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.
They sat around the tables as the Imam led the Dua for Iftar. Quietly conversing, eating fruits and drinking inside the church when I entered.
I noticed my Ward Councillor and a few other Community leaders were already there. Paused briefly to say my greetings then moved in and sat beside the #BAME team.
“I can see you already broke your Fast” I jibed at Adam, a White British guy who was eating chunks of Watermelon. Layered across the tables were platters and bottles of Watermelon, Dates, Yoghourt, Sorrel, water and some more indigenous drinks
“Oh yes, I have” He laughed good naturedly.
A cursory glance around and I took in nationalities – An elderly Far-Eastern couple who looked Japanese in my eyes, bunch of British men and women, a few blacks. Another look to the left of the hall and I felt myself freefalling back to Kaura Namoda.
Kaura Namoda is the quaint town I grew up in Zamfara state. An extremist Muslim state in Nigeria’s Far North. I was living in Kaura well before my teenage years arrived. And was there when they moved on. So you can tell that Kaura was the base of my formative years.
Kaura was the place where my mind stored up Ramadan as a time for feast. Feast of tables arrayed with Sweets, Savories and an assortment of foods. Tables of food were placed in forecourts and anyone could walk in to eat. It was a time of fellowship. Communion and Community.
Your Faith or lack of it did not matter during Ramadan. You had an open invitation to a feast and it does not matter in whose courtyard you stepped in. The only password you required was an “Assalam Aleikum” and you were made welcome.
Kaura was the place where I learnt to eat Dabino [dates]. Where I went to the house behind us and watched Alhaji Mai Shanu’s wives make Fura Da Nono [Millet-based Yoghourt and Goat’s milk]. It was where on my way to Junior School daily, I would stop by and watch Hussaina and her sisters milk the cows and goats, before they came to School.
It was Kaura that taught me tolerance. A love for humanity across the external separators of cultures, regions, languages and beliefs.
Therefore, when I agreed to come and join this Iftar session, it was the beautiful memories of my childhood which led me here. To come sit at the Table and break bread with my fellow Africans who are Muslims. And as anticipated, all the memories surged out of my repository, suffusing me with feel good hormones.
Meanwhile, head covered in hijab, I sipped my Bissap [a spiced-hibiscus drink], reading the room and wondering. This pheromones floating across this room – causing laughter, banter, men calling themselves brother, niqab-clad women sharing food with those in pants, burqa-covered teenagers speaking British English with their peers – why is it not strong enough to permeate our divisive walls?
As reviewed through the eyes of an unmarried, Igbo woman
You must have read quite a few reviews on this book. Which means you know the storyline is female-centred. So let me spare you. It is a book which kept me up for two consecutive nights, few books achieve that feat.
Now come along, for this unconventional review through my lived experiences. I assure you, this is about the best review you would get so far.
I share a touchpoint with all four characters in this book.
Kadiatou: West African who grew up in a Muslim-dominated North. Self-effacing. Single parent immigrant with a young child.
Unmarried Igbo woman with a well-paying career in her 40s like Chiamaka. Omelogor. Zikora.
Zikora: A puritan single mother who can relate to the Kwame scenario.
Omelogor: a banking background including Treasury experience with access to the corridors of power. I saw how the money game is played in there. Her culture shock in America. Friendship in Abuja with Hauwa and the exclusive Northern world. + deep friendships
Chia: Travel writer. Idealistic romantic views and a naïve heart.
THE REVIEW:
I will review it from the angle of topics the author covered.
Societal Pressure on Females: Chiamaka, Omelogor and Zikora are all well educated, travelled and successful females holding down their fortes. Although, through the lens of society and families, they fall short by being financially independent, unmarried Igbo females in their 40s.
That wife who sparks envy: Chia’s mom was an archetype of the privileged Anambra wife. Stunningly Beautiful. Moneyed & doting husband. Uppity. Stay home mom who simply ate her husband’s money. That woman who sparks envy from other women as due to no fault of hers, she is blessed with much. Yet people wanted humility from her to prove that no woman deserved so much. She was also that mother, who gradually descends from her exclusive list of the type of man you should marry, to encouraging you to settle for any available man.
Shifting Values: The family members who now encourage you to adopt, try IVF or have a child if marriage is not coming. Backtrack 10, 20 years ago and those same people would have blatantly rejected any such option. This shows that with time, our views evolve. Also, the things we think we stand for today, are mostly self-serving.
Fragile Female Self-Esteem: You are lucky if you have not been in a relationship with a Darnell. The user who is intimidated by you yet he likes the idea of your status. And in retaliation he attempts to make himself feel better by diminishing you. Yet you stay, make excuses for him then try to protect him from your circles. We also see it play out in how Binta, Kadiatou’s sister, kept lying to protect her city boyfriend from Kadiatou’s prying questions. The burden of a societal expectation to downplay yourself for a man to shine.
Self-Sabotage: Darnell treats you like crap and you wish for better. Chuka treats you like a queen. Still, you dump Chuka for a myth. Who else can relate?
Intricacy of Female Friendships: the deep bonds, pettiness and insecurities of female friendships show up all through the book.
Poverty & Widowhood: Kadiatou’s father’s death changed the trajectory of their lives for the worse. Her mother’s experience with in-laws and subsequently, Kadiatou herself when her husband died, are real experiences in African culture.
Culture Shock: Omelogor’s experience in America which led to depression. It depicts what happens, especially to the average middle-class Nigerian, used to certain comforts, who relocates to the West.
Polygamy: Zikora’s father taking a second wife because his wife could only birth Zikora, a daughter. In Igbo land, a man who dies without a son has no legacy.
The book touches sensitive topics like Female Genital Mutilation, Rape, Shades of Racism, Betrayal, Nepotism, Single Parenting, Genocides citing the Nigerian-Biafran war, Operation Parsley of the Haiti-Dominicans, the Kano riots, the Nazi SS refugees in Argentina.
Furthermore, the hypocrisy of the West was depicted in; the replay of the 2011 rape scandal involving the IMF chief, Dominique Strauss-Khan and Nafissatou Diallo, a hotel cleaner. In addition to Operation Persil — The 1960s French government covert operation in Guinea to arm twist Sekou Toure into submission. Also, in Amadou, the black immigrant jailed for selling drugs and thrown into a faraway jail in Virginia.
And yes, Kadiatou’s fonio — called Acha in Northern Nigeria — left my mouth watering.
Sharon is one of the innumerable gifts Life sent my way as I traipsed through the valley of shadow of death via cancer
Recently, we were on the phone and I was taking her through a Values Elicitation session. Simply put, it is an NLP tool which helps dislodge you from your inertia by untangling your cobwebs.
Read below part of that call as consented by her.
SHARON’S STORY
“When I got pregnant, everything changed. Especially within my family. The disappointment was too heavy. I had gone from the promising daughter – with high hopes and expectations — who was trained abroad and brought back home, to an unwed single mother. A failure
I resigned from my job as I could not bear the shame. I left church due to the stigma which was worse because he was active in the church.
Then I had to move back home to the same neighbourhood I grew up in. This was after my father died and I was the only unmarried person in the family. In addition to the fact that I was struggling financially and by now dependent on the others, my mother needed someone so I moved in with my son.
The intervening years damaged my self esteem. I carry the shame around and feel like everyone is staring at me when I step out. I no longer have friends and no social interactions. So I only join online Groups and even there I do not talk as I do not want to be known. I also do not think I have any value to bring to anyone.
That is why I am very quiet in Groups .” This woman in her 40s concluded plaintively in her 5 year old voice.
“Congratulations. You try” I said sarcastically in a Nigerian slang
“So this is what you have been putting that teenage boy through?
“How do you mean” she asked
“You are raising a son who sees you tell him that he is a mistake. Do you have any idea what that is doing to his identity and esteem?
“But I do not know what to do. I am not bold like you”
“Is that what you think about me? bold? do you know the difference between I and you?
We are in a procession to some destination, all of us attired in white. As we sashay along, Life thoughtlessly tosses a bunch of rotten lemons at us. While some of us where lucky enough to step out of the way in time, a few of us watched in horror as our dresses welcomed the lemons.
Now, you Sharon, extricate yourself from the procession, flop down there with a soiled dress and start crying. I, on the other hand, noticing the damage to my attire began to go through a range of emotions like you.
However, instead of stopping, I kept moving, albeit slowly now. As I move, I make a mosaic of my outfit with the lemon stains. Although it stands me out from the team, it also draws attention to me and makes me intriguing. It says there is something about her which makes her dress different. Yet, she is daring enough to be here”.
As the world celebrates women today, I celebrate all Sharons! Get off the floor, look at your dress and decide the pattern you want to create. Remember that a mosaic is made up of different materials woven together to create a stunning piece.
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?
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.
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}
Where I went to the house behind us and watched Alhaji Mai Shanu’s wives make Fura Da Nono [Millet-based Yoghourt and Goat’s milk]. 
It was where on my way to Junior School daily, I would stop by and watch Hussaina and her sisters milk the cows and goats, before they came to School.
reading the room and wondering. This pheromones floating across this room – causing laughter, banter, men calling themselves brother, niqab-clad women sharing food with those in pants, burqa-covered teenagers speaking British English with their peers – why is it not strong enough to permeate our divisive walls?
