Poor People Work Harder…for a Whole Lot Less
Men watching from a gate.Image: The Daily Maverick I live in one of the poorer communities in Nigeria’s capital city, Abuja. Like most of the communities surrounding it, Jikwoyi is a densely populated area. Because most things – accommodation, food, clothing and transportation – is much cheaper than other areas in the Federal Capital Territory, it is not unexpected that there are more people who live around these areas and places like this. One of the first things you notice about the neighborhood is that it pulses with activity and life; almost like a hive. People are always busy. Activity starts as early as 5am; earlier in fact. People who want to beat the eventual daily traffic jam leave as early as possible. And trust me…you don’t want to be in that traffic situation. So as early as 5am, you begin to see lots of cars heading out to town. Because the number of buses allocated to our part of town isn’t nearly enough to cater to the number of people in the area, many private vehicle owners pick up people as they head out to their ‘8-4’s or ‘9-5’s. It is an opportunity to make an extra N500 or N1,000; depending on the size of the car. Shop owners also begin to open up for the day’s activities. Most notable are people whose businesses are in the food sector. They may not be catering to the early birds – unless they sell things like Akara, puff puff, massa or other such fried foods – but come 9am, most of the rush to head out would have begun to slow down and people who work in the community would need to eat. And when school is in session, students pile the roads on their way to getting an education. They need to be catered to by provision store owners who sell biscuits, drinks, sweets, and other pacifiers children take these days. Or it could be to provide books, pencils and pens, or other necessities for school. Soon after, other businesses open up for the day and Jikwoyi becomes a full hub of activity. It is not hard to tell that the soul of the community is driven by work. What is surprising (to me) is that this work doesn’t seem to let up until late at night when I return home, which is usually between 8 and 9pm. In fact, if anything, it seems to pick up at night. Lights blazing, open grills, loud noises as cars jostle to pass the narrow roads, hawkers and street vendors calling out their ware and people generally conversing in louder tones because of the racket of everything else that is going on is how you would describe Jikwoyi at night. The sounds of chaos and the smells of all sorts of food mixed with putrefying drainages and gutters greet you as soon as you return to the community. Jikwoyi at night is bedlam. But it doesn’t end there. There is an active night market scene in Jikwoyi. You can buy almost anything at the Jikwoyi Market from between 6pm and 9pm when some people begin to close up shop. So if you had a craving for Ogbono soup at 7pm, you wouldn’t have to worry about satisfying your craving because, not only are there a myriad of restaurants that sell the soup, the market will be open if you are the type to want to cook yourself. I learned that many people who owned shops in the market – and the entire stretch of shops that are at the Jikwoyi junction and surrounding areas – are also those leaving the community at 5am to do their day jobs. To make this clearer, many people in this community leave for their offices in the day time and return home to their businesses to make a little extra cash before they go home at around 10pm (or later) so they can wake up again and set out for work at 5am the next day. For these people, the rat race seems a bit unending. In spite of all these, neighborhoods like Jikwoyi are home to some of the poorer people in Abuja. It is a mix of the extremely poor, people just above the red line of poverty and the aspiring middle class hoping for one move away to wealth and knowing that they could also be one move away from poverty. These types of neighborhoods are replicated everywhere in Nigeria and many parts of Africa. But it gets worse. Neighborhoods like mine are only considered ‘poorer’ neighborhoods because they are in the Federal Capital Territory and because they pale in comparison to the suburbs at the city center. In reality, there are many more neighborhoods with people living in extreme poverty than there are neighborhoods like mine. And the people in these neighborhoods have to do even more to survive. It is not hard to see that these are some of the most hardworking people in the community. They have to be up earlier and usually not by choice; they have to deal with some of the worst traffic as they leave for work; they juggle at least two jobs, with very little increase in income; they come back home through even more traffic at the end of the day; then they come home to their businesses in a quest to make even more money. In spite of all the work and time they are putting into their day jobs and night time businesses, many people in these types of neighborhoods will never get out of the poverty that they are mired in. The big question is…why? For one, the economy isn’t helpful. Inflation means that the prices of goods and services is constantly going up. This wouldn’t be so bad if salaries are increasing concurrently. But they aren’t. Which means that you have to spend more out of the steady pay you are getting. Think rent, water, electricity, feeding, healthcare, spousal and
Why Do Men So Easily Harass Women? (2)
Image: We Are The City As I washed my pile of clothes over the weekend, something that happened weeks ago came into my thoughts. I was on my way home from work when I realized I didn’t have enough cash for transportation for the rest of the week. I decided to go to the ATM. At this point, I was already bone tired and my heavy backpack was making me even more weary. When I was done withdrawing some cash, I looked in front of me and remembered that I could do with some groceries. There is a mart directly opposite the bank I use so I crossed the road and went into it. After maybe 10 or 15 minutes, I was done. Adding the grocery bags meant that my already sore body was even worse off. I just wanted to get to my house, shower and fall into bed. As soon as I got out of the mart, an Okada rider in front of the bank whistled loudly at me, beckoning me to come use his bike. Now, it is almost normal for Okada riders to whistle at their customers, even though many are replacing whistles with a ‘Going?’ or other variations of the question asking whether a person wanted their services. Back to the rider. By this time, there were two of us who wanted to cross the road to the other side; a man and me. The Okada rider kept whistling and even though it is almost customary, I was offended by it. It wasn’t just that he whistled, it was also how he did. There seemed to be a disrespect to how he did that was off-putting. But I was too tired to even care. The man and I crossed the road and we both went to stand a few feet from the Okada man and his bike; him to the left and me to the right. ‘You dey go?’ the Okada man asked me. I did not answer. ‘Come make we go now.’ Again, I did not answer. I noticed that though the man and I stood close to him, he continued to direct his conversation only to me. By this point, I hoped another Okada would show up quickly, so I could be on my way to my house. Almost like the Sky Spirits heard me, two Okada riders came towards us. The man and I stopped them and without waiting to discuss the price, the man hopped on one and was gone. I asked mine how much he would take me to my house. ‘N200.’ ‘N150.’ I countered. The rider agreed. I gave him my grocery bag to hold while I climbed the machine. It was as I was climbing that everything went south. The Okada rider who had been whistling – and whom I ignored – started to shout. ‘Why are you holding her bag? Give her the bag! She no wan pay better money. Give her the bag make she hold am.’ I was shocked at the vitriol. What was this man’s problem? My Okada rider and I ignored him. Again, he continued to shout. By this point, I was mad. Normal me would have shouted right back at him but I was tired. So I asked in my calmest voice, ‘How is this your business?’ My question seemed to irk him some more and he started raining insults on me. ‘Carry your wahala dey go oh! Nonsense. You no wan pay money dey give am you bag. Give her the bag jare!’ I told him to learn to mind his business and again wondered why he felt it was okay to shout at me for absolutely no reason. If I hadn’t been the one he was shouting at, especially knowing I had not said a word to him prior to asking how it was his business, I would have assumed that he had quarrelled with the person, especially as he kept shouting, ‘carry your wahala dey do. Nonsense.’ What was the wahala? Standing on the road and minding my business? Refusing to use his services? What?! By this time, I was settled on the bike and we were about to head off. You will not believe that this man raised his hand to as if to hit me. This time, I dropped all decorum and shouted. ‘Touch me and collect slap.’ The man started laughing as we zoomed past him. He had thought to rile me up and seeing me get angry seemed to make him happy. He continued to laugh in his loud tone until we were too far from him to hear him anymore. My natural instinct was to tell the rider carrying me to stop so I could really go into it with the man. While I would not have fought him, I would have ensured he got a good tongue lashing. I was livid at the harassment, especially because I didn’t do anything to warrant that behavior. Oh! I know that he was probably unhappy that I didn’t use his bike and when he kept speaking to me, I didn’t respond. But there were two of us who didn’t respond. Why did he think he could act a fool towards me? Why did he think he was entitled to my response? The answer is simple; I am a woman. I can bet my last cash that he would never have responded to the man in the manner which he responded to me if I had been the one to leave first. This harassment of women by men has become so commonplace in our communities that it has become an endemic. I have written and spoken about it one too many times and nothing seems to be happening. If anything, the number of times I get harassed have increased. I talked about how women do not fear getting robbed, as most robberies come with a side of rape. I have talked about why men so easily
Long Distance: When the Fairy Tale Ends
Image: Raw Pixel It starts with a long distance relationship that wasn’t working. Adon and Jason try to make things work and just when they think they are in a good place, Jason has an accident that makes him fall in love with Amara. When he returns to his senses, it is to find Adon is with child. For his best friend? The answer shocks him. He tries again and somehow, they end up together again. And then reality strikes. Jason looked at Adon as she slept. She was beautiful! Like the first time they shared a bed, he marveled at how innocent she looked when she slept. She wasn’t the strong woman who could take on anything and anyone who dared to cross her. No. When she slept, she became…normal. He smiled…and let his gaze trail down the length of her body. She had filled up after the birth of their child. He paused. When he promised himself to her a little over two years ago, he didn’t know how easy it would be to love a child that wasn’t his. He thought he was going to struggle to find affection for Karla. But from the moment he held her in his arms, he knew that he loved her; almost as much as he loved her mother. One of Adon’s breasts had escaped the top of her bustier and he felt the stirrings of desire beginning to harden him. He wanted her; bad. But he knew it was a bloody waste of time. Frustrated, he got out of bed and headed to the bathroom. He was tired of cold showers and bloody getting himself off. His resolve had gone to shit and if things didn’t improve soon, he was going to have to seek satisfaction outside his home, his bed and the warm body of his wife. *** Adon heard him go to the bathroom. She knew what he was going to do. She remembered the first time she heard the grunts from the bathroom. She remembered how ashamed of herself she had been, how inadequate she had felt. And every time she heard the familiar thud of the closing bathroom door, she felt worse. Not today. This time, she was pissed the hell off. Not at him of course. At herself! Why couldn’t she get past this?! It had been more than three years?! Why couldn’t she let herself accept another man, even one she so desperately loved? Well today, it ends. She got out of bed and went to the bathroom door. She knew if she knocked, she would lose steam. So she opened and barged in. *** Jason was shocked at the intrusion. He had been scrolling through porn sites looking for something to excite him and nothing was working. Tonight, he knew the only release he wanted was inside Adon. He was sick and tired of getting off by himself. He hated how he felt whenever he did that and he just wanted to be with and ease into the woman he loved. The woman he loved was right in front of him, breasts about to bust from her transparent bustier, hair a mess, and a determined expression on her face. He raised one eyebrow as she dropped her panties. Before he could so much as get up, she was on his lap, kissing him with a fervency like he had never seen. Jason didn’t even need to think about it. He kissed Adon right back. *** Adon was breathing hard. So was Jason. His was more labored, but he didn’t get up from atop her body. Every time he drew breath, Adon could feel him become angrier. She didn’t want to cry, but the tears had a mind of their own. As soon as Jason felt the tears on his shoulders, he pulled away from Adon. He thought of the crazy frenzy with which he took her from the toilet seat to their bed. He thought of slowing himself down, even though he wanted to bury himself in her immediately. He had gone through the motions; caressing her, kissing her all over, watching her spasm with pleasure as his tongue worked its magic. And then he saw himself, hearing her beg him to take her, placing himself above her at the entrance of her core, preparing to go in gently…and meeting the same thing that had been happening since they got married two years ago. Her body stiffened and she wouldn’t let him in. And like the previous times, the more he tried to get in, the tighter she became until she was in excruciating pain. Adon pulled the covers around her as she watched him pull on his boxers. ‘Baby…’ ‘Don’t. Just don’t.’ Adon got off the bed and went to him. ‘I can take the pain. Please, just do it. Baby, pl-‘ She stretched her hand to touch him. He turned to her in rage. ‘And do what?! Rape you?! Is that what you want?!’ Adon stepped back, appalled. Jason turned away from her and pulled on a sweatshirt. He quickly pulled on pants and slipped his legs into some trainers. Adon hadn’t moved. She watched him through the haze of tears as he walked towards the door. ‘Baby…’ He stopped, refusing to look at her. ‘I am sorry Adon. I can’t do this anymore.’ And he walked out of the bedroom. It was 1am in the morning. Adon felt her heart stop. *** Jason didn’t return home for a week and Adon was beside herself with worry. She didn’t call him though. He didn’t call her either. She consoled herself with the knowledge that if something had happened to him, someone would have contacted her. So Jason was fine. Which meant that he stayed away because
Accomplices of Sexual Harassment
(Very) Angry WomanImage: iStock Photos On the morning of March 19, 2019, I shared one of my older posts asking why men so easily harass women. Between 5:03pm and 5:30pm of the very same day, I would get sexually harassed by a stink-breathed, uncultured excuse of a human being. But let me get back to 5:03pm. I was standing at my junction waiting for a taxi for my trip home from work. I had just looked at the time when a bus slid to a stop close to me and said it was going in my direction. It was one of these clean coaster buses that is usually used as official buses or by transport companies for interstate travels. I got into the bus and saw that it was almost full; I and the woman who entered right after me took up the remaining seats. I moved to the rear of the bus where there were three men and the only space available for me. I sat in between them, with two men on my right and one on my left. As soon as I sat down, the clod on my left said, ‘Fine girl, how are you?’ I responded with a ‘well done’, took out my ear piece, wore it and started listening to radio…but not before the idiot said, ‘I have been greeting you and you cannot answer.’ I repeated my ‘well done’ and again, he goes, ‘why can’t you answer when I am talking to you?’ Seeing that he was moving mad, I decided to ignore him and listen to my music. Thankfully, by this time, I already had my headphones affixed and Sage was regaling me with urban hits on the Urban 96 show. The man kept talking to me, but I ignored him. I started preparing a video for my social media platforms and when I was done, I realized that it was around 5:12pm and…the bus driver was asking for our fares. I took mine out and gave to the guy next to me on my right. I got back to my phone to check my Twitter timeline. Obviously, the stupid idiot on my left said something to me, which I didn’t hear. He then went on to tap me on my upper thigh to get my attention. I take out my earpiece. ‘Have you paid?’ he asked. ‘Yes.’ After which I wore my earpiece again. Then he started to rub my upper thigh and I moved away from him. He did again, and I moved even more. Now, normal me would have asked why he was touching me but I gave him the benefit of doubt because he seemed to be reaching for wallet. When he paid his fare and tried to touch me one more time, I give him a stink look and moved even further away from him; in the small space that was afforded me. Seeing my reaction, he started tapping my upper thigh, asking why he was talking to me and I wasn’t responding. At this point, he was becoming obscene and people were looking back to see what the ruckus was about. I took out my earpiece and said, ‘Can you let me be, please?!’, making sure to let the edge into my voice so he knew I wasn’t joking. The bloody fool then raised his voice and said, ‘What is the meaning of the fact that I am talking to you and you aren’t responding? Why aren’t you responding to me?’ To which I replied, ‘Must I talk to you?’and the disgusting excuse of a person lost his damn mind. ‘Who do you think you are that they cannot talk to you?! I am talking to you and you are busy pressing phone. Is it this phone that you are pressing that makes you think they cannot talk to you?! Is your phone bigger than mine?’ To which he proceeded to bring out his phone and show everyone who was looking. Let me not forget to mention that as he asked each of these questions, he punctuated them by poking me with his finger; again, on my upper thigh. By this point, I had already put my earpiece back on to shut him and his putrid breath from assaulting my senses but I had also reduced the volume of the radio. I was getting angrier by the second and I was about to bust. Even though I was tethering on the edge of going ham on him, I remained quiet, feigning an interest in my phone when my instinct was begging me to slap him and damn the consequences. ‘Even ajebo girls that grew up in VGC I dey talk to talk more of this one.’ This elicited laughter from some of the men who were on the bus. I raised my head from my phone and darted burning sulfur at them. The others looked away in what may have been unconcern or maybe, embarrassment. Oh! Did I forget to tell you that there were 9 men and 3 women (including me) in the back of the bus? This brings me to the reason that nearly tipped me over the edge! While I was mad at my harasser, I had already figured out that he was a classless, disgusting, uncultured, uncouth, and vile piece of shit. What had me swelling up were the well-dressed men on the bus who laughed instead of checking the blatant nincompoop for his stupidity; the ones who looked away instead of speaking up against his nasty behavior; the one who said, ‘You can tell she is a small girl. She just has body’ to my hearing because he assumed that I would not do (or say) anything to him; and the women who looked at me and turned away. They were, in my opinion, accomplices to my harassment; all of them! I realized that they repulsed me almost as much as the fool who had harassed me. And because this
Keeping up Appearances
A memory came to my head a few days ago and stayed with me. It was sometime in early 2013. I was serving Nigeria as a corps member in Yola, Adamawa State, under the mandatory National Youth Service Corps program for fresh graduates. I had been deployed to the Government Girls Secondary School (GGSS) and a lodge was made available for corps members like me. There were just two girls (from my batch) who were assigned to the school. We joined two other girls who were a batch ahead of us, bringing our total to four. Technically, there were two lodges; one for men and the other for women. Ours was a four bedroom flat that used to be the Principal’s quarters. As years went by and the building began to crumble because of lack of use, it was converted into an abode for female corps members. Since there were four of us at that point, each of us had our own room. Now let us go to the memory. That year, I had become deeply religious and immersed in learning more about the Christian God. I was carefully cutting out things from my life that I felt didn’t glorify Him. This meant that I was trying to do right, speak right and generally, live right. It was so bad that I even cut out songs that weren’t gospel music from my life. Anyone who knows me knows that it was one of the hardest things I had to do. Anyway, I didn’t just want to do right. I wanted to be seen to do right. I didn’t join conversations that tore people down or promoted what I termed vulgar. I stopped partying and began my descent into near reclusion. I continued to have male friends but I made sure it was knownthat it was just platonic. In the past, I would have given people the illusion that I was involved with all my male friends. It gave me a thrill to see people wonder what I was about. But my new way of life meant that I didn’t want to be perceived as that person anymore. It was at this point that I met another corps member. He was a young man who was, for lack of a better phrase, a ‘bad boy’. Let me call him Wale. You see, among ‘believers’ then, if you smoked cigarettes and weed like Wale did, you were termed a bad boy. To make matters worse, Wale only listened to rap music with explicit lyrics, and was constantly downing bottles of codeine-laced cough syrup. If I had met him before my ‘journey to spirituality’, he would have been my type of person. We would have hit it off and being just peachy. At that point however, I didn’t want to be friends. And worse than that, I didn’t want to be seen as his friend. But he didn’t get the memo. When I stopped visiting or communicating as often, he decided to take up the responsibility. He would call, text and visit. He would be talking about the music I was tryingto remove from my life and wondering when we could go out to a club for drinks. Sometimes, I would try to avoid him and at other times, I would just go with the flow. It was during one of these visits that he told me he was having problems with his landlord and didn’t know what to do. I was worried because, as ‘gangsta’ as he showed he was, I knew he was from a privileged home and he didn’t have a lot of experience handling things by himself. I asked what he was going to do and he said he would figure it out. One night about a week later, he arrived at my door unannounced. I asked if all was well and he said he had been kicked out of the house where he had been staying. He had hopped from place to place and was at a loss as to where to stay. I went into panic mode and began to knock on doors at the male lodge asking if they could put him up for a couple of days. The male quarters were already cramped and many said they couldn’t. One guy however, who (incidentally) was one of the nastiest persons I had met in a while, said he would take him in; even though I had been loath to ask. The next day, I asked Wale what he was going to do about his situation. The fact that he didn’t serve in our school meant he couldn’t stay for long. Also, we were expecting new corps members. His problem had to be solved by his own place of primary assignment. It was while discussing this that I realized he had burned bridges at that place of assignment. A lot of it was hinged on his habits but the most part was because he was a bit of a loner and his people skills were almost nonexistent. In about a week, the guy helping him out decided he was done. He had assumed (correctly) that my friend was from a rich family and thought it was his opportunity to fleece him. When Wale had given away almost all he could without going under, the horrible corps member kicked him out of the house. This happened at about 9pm. Wale came to my door to let me know what was happening. I was worried. I knew no one else would take him in. And then it occurred to me that I had my room, which was big, had two mattresses and could be his abode for the night. However, as soon as the thought came to my head though, a part of me said no. Almost immediately, my brain went into overdrive. What would happen if he slept in my room? For one, I would
P I E C E S by Arunsi Othniel Fortune
Image: Mwangi Gatheca for Unsplash I know what it’s like being in your head. Dark, cold, happy. I know what it’s like being in your soul. Lit, warm, dead. I know, what it’s like to see right through your eyes. Because we’re both blind to a reality where I had to sail across seas to find you, sinbad. Heh, see I know that you’re scared. You’re frightened by the waves and how much they’ve Caught you, drowned you and made you lost, captain. Where’s the depth of the deep, within the darkness of The shadows and the castles you built so steep? What happened to the kid who learned how to ride a bike, The one who stained himself with dirt, the one who cried. Not because of pain but because of attention. Now you shed less tears and carry more hurt, you speak your heart less and feel your thoughts more. Where’s the child, this silver tongue, the one I know? Is he lost, is he dead, is he out with the figures cast by the light in a Dark room? Who knows the captain and his crew? I know you, I know how your head is spinning like the compass in your possession. I know you, I know that you still see the greater good to all of this. You’re in a wilderness of waters in an island of your soul, Within the very fortress you built to keep you, out of my reach. Why can’t you see I won’t leave? Why can’t you see I won’t stop? Why can’t you see that we both, us, together, aren’t whole in our separate individualities. Of a puzzle, pieces. Still to be like the triskellion, One-half of each other, we both are our own trinity Forging each other like lakes of hot coal in a shed of iron How much more, how much farther my Lord? But I am your Lord and you are my servant As you are my Lord, for I am your servant! Incomplete without the other, Ingenious if we stand together You must be kidding me, how are you a parent? Why is it so apparent, you must be really virtual I must be really stupid, you are so many things I’ve come to sit with Kings. How come you sit with me? I have the crown on me, but you wear me on you. You… Have got to be lost. How come you call me home? When I don’t want to answer, when I can’t accommodate you Even if I do give directions, how come I’m North Why do you look up to me? Simply put, I’m the very piece of you that went missing inside you. If you’re going to bleed me, cut your heart, we’ll die faster. After all it’s the same grave but not the same grounds. Your heart’s a safe place but not a safe house In the end, you’re my end: Pitiful. Othy If you cannot see the audio controls, your browser does not support the audio element
I Thought I Was a Witch…
Children Accused of WitchcraftImage: SAFE CHILD AFRICA. I remember when I thought I was a witch. It was sometime in the year 2000 or 2001. My parents were strict and required us to stay at home always; unless absolutely necessary. They also didn’t encourage us to have friends or people over at the house. Maybe it was because of their strictness or the fact that we were always indoors but, my house became the hub for our friends and neighbors when they weren’t around. And yes, we had so many of them; especially me. When my parents were out, our friends would come over and we would have all sorts of craziness in the name of fun. If my parents knew just how many people came to our house and caused havoc when they were out, we would have been flayed. This is not to say that we weren’t caught once in a while. But they didn’t know just how bad it was. It was during one of these visits that a friend came to beat me in the house. Funny story. Omoh (fake name alert) and I were closer than most of our other friends. The group used to call us ‘husband and wife’. For some reason which I cannot remember now, we had a fight and stopped being friends. Then I heard that he was trying to tarnish my reputation and spreading lies about me. I got so mad and began to write a letter. By this point, I had just learned words like ‘scalliwag’, ‘nincompoop’ and the all-purpose French word, fuck. I peppered my letter with those words – and others like them – in what I thought was a take down of his entire existence. When I was done, I gave the letter to the same friends who brought the tale to me. Turns out my words struck a million nerves. He was so mad! What I didn’t know was that the letter had been read aloud in front of the rest of the group and with each ‘big word’ they saw, the guys would fall all over themselves, regaling in laughter. And then they would check the dictionary for the meaning and upon discovering what it meant, would break out in even bigger laughter. By the time they were done reading that letter, Omoh was in a rage. I had barely been told he was coming to beat me when he burst into my house brandishing a belt. He asked me to repeat myself if I dared. I was scared out of my skin but I was never one to show it. So I went, ‘I have said all I wanted to say to you. If you didn’t understand it, that is your concern.’ Wrong move. I felt the sharpness of the belt eating into my flesh just as the rest of the group decided to intervene. Maybe most people didn’t think it wouldn’t get to that or they wanted to see me get beat, which I think is what really happened, but the delay in their response sent me into a rage. I reached for him, hoping to throw a blow; even though I was not a fighter. I remember that the biggest guy in the group held me back as the others held Omoh. As I was kicking and throwing blows, I kept saying, ‘You don’t know me! I will show just who I am. This is the biggest mistake you have made in your life and you will so regret it. Get ready to face who I am.’ There was nothing I was going to do. I knew I was bluffing but I kept going. Heck, I couldn’t even tell my parents. They would have continued the beating from where he left off. But I was livid and kept going. In a way, I was thankful that I was held back. If they had let me attack, I most definitely would have run away. The fight was eventually broken and everyone went their way. I heard that Omoh planned to still beat me up in the streets whenever he saw me. I was scared of what would happen to me when I didn’t have other people protecting me. I know that I talk a big game but honestly, I don’t know how to fight; then or now. So when my mother sent me the market two days later, and I had to pass through his house, I was scared out of my wits. When I passed by on my way to the market and nothing happened, I was relieved; for a little while. I think the fear doubled when I was returning because I kept imagining him jumping out of nowhere to descend on me. When that didn’t happen, I finally breathed a sigh of relief when I got home. I was free! I had barely let out that sigh when another friend came in. ‘Oh girl! I dey fear you oh! Wetin you do Omoh?’ Even though he said it in a joking tone, I could tell that he was a bit wary; of me. I looked at him and wondered what he was about. ‘Omoh is sick. He has been lying in bed since that day that he beat you. What did you do?’ I looked at him and hissed. ‘He must be joking.’ I thought to myself. But he wasn’t. The rumor had spread that I had cast a spell on Omoh, which was why he was sick. It was then that it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen any of my friends since the fight. They were actively avoiding me! I felt so bad. So I included every one of them in the anger I was still smarting from. It wasn’t until the next day that a delegation of friends came to plead with me to forgive Omoh. I was shocked. What were these people saying? What could I possibly have done? ‘Remember as you were
The 30th Chapter
I am 30 years old today! Whoot whoot! For the first time in a long, long time, I decided I was going to celebrate my birthday. Honestly, the last two years took its toll on me emotionally, financially and physically! Whewww! So, yes! I am in a celebratory mood this year. To give a glimpse into my mind and why this chapter is different, let us go down memory lane to the last couple of months in 2016. It was a really bad time for me. A misunderstanding with my mum began the start of an estranged relationship that lasted into 2018. Growing up, I learned not to speak back to adults; even when I felt they were wrong. It used to hurt me so bad when adults would do something that offended me and I couldn’t do or say anything because you know…adults. So while many people saw me as the girl who said her mind (usually in a shout), with older people, I was a girl who kept quiet. So when my mother and I were having a conversation and I felt something she said was wrong, I snapped. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t talk back to her. I just got up and left. And the silence began. You know how you keep saying you would fix things and pride keeps telling you to wait and then waiting become days and days become weeks and weeks become years? Well, our ‘fight’ lasted for nearly two years until something happened to force us into the same room. I will get to that soon. Also in 2016, I made a decision to walk away from the relationship with the people I considered my best friends at that time. A little context is necessary. My friends and I had been friends for nearly 15 years at that point. Well…15 with one and 10 with the other. We were peas in a pod. I loved those girls like I loved myself and I knew I could do just about anything for them. In fact, I considered them my sisters. Even though I didn’t keep in touch often, I hoped they knew that I was always there for them. A couple of events which happened from late 2014 to the time in question made me feel like our relationship was one sided. And at that time, I handled my anger and hurt by internalizing the problem. So rather than call anyone I have a problem with and have a proper conversation expressing my angst, I would begin to pull away from them. I would let silence become a chasm between us until coming back becomes almost impossible. And you know what happens in that time? All the offences become even more glaring; things that would normally not offend me begin to have double meanings; and worst all, the hurt and pain I feel rises to a crescendo that bursts at the top of it, leaving me quite unreasonable at the end. When I got to this point, I wrote a long note telling my friends I was done with the friendship and I wished them the best in life. Then I waited. Today, I can admit that I hoped they would try to fight for me. I can admit that I hoped I was wrong and they would set me aright and tell me how it was all in my head and they loved me as much as I loved them. But none of that happened. Instead, they really got into how I was a ‘horrible’ person and how they also had things they wanted to get off their chests. I was shocked! By the time the conversation was over and the friendship severed, I was left shaking. I was so hurt that for the first time, my first reaction to a problem was not anger; it was raw, unadulterated pain. I remember crying so much that day. You know how they say losing a friend is so much worse than losing a lover? Well, I had definitive proof of that. And even though I had felt great sadness before, I fell into a state of paralysis that was the start of what became a deep depression. But I will get into that in a bit. When my job search wasn’t yielding anything good in 2016, I became very antsy. I am my work and when I do not have work, I genuinely lose my mind. I already had a lot going on and what would have been my solace – burying myself in work – was no longer available to me. Oh! I had my blog and what not but I didn’t have a source of income, which meant that I needed to depend on people for my daily needs. Look! The worst feeling I can ever have is being dependent on anyone. It literally feels like my skin is being pulled out little by little with hot tweezers. I hate being broke and worse than that, I hated having to ask anyone for money for things like sanitary pads; which were about the only things I asked for when push came to shove. If jobs weren’t readily available, I knew I had to re-strategize. So I applied for an internship in different development organizations. I knew many organizations did not pay their interns well (if they paid them at all) but I was fine. If whatever I got could handle my transportation and feeding allowance, I would be fine. What was more important to me was that I learned structural advocacy so I could take my activism to a point where I could begin to get grants to execute projects. Towards the end of 2016, one of my applications came through and I was invited for an interview in Abuja. A week or so after that interview, I was told I had passed and I was to start in the new year. I was excited! It was a
How Can We Help Poor(er) Women?
A Page from Tom Paulson I was heading home on November 6, 2018, when my sister called me to get her some juice. It was about 8:50pm and I was really tired. I told her I wouldn’t do it but when I got to my junction, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to get her the juice. It was as I was walking to the provisions store that I saw a woman sitting on the side of the road, with her legs spread out and her hand scratching her head. She was dressed in mis-matched Ankara clothes and she had a look of utter defeat about her. At first glanced, she looked like she had some mental problems; the kind that could not be corrected. And because of how she sat, I didn’t immediately see the children by her side. When I got closer, I saw that she had one child pressed to her body. And behind her on the staircase of the shop closest to the one I was going to, were two other children sleeping on the bare floor. They were covered in dust from rolling on the ground. It was heartbreaking to see that the children couldn’t have been older than 5. I slowed down to really look at her…and then I walked past. I concluded that she may have lost her mind and I didn’t want to be chased down for not minding my business. So, I went to the shop and got my juice. When I got out of the shop, I looked in the direction she sat and saw that she was still there. At this point, I knew that I couldn’t leave her – with those kids sleeping on the road – without doing anything. It was also at that point that I saw that there were two other children with her, bringing the total number to five. Those children, and the utter helplessness of their situation, convinced me to take the risk and walk up to her. ‘Madam, wetin happen?’ I asked in pidgin English. She looked at me and turned away. And looked at me again, as if deciding whether to talk or not. ‘I need help.’ She responded quietly. ‘Where is your house?’ I asked. She pointed in the direction I had come from. I asked again, prodding her to say more. ‘Phase 1 side.’ Those were the only words she said. And hearing that, I made my first mistake. ‘Ha ahn! Why you allow your children sleep for road like this? E no good now. See as them lie down for bare ground like this. E no good at all. Oya…stand up.’ I remember exactly what I said because I feel so ashamed of it afterwards. She looked at me as I spoke to her and I could tell that she was equally ashamed to be in that situation. She started to gather her things as I opened my purse and took out money. N500. By this time, a crowd had begun to gather, and I didn’t want to be seen giving her money. So, I quickly thrust the money in her hand and said, ‘Oya…get up and go home.’ And I walked away from the crowd that was sending blessings my way as they gathered around her. I saw some other people giving her money and one man even flagged a Keke for her and her children. The woman was on her feet at this point and that was when I saw she was pregnant; probably in her third trimester. I realized I had fucked up. I mulled over everything that happened and when I finally got home and relayed the story to my sister, she confirmed what I had been feeling. I should have done more. I had prejudged the woman ‘crazy’ before even reaching her. If I hadn’t, I would have seen that she was just a really frustrated woman who was going through a lot. I wouldn’t have waited to get into the shop before making my mind up to talk to her. And when I finally did, I let the crowd rattle me because I am not comfortable with helping people in the eye of the public. But what is worse is that, everything I had learned in the last two years about solving problems flew out of my head when faced with one. Rather than just give her money, I should have asked a few more questions after she said she needed help. What was wrong? Why was she on the road? What kind of help did she need? Did she have a job? A business? Anything? What skills did she have? Were those all her children? Did she have a home to go to? Did she have a partner? What did he do? Where was he at that moment? Was she running away from him? I know that there are even more questions that I could have asked. The answers to these questions would have better informed how I helped her rather than just giving her a little money. Knowing about the underlying issues that drove her to the road at night with five children and one on the way could have presented me the opportunity to offer her a job or begin to look for someone who could. But I gave her N500 and left. N500 which was my juice money. N500 which could solve some of her problems for that night and drive her back to the road again the next day. I am ashamed of myself and how I reacted. I wish I could go back in time and undo my reaction. I wish I had been more perceptive and patient when dealing with her. I wish I had ignored the crowd and treated her as someone with full agency, rather than some I could tell what to do. I wished I hadn’t been more focused on aesthetics rather than her humanity. Because right there is the crux of the matter! I was more concerned about how the situation looked that I did not
Public Restrooms Need to Change
Image: Sarcasm I am constantly baffled when I use restrooms in public spaces that have only tissue paper. But let me backtrack a bit. Growing up, I was taught to clean myself with water any time I peed or pooped and this was followed by a strict rule to wash my hands afterwards. This was common practice for my family and many families that I knew. So if I went to the toilet 20 times on any given day, I would clean myself with water 20 times. As we got older, the concept of cleaning ourselves with tissue paper began to be mainstream but again, we were taught to use the tissue paper to dab ourselves after we had washed with water. It wasn’t until I got to the university that I saw people use tissue papers as their primary cleaning option. I was shocked. So many questions ran through my head; how did they do that? Were they truly clean? And if not, were they comfortable walking around with traces of pee or poop on them? And then finally, I wondered if their nether regions smelled? There is a flip side though. The way I was looking at these people like they had alien parts sprouting out of their heads was the same way they were looking at me. I got asked some questions that expressed their shock at my choice. “Do you use your hands when you wipe down with water?” “Which hand do you use? And do you eat with that hand?” “How can you stand touching your feces?” “Isn’t it disgusting?” And they really were disgusted! So it made me wonder; was their option so ‘wrong’? Well…there are times that I have no option than to use a tissue paper. It has always felt weird. And worse, I have always had to deal with an itch every single time I have used this option. It may be psychological (or not) but that has always happened. As a result, if I have to poop when there is no water, I would rather hold it until I can find a toilet with a bucket or a water shower that I can use to wash. If however I have diarrhea and just have to go, I always feel bad afterwards. I use so much tissue that you have to wonder whether I am trying to clean the oil spillage in the Niger Delta. Even at that, I never feel clean. I am not the only one on this boat. In fact, I have heard of people who take off their clothes every time they poop and have full baths afterwards because they don’t want any remnant of feces on their bodies. The thought of carrying even the smallest remnant of feces on our bodies is why we have decided that the tissue option is not for us. Back to my opening statement. It is surprising that many hotels, restaurants, clubs, schools, offices and other public places do not have toilets that cater to people like me. So if we have to use the restrooms in these places, we have to wonder whether we can risk holding it in (which is totally unhealthy) or risk getting itches that may (or may not) be the start of an infection. This is why I think that ALL public places should have both options for people who use their facilities. Ensure that you have running water as well as an abundance of tissue papers. If you cannot provide a detachable toilet tap (or a bidet as it is called) in your toilet, then get a bucket and bowl in there. Or a small kettle. First, it ensures all your customers are satisfied and second, you wouldn’t have to deal with the possibility of having urine/feces on the seat, the door and every other place a person might touch if they do not wash their hands afterwards. And if are like me and don’t know what options you may have when you want to use public toilets, do yourself a favor and go in there with a small bottle that would suffice. We can’t allow ourselves suffer in a clear case of Mohammed refusing to go to the mountain. Here 👇 is what I think an ideal toilet in a public place should look like. What do you think? An ideal restroom with options for cleaning one’s self.Image: Becoming Peculiar
