dog until it dies. I witnessed this one day and nearly threw up from the sheer cruelty of it all. The cries of the dog were enough to break me, but these men were unperturbed. They kept striking, drawing rivulets of blood that seeped out of the sack as the screams of the dog became weaker until all was eerily quiet. In all honestly, I didn’t watch till the end. I couldn’t. Those cries tormented me. But I couldn’t leave. I was out with a friend who ate dog meat and he wanted his ‘delicacy’. Before then, I had been repulsed by the fact that people ate dog meat; and I told him as much. When I got to see how dogs were killed before they were prepared, I felt even worse revulsion. How could people do something so disgustingly cruel to animals? People who don’t eat dog meat may say that they are not part of the abuse. And they would be right. But…many of us abuse animals in one way or the other. Even me! So…I also began to think of the other ways that we abuse animals. Let me give an example. Roasted catfish is one of my favorite delicacies. I make it a point of duty to get some at least once a month. One day, I decided to get the raw fish and prepare myself. When I got to the market, it was to see that they kept the fish in just enough water to stay alive. And because there were many fish in the tub, you could tell that they were struggling to be alive. Suffocating would be the most appropriate term. I didn’t think too much about it for a minute until the fish I selected was taken out of the water and a big stick was used to hit its head. I was appalled! Was that how catfish was killed?! Was it the same with the fish joints where I bought mine? I felt bad. I shouldn’t even get started with the way we treat cows; but I will. You should see how they are transported across States lines. Necks bent at awkward angles, legs tied under their bodies in positions that must be uncomfortable, and even cases where other animals and food are piled atop them are usually common place. Then imagine all those distances they have to walk because their herders prefer the nomadic style of cattle rearing instead of the ranch method. And by God, we still insist on killing these animals by slitting their throats and letting them bleed out. In fact, Christianity and Islam instruct the slaughtering of animals as the way to kill them. Proponents of these religions believe that the most humane way to kill an animal is to slaughter them. The Bible (Deuteronomy 12: 21-24) and the Dhabihahin the Islamic Tradition place emphasis on slaughtering the animal and letting the blood of the animal drain to the ground. There are more requirements in Islam that must be met but for the most part, these religions agree that slaughtering is the ‘best’ way to kill animals. But…is this true? There are many schools of thought about this. Research has shown that many animals – like chickens for examples – die as much 2.5 minutes after being slaughtered. That is a lot of pain for an animal to deal with, no matter how stupid chickens are supposed to be. And quite frankly, unfair to the animal. Personally, I think animals should be stunnedbefore they are killed. I think that is the most humane way to kill them. But I understand the draw of religion and why it is important to do as a deity demands. The bigger question is whether we should even eat meat knowing how animals have to die. I am not going to lie…I love meat. It is an important of all my meals. I enjoy the feel it brings to any meal it is in. In fact, I consider meat or fish the reward for eating a meal. This is why I believe that when animals are killed as humanely possible, it is fine to eat. It is also why, in addition to my other reasons, I will eat not dog meat. I have an aversion to swine so that isn’t even up for debate but fish…how do I handle my dilemma with their inhumane killings and my unending appetite for them? I think that is the big question for me, and my role in this mess. Thankfully, in this part of the world, we do not kill animals for sport – even though we let people come here to do so – and cases of animal fighting for gambling purposes are few and in between. But there are way too many ways that animals are treated poorly in our communities. Not only are they fed poorly or starved, they are also caged, flogged, and even poisoned. I once saw a video of a guy who caught a rat and tied it spread-eagled to a bottle. Then the guy stuck a burning cigarette in the mouth of the rat such that whenever it tried to breathe, it inhaled huge gulps of smoke. The guy laughed hysterically, as did the thousands of people who liked and retweeted his video. I was appalled that people didn’t see it for what it was; a culture of animal cruelty. And it is a culture alright! And speaking of poisoning, this is where I am part of the problem. Apologies please. I genuinely hate rats. I think after snakes, they are the most horrible animals. They are able to creep into just about
A Culture of Filth
Image: Baastrop If you follow me on Twitter, you will (probably) notice that every week – and sometimes, almost every day – I talk about people who litter the environment with either their urine, feces or other waste products generated from their daily activities. From my tone, you can always tell that I am constantly angry at the unsightly result of our improper waste disposal and management. I wasn’t always this concerned about the environment. In fact, I used to be a huge part of the problem; okay…maybe ‘huge’ is stressing it too far. What I can admit is that I used to toss trash into the streets, gutters and running water and even burn plastic and other waste materials. Not only was I contributing to the dirt in the streets, I was also polluting the air. It is no surprise that at that time, my bedroom used to look like a tornado was constantly running through it. You wouldn’t call me a ‘clean girl’ for anything. My mother would fuss, and discipline, and it never seemed to work. As I got older, I got better…but not by much. Then in 2006, something happened to change my entire outlook on waste disposal. I was fresh out of secondary school and looking forward to a life as an undergraduate. I applied to Ahmadu Bello University for my first and second choice and when it was time for the Post Unified Tertiary Matriculation Examination, or what we simply called Post UME, I was excited to go for the test, and prove why I should get into the school. After a really stressful day of getting lost, struggling to find myself in a sea of people, writing the exam and wondering how I was going to get back home, I decided to have a snack; I had not eaten all day. I bought a sausage roll – Gala – and a drink and sat down at the Social Center to eat. When I was done, I picked up my empty bottle and sausage wrap and crossed the road towards Amina Hostel. As soon as I crossed, I looked around and dropped my empty bottle and wrap on the ground. Just as I did that, my eye connected with a guy who was looking directly at me. I stopped. You know how they say you can shoot darts with your eyes? Well, this guy was shooting grenades! Without one word uttered, I could feel his disapproval, disappointment and anger at my littering. It was in that moment that I really took in my surroundings. There were waste bin every 100 metres and the school environment was clean and the lawn perfected mowed. In fact, there was one waste bin right in front of me. But I hadn’t seen it. I want to blame the stress I had been under but in all honesty, I may not have used it regardless. Remember that I have established that I was the type of person to toss things out into the street, right? Well, my bottle of fizzy drink – and its accompanying sausage wrap – was the aberration to what was a well maintained, really clean environment. It felt like I had insulted the ground – and faculty – of the school. I was awash with embarrassment. Why did I have to openly disregard this beauty that was so carefully put together? Why did I have to show myself like this?! I imagined what the guy must have been thinking about me. I need to put out a caveat though; I wasn’t attracted to the guy. I didn’t want to be liked by the guy. It wasn’t like I wanted to impress him. But the look which he shot me was rife with silent disapproval and judgement. I felt that he had seen into my soul and concluded that I was destructive to the earth. I imagined him thinking me ‘local’, ‘unsophisticated’ and maybe even a ‘village girl’. I was ashamed of myself for not being a better a person. And because of the insecurities I had already been feeling in the new…different environment, I wished I could go back in time and undo my act of sacrilege to the hallowed grounds of the university. To salvage the situation, I acted like I had dropped the trash on purpose. I opened my bag, pretending to look for something and then, bent down to pick them up and toss them into the trash can. With that, I walked away with my shoulders squared, head held high and lips in a defiant pout. But…not before I stole a glance at the guy and saw the beginnings of a smile on his face. That day, I made the choice to stop indiscriminately disposing waste. If I cannot dispose my waste in a proper way, I put it in my bag until I can. The ripple effects of that stink look stayed a long time with me and made me want to be a better person; first to myself and then to my community. I started to clean my house more, keep the ‘tornado’ at bay and generally, act better. As expected, the more concerned I was about my environment, the less tolerant I was of people who littered and worse, peed and pooped in public spaces. Having mentioned that, I have a confession to make. Sometime in 2013, a friend and I went out on a date. I remember drinking from a packet juice and taking some water with the snacks I had. When we returned to his house and I was about to set out for mine, he asked if we could extend the night by taking a stroll. I agreed. Before we left however, I asked for some water and I downed the 60cl sachet that he brought. I felt like peeing, but the pressure wasn’t much. So, I ignored the call and we went out. We took a stroll through the neighborhood and talked and
What Happened to Kainene?
I was sitting in the bus when a thought came into my head. ‘What happened to Kainene?’ For those who may think me crazy, let me explain who Kainene is and possibly, why she came into my head today. One of my all-time favorite persons in the world is Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. From the moment a friend walked up to me and said I needed to watch a TedX Talk titled, We Should All Be Feminists, I have been enamored of her. Prior to this time, I had never heard her name and I didn’t know that she authored books. Or if I am more truthful, I didn’t read African authors at that point in my life, so I didn’t know who was in the scene. When I heard that great (GREAT) speech, I was blown away by the very essence of who she was and, I wanted to guzzle everything she had ever put out. Thankfully, not long after that, I heard one of her books – Half of a Yellow Sun – was going to be adapted into a film. I was excited! At that point, I had not read the book, and though I usually prefer books to their film adaptations, for some reason, I wanted to see the film first. So when it got out, I immersed myself in the film. I was introduced to Olanna and Kainene, twin sisters who had returned to Nigeria after studying in the United Kingdom. Through the story, we see how the lives of five people – Ugwu, Odenigbo, Olanna, Kainene and Richard – are changed as a result of the Nigerian Civil war which happened from 1967 to 1970. This brings me to what happened to Kainene. At first, it seemed that Kainene was ‘unfazed’ with the war that was leaving a trail of death and carnage all around her. Then, seeing first hand just how brutal the war was, she put on a more humanitarian persona; which was translated in her running a refugee camp. Due to the lack of food and drugs, she decided to go into ‘enemy’ territory and trade with them for the basic necessities which her people desired. That was when she disappeared. No one knows what happened to Kainene; till today. Kainene is a reminder that so many people who lost loved ones during and after the war do not have closure. Let me explain this. If someone you love dies during a war or a crisis or an accident or anything bad that you can think of, you may possibly have a body to grieve over, or a gravesite to put in that person and the memories you shared. You can begin to heal every day and in time, their memories become less painful. Your mind tells you that you can only grieve so much before you have to stop. That is the finality that comes with death. But if they just disappear, with no hint of whether they are alive or not, you remain in a state of perpetual grief. You continuously wonder if today will be the day they walk in the door; if they would reach out; if they are held against their will; if they have eaten; what they have eaten; how they look; if they had children; if they were doing well; and every other thing that your mind can possibly fathom. If you take a cup of water, you wonder if they have water where they are. If you laugh, your mind wonders if they can laugh and torments you for daring to. Every day, every hour, every second of every year that they remain ‘unfound’, you lose a bit of yourself and your sanity because there is no closure. I once read of a story of an old woman who sat a certain couch everyday staring at the streets in front of her house. When her children asked her what she was doing, she said she was waiting to see if her brother would return home. He had been in the soldier in the civil war. She did this until her children had their own children; until her grandchildren wondered if grandma was losing her mind; until she could barely see the road in front of her house. Still…her brother never returned and the day she believed he was not going to come back, she died of a broken heart. So why did I think of what happened to Kainene? It was more about a group of other girls far, far away from Kainene’s Nsukka. I was thinking of the Chibok girls and every other person that has been kidnapped by the insurgent group, Jamā’at Ahl as-Sunnah lid-Da’wah wa’l-Jihād, or as they are commonly called, Boko Haram. Beyond that, I was thinking of family members who had been separated by the insurgency; families who didn’t have phone numbers and couldn’t contact themselves. I thought also of internally displaced people whose loved ones were scattered about in different IDP camps, with no hope of reaching them. It made me ask myself, ‘how were these people doing?’ Kainene is a fictional character. Yet, I am constantly wondering what happened to her. Imagine the people with the real Kainenes in their lives; people searching for answers about their loved ones; people wondering what horrors said loved ones are going through; people holding hope up that one day, they would return home; and people who will die with that hope never becoming a reality. These people cannot heal because their loved ones have been separated from them without the necessary closure they need to move past the pain. Where is this all heading to? For starters, the security situation in Nigeria is becoming more severe, with daredevil abductors taking up citizens at their whim. Many of these victims will return home. Many will not. And for people like the Chibok Girls, or Leah Sharibu, or any number of women, girls and children who may have been abducted,
