#masculinity

MARCH, Women’s Month, Women’s Issues & Women as Collateral Damages

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March is recognised internationally as Women’s Month.

This year, I was part of the UN Women’s CSW69 cohort this year. An intensive two weeks bursting at its seams.

Two weeks of bringing women and some men from all nooks and crannies of the Globe together and you can only imagine the heat erupting out of that space

There were lots of takeaway moments. Participants kept sharing nuggets via graphics. Below are two of such:

It seems that the average man has been conditioned to find his validation in a woman’s admiration. He had been taught that when a woman expresses the power of her Agency, that is a direct affront on him. And the penalty is to attack. It does not matter if the attack be physical, sexual, financial, emotional or even outright elimination — what matters is that he must find a way to show her he is a man — even if his children become collateral damages. And not to think anything of it.

Amaraya

“Men who claim a woman belongs to the Kitchen are the same men who want a female doctor to attend their wives”

CSW Speaker

I wrote an article on Medium. Click the link below to read and share your thoughts.

https://medium.com/@amara_57777/march-womens-month-women-s-issues-women-as-collateral-damages-613de8d9bf2a

 

Dear Father: what is the cost of your love?

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prodigal son embraces his father

“My father called me” Khadijat blurted out as I picked her call

“Which father? I was confused

“Alhaji”

“Wow!” I returned “How did it go?”

“I did not pick” She said resignedly

“What do you mean you did not pick?”

“He is calling me because his beloved daughter is now a divorcee. And his golden son called his bluff and moved out”

“How do you know that is why he called though?”

“They told me before he did.  I knew when he requested for my number from my mom. He goes about showing off with me. I hear everyone calls him Baba Star. Seems the fact that I am an Influencer has erased the other fact of being an unmarried mother”

“But babe, why did you not pick his call?” I bit my tongue from further remonstrating

“Why would I? After Nine years? What if I had died when he threw me out? Have you forgotten what I went through? Sadeeq almost died or have you forgotten that night when you drove like a maniac to the hospital? You were driving, praying and telling me to stop crying. Do you know why I was even weeping that night?

“Tell me”

“You made me cry”

“Moi?”

 

“You came back from work on the Island. Tired and in bed before my scream roused you. Yet you threw your own son in the car and we set off that night. In the same city where I had a family. I kept looking at this stranger who had taken me into her house. A tired single mother who should be sleeping. I cannot forgive him”

“Khadijat, are we still on this forgiveness matter? If you can forgive the man who abandoned you with a child why not your own father? I have never understood her logic

“Jide is not my father. He is just a man. Has my sister’s husband not left? A man who courted her for six years and they were married for twelve years with four children? Men are men”

“So why not toss your father into the mix? forgive him, he is a man” I entreated

In the ensuing silence, my mind drifted to the biblical father of the Prodigals. A man who shamed society by breaking all conventions.

Imagine this scenario: your younger son comes to demand why you have refused to die? His goal is to tour the world and have fun on your account. A goal you keep thwarting by remaining alive. He cannot inherit until you pass away and since he wants to enjoy his life right now, can you please allot to him his share of your inheritance?

You do so.

He squanders it and dares to return. You run out to welcome him! A wealthy man that you are!

Everyone would understand if you instruct your servants to deny him entrance. Nobody would blame you if you refuse to see him for weeks on end. Or maybe banish him to the Servants Quarters

Instead you threw a lavish party and invited your neighbours and associates!

Ego. Honour. Anger. Shame. Position. Status. All forgotten.

That father is the colour of love to every child. Which leaves me wondering; those fathers who throw their daughters out for getting pregnant, is her error as grievous as that of the prodigal son?

 

the single parent and the other gender child

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gray scale photo of man covering face with his hands

Holding my son’s crotch in my hands, I gingerly tilted it allways as I peered closer. Yet he winced at each turn.

“This boy is becoming a man” I considered silently trying to minimise what was an embarrassing moment for both of us.

“Dear God, you know I really shouldn’t be doing this. This is a man’s job and not how I planned to spend my Saturday” I opined

“Oh please shush and get on with it! How do you think all the single parents who raise children of the other gender, alone, do it? my head reprimanded

“Or the numerous solo parents including those living in the same space with an absentee partner?”

“Ah, yes. How come I have never contemplated that?” I rerouted my thoughts as images of some single parents within my circles surfaced.

I saw Nina, who has spent the last two years nursing her young adult son after he got injured in that car crash.

I saw Mamezi’s mom, my neighbour back at Yaba in Lagos. Raising four kids after their father walked. I remember that trying period when she was washing and cleaning her eldest son. A life-altering illness had him incapacitated. While his two immediate younger sisters found it quite awkward, the youngest boy was too small.

She pitched in and did what had to be done. There was only so much you could depend on his friends for. Who by the way, had their own lives to grind daily.

Furthermore, I saw Mama Sara. Who had to move into her son Joe’s home after his accident. Joe’s wife had taken the kids, cleared his accounts and made a run for it, as he lay in hospital with a head injury. Joe was our colleague at the bank, who had been knocked off a Moped and almost got crushed by a 16-wheeler. After his discharge from hospital to an eerily silent house – and as the rest of us sat in our comfort zones, and wondered what would happen to him – his mom who could not afford such a privilege, moved in to nurse her son who was in his 30s.

Then I remembered my friend, Roseline’s dad.

“Ah, that widower who raised his own five after vowing never to remarry”

Rose was the youngest of three sisters and two baby brothers. I recalled how he held their hands through teenagerhood and young adults. The sanitary products he provided. The talks. The hugs The cries. How he would walk into the girls’ room and sit and talk through things with us.

So it was that as I applied the wet oats around his scrotum, my discomfiture ceased. The mixture was soothing the itch and he began to relax.

As he laid back on his bed, calm after hours of frenzied scratching and hobbling, I felt accomplished. Because whereas the two visits to the Walk-In Centre and a Pharmacy where he was attended by male medics had not helped, I, a woman, has done it.

Meanwhile, why is there no guidance around managing such sensitive moments? I brooded as I walked off with pan in hand

If a parent gets this uneasy, how about the child in question?

Have you been in such a situation? Care to share your feelings?

The Undignifying Circle of Life

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a man sitting on the steps of a building

·Caveat: Sensitive Post**

 

Sleepless.

21:53

My eyes are tired. They have been attempting to shut down for more than an hour now. Yet, my head refuses. It is still taking stock while Tim McGraw’s Humble and Kind wafts in through the hallway.

My head does this nightly ritual. It pulls up the Day’s scorecard and shoves it into my face. Not asking my permission. Or does it do the same to you too?

Well, it has dredged up the image of that Baba inside the bus. Baba, a multilingual word for father, also used by Nigerians to denote respect for an elderly man. And with that image, came the visual of the other baba at that funeral party. That, finally called up the memory card of my father.

Alright.

Exhale.

Let me connect the dots for you.

It was this afternoon on my way from the hospital. At a bus stop, a handful of new passengers boarded. And with them came this putrefying odour. The stench was overpowering enough to turn heads in it’s direction.

**Caveat: Sensitive from here on**

A quick scan showed an elderly man dawdling towards a seat. He had on a loose jeans which seemed okay from the back as he ambled past me towards a seat. Then a cursory downwards glance showed it. Oozing out from the leg of one jean and onto his white trainers was watery poop.

I went cold.

“Oh no, this man has had a faecal accident!” I thought as my eyes noticed his perceptibly wet flap

“Why did he not have diapers on?”

“Is he incontinent or he could not access a toilet?”

Is it diarrhoea?

As those thoughts swirled across my mind, I felt an anger. Anger at Life for injuring this man’s pride.

If a pre-schooler has ever stood shamefaced before you with an “I had an accident again”, then you may get the picture

Meanwhile, I was glad it was off-peak period. The uniforms were still in school. His pride did not need any further dent.

About two stops down the road, he alighted and shuffled off. A glance through the window showed him stood outside, unmoving. The whole length of his inseams now soaked.

A harbour with high tides. Birds and a ship sailing on it.
That phase of Life when your tides are high and bursting with activities

 

Life is a Humbler

As a vulnerable person following a cancer battle, it proved a disturbing sight for me. I know what it means to be running on your track today then unable to stand up tomorrow. And trust me, such an experience toys with your head.

In there, mulling over that incident, another image appeared on my mind’s screen. A high profile party at Lagos. The deceased was the first female chartered accountant in Africa. In addition to being a former president of the Institute of Chartered Accountants of Nigeria (ICAN).

By tradition – her former colleagues - past ICAN presidents had a 

 {This is a lengthy article.  If interested click here where it was originally published} 

 

 

 

 

 

“I would love to cheat on my wife too”

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“You think I do not cheat because I love my wife so much?” his laughter cooled off as he switched on his serious face “Well, why else? or is it your moralist views?” I teased. Since I knew he was not big on religion There we stood by the frontage of my compound while he … Read more

error of commission

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“My home is hot right now as my wife has served me an ultimatum”. he cradled his coffee cup and leaned back into his seat

We all turned towards him.

“Why is that?” Alan one of the coordinators, an elderly man with kind eyes asked.

“She insists my friend has to leave” Ovie replied with a rueful smile.

“Your friend?” Alan prodded

I bit down at the smile tugging on my lips. I did not want anyone to miscontrue the smile. I was smiling because in front of me was an African male caught in a conundrum. Pressed enough yet weighing his masculinity vs vulnerability. I knew what it meant for him to even broach this topic here.

“Yes. My friend has been staying with us for about a month now” Ovie replied

“His wife sent him out of the house and he had no place to go so I offered”

The room was pin-drop silent.

This is one of the things I like about this group. Anyone vulnerable enough to share was allowed to pace themselves.

“They had some challenges which escalated. It led to him leaving the house”

“Must have been serious” stated Asya, an Afghan woman also a member of the team

“what type of issues?” another man sitting across enquired

“He has been job hunting since they came in for about 9 months now. He refused to do the Care job insisting it is beneath him. Also at home he does not help out with the chores or child care”

His wife, a nurse, is the primary provider. When she is at work, he finds it hard to cope with the kids. He pushes her to send the kids to her friends who can look after them while she is at work

“So what does he do then if he is not working?”

“He stays home and sleeps. Some days he buys a day ticket then gets on the bus and simply keeps going round the city. Other times, Parks, beach and City Centre”

“The load became so much for his wife. A few of us even had to come in and intervene yet he refuses to work claiming he is looking for a befitting job”

“He was a big boy back home. Had a very good job and business. That business was sustaining them for sometime though since they came in until it stopped”

“So how did this man end up in your house?”

“He is my childhood friend. Moreso, when we newly arrived, they housed my family – the four of us. It was not convenient yet they sheltered us for about two months”

“And now you are repaying his kindness?”

” Or enabling his poor choices?”

“The thing is I understand him. He is a proud person and even back home, he did not get involved in running the home. He had the money and paid for everything” Ovie waved his hand

“His anger stems from the fact that he feels disrespected by the wife. As his girlfriend, he put her through the University where she studied nursing. He did everything for her including helping her to secure this job before they came over. He made her life so comfortable with all the domestic help she wanted back then and she has not really paid any bills before now”

“Are you for your friend or your wife?”

“What about the inconvenience to your family?”

“What inconvenience? asked Amin a Pakistani “They can all live in peace”.

“Why does your wife want him out then?” Alan raised his hands, taking charge of the meeting as many people began to speak at once

“She claims he is a bad influence. And she resents the fact that he is willing to move out of his home. He does this instead of bending to the realities of this new environment. Besides, it is affecting her friendship with his wife”. Ovie admitted like he was begging us to help

“We are seeing lots of these issues recently. We have also heard that it is a cultural shock of …… and as Alan spoke, my mind drifted. I thought about all the unsavoury stories of struggle coming out of the ethnic minorities group all around.

Immigrant Parenthood: a man’s world

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“You saw how clueless I was when my baby began crying. The women here had to step in and take over. If I was back in Nigeria I would never take a baby out of the house on my own.  said a frazzled ‘deji as he started contributing to the discussion”

The Nigerian in me sensed his panic earlier when his baby began fretting. He kept rocking the buggy to lull the crying child without any success. A British woman tentatively intervened. This caused other women to chip in. Much as I wanted to help, Chemo was being a bitch and getting to that meeting already had me wiped. My need to help my community also to getting out of the house was why I got here.

We were at another of those sessions where the topic was ‘Issues that new arrivals face’. He was one of the volunteers from various communities who had turned up for this meeting. Faces around the table included a range of ethnic minorities alongside the British organisers

“Back home, you would not even get involved in child care because of community. My mom, her mom, sisters, aunties, and even paid domestic help with child care. And I speak for most of our men” he continued while I and the other ethnic minorities nodded

“As doctors, both of us can afford a nanny and a Housekeeper for this baby. But, this is what we get for moving away from the comforts of our homeland. We did this in search of a better life for our children.” This was their first child and his wife had recently resumed after her 9-months’ maternity Leave.

“I understand and that is why I asked to I carry your baby. Although I am British, my husband is Vietnamese. We lived in Vietnam for years. So, I know the culture.” Sharon, the woman who first reached out, smiled. She paced the room while still rocking the quiet baby. That explained a lot for me.

“And it does not end only at childcare but also housework”. ‘deji continued. “These are things an average man, especially one with a good job, would not do back home. But here, you either help out and run the home or there would be trouble because your wife alone can’t cope”

“Of course, she is also struggling. Back home, some of our women, especially those making money, do not even get involved in daily house chores. They simply pay to get it done.” Again, another round of nods as some of the British people looked on in amazement.

“As I looked on at this great divide in the room, I was glad I dragged myself to this meeting. It was a beneficial one to both parties. Your job revolves around #DEI. How can you engage successfully with someone you know nothing about their way of life?

How about the immigrant who has been repeatedly cautioned to be wary of their hosts because of XYZ and ABC? Was it not after all the empowering knowledge of lived experiences? It made Sharon reach out to help a young black father struggling with his distressed baby. Others like her looked on because they did not know which lines to cross.

The aim of these sessions is simple; build a bridge so we draw close enough. Ditch your binoculars, step across across the divide and view the scenery with the other person’s lenses.

Navigating Anger and Faith: A Candid Conversation on Suffering and God’s Goodness – 2

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…..missed Part 1? here

getting stronger” his plaintive tone cut into me

At some point in the conversation; Ruth stood up to get more coffees and after much insistence from both of them, I agreed to a Cappuccino.

Although it had begun to rain on a day with a sunny forecast, my stomach roiled at the thought of another coffee. I have already had a latte and a mocha within an hour of arriving at camp. What I craved now was some steaming food. Yet, my Social Intelligence prevailed.

“My grouse is from the fact that God can disallow this from happening yet he chooses not to. I mean look at the Holy Spirit and his exploits, have you seen him move and seen the things he can do? he remarked resignedly

“I totally get you”. I replied. Like I said earlier; I moved from anger to gratitude as I realised that if he had let me die, he would have still been God. When my friends lost their 25-year old daughter recently, the first thing I felt was

“That should have been me and it is so not fair. I mean I had cancer. This girl was barely in the hospital before she died! I had some kind of guilt not knowing how to relate to them. I still have a mental picture of my friend coming down to Portsmouth to see me during Chemo. They attended the graduation up North and she came all the way to see me and even spent the night. Yet, here I am and her daughter who recently graduated is gone. What can we say then to these things?”

“My mentor says peace comes from acceptance, not knowledge” he remarked

“True that” I concurred

“All I know is that God can tackle our questions and feelings. He clearly gave us a front row seat to see how it played out when his heroes cried out – Elijah, Jonah, Jeremiah & even the Job they throw in our faces, also did cry out.

“Even Paul who was given a heads-up during conversion about his impending sufferings still cried out. God did not rebuke but offered him grace. And I amara relate to him from a place of sonship instead of slavery. All these God-handlers who are laundering his image for him are doing more harm than good. If I cannot keep it real with my father, how then can I minister to someone else who is confused and comes to me? We cannot all be like David who picked up himself after crying and moved on”

This was the only point that Ruth chipped in jocularly with “by the way did you notice they were all men crying?”

“Oh, David had his vulnerable moments too. A whole lot all through the Psalms. Maybe that was what earned him the man after God’s own heart” Peter opined

We chatted some more and thanking them for my coffee; I stood up then with a wry smile noted “by the way you are in the prayer team” pointing to his purple wristband worn by those who pray for others

“He has been trying to hide it” His wife reached over to pull his sleeves lower

“I am” he grinned. “But I still got my questions”

Embracing Vulnerability: Reimagining the Relationship with God in Trials – 2

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Did you miss Part 1? Here.

 

……that God left us examples of people who cried out as they struggled;

  • Elijah
    Jonah
    Jeremiah

“All these men despaired enough to voice their grievances. Yet God stooped down to engage and assuage each one”

“Why did he not get angry enough to shush them up and make them be big boys and deal with it themselves? 

He sent Elijah food. Built Jonah a shade from the scorching sun. If the manufacturer of a product realises how tiring it can get for his creatures and their need for support during trials who are we to ask them to suck it up?”

I looked around the table as all 8 pairs of eyes glued on me

“I throw tantrums because I am a child and he is my father. That is the basis of our relationship. I am not his hired help who would tiptoe stoically around him and then go back and complain to others. If I have an issue with his parenting style, then he has to hear how I feel”

“That is an interesting angle” Bill replied with a tinge of a smile curving his lips while Phil slumped back and picked up his coffee cup

“Yes. If you are my father then based on our relationship, I should be able to get away with some privileges. If I ask questions of you or challenge your decisions, you are not going to disfather me, are you?”

“Nonetheless, while you can take that from me at home, if your staff at the office who happens to be my age mate throws a similar tantrum, would you respond to her like to me?”

I saw comprehending nods

“I am tired of Christians shutting up others over how to relate to God. It is like someone coming into your house and critiquing your parenting style. I mean, out there on the streets some stranger might take that liberty but not when you come into my house would you dare”

“That is exactly what we do when we tell others how to respond to God during their trials. I’m not sure which god is in contention here, but my father-God is a big boy who can handle his daughter’s tantrums. He does not require his staff to tell him or his daughter how to relate to each other”

“I also think we stifle vulnerability in the church and make people become robots. How can those who are without or new arrivals even relate if we keep telling them that this kingdom is ruled by a dictator?

“Is he not?”

“He may be an autocrat but not a despot”

“Even despots still put up with their children and I think parents always have a thing for that child with the rebellious streak who stands up to them” The professor smiled as we all stood.  

Embracing Vulnerability: Reimagining the Relationship with God in Trials

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Public Relations =  the stealth art of making something/someone appear presentably acceptable to the eyes of others. [amara nnaji 2024]

 It was the evening of the first day of #newwineunited24.   A  Christian camping festival in England held weekly every summer.   2024 has attracted 14k worshippers of all ages across the Globe.

My church family arrived early and all hands came together to unpack and pitch our tents. With nothing else to do than watch other campers set up,   my feet went exploring.  This was my first time at the Shepton Mallet campground and I like knowing my environment.

 

My eyes saw the Food court then my legs followed.  After settling for a Greek Gyro, I went into the centre housing the bookshop and another  charity I recognised from last year where a Cafe had also been set up.  The coffee queue was lengthening.

Food in hand, I nestled into a sofa by the corner which had two others sitting around.  I was enjoying the quiet.

Then I saw them walk to a table with their coffee cups.  My people.

I went to join them and eventually, the conversation steered.

“Lamentations” Bill said tentatively.  We all turned towards his voice. Bill had driven into camp after we set up and was unpacking his tent before I stepped out

“I want to know the place of Lamentations in the Bible. How do you respond to God or react when you are stuck deep down in mire” he spread his hands 

“How do you mean? Phil sat up straighter.  He was the oldest of us chronologically and I have come to know that he was also knowledgeable in the faith

“I am in this Christian group where someone posted his rage at God about all he has been going through. Then another  responded with James 1:2. which says count it all joy”

“I am pretty confused myself because I am currently going through one of the worst periods of my life and I am torn between being real and telling God how I feel and chinning up,  he elaborated

At that instant, my admiration for Bill soared.  Here was this man’s man being as vulnerable as a child

“I think everyone goes through stuff.   However, my issue with some people is stopping to pitch camp and throw a party while going through the valley of the shadow of death” Phil remonstrated

“So does that mean we have no recourse to talk to God? I am against such belief and tired of having people guilt trip me for wanting to express myself”

“I do not have much to say on this theology especially as I am new in my faith walk” said Gem the professor who only recently reconnected with her faith 

Chewing my Gyro, I bit a smile into the insides of my cheek.

“You must keep your rebel thoughts to yourself amara and not pollute others” I chided me.  Aware of how unconventional some of my own beliefs are, I limit expression to certain circles only. Although plodding through the terrain of cancer has made me care more about using my voice than assuaging people’s emotions.

“Well, look at Job. He was a perfect example for us and I think we all know that irrespective of whatever, God is good” Phil remarked again. 

And that was when I stopped chewing my cheeks. Enough of Church people and this ‘Job perfect picture’.  Here was a male in his 50s, man enough to discard his male pride cloak and reach out for help.  I was not going to simply sit down and allow another person spring the boys don’t cry crap.  Besides, the issue here was not God’s goodness.

“I am not a Job person”. I piped in

All eyes turned to me.

“I used to be a Job-follower.  Moreso, I grew up among Muslims so I know about fatalism, stoicism and all that crap about not crying out while being flogged”

“Nevertheless, I am super grateful that …….part 2