Once under a Kuka tree

Elnathan John is a Nigerian writer, lawyer gender equality advocate. He lives in Abuja, Nigeria and is an avid blogger.

His shortlisted story Bayan Layi, is about survival on the hard streets of life known as Nigeria. It is told through the point of view of a teenager, Dantala, a street boy who used to be an Almanjiri.

He is rescued from a fight by a young man of indeterminate age named Banda (the Fagin of the story), and turned into a ‘Kuka tree boy’, boys who made their kingdom under a Kuka tree in the village (or is it a small town?) of Bayan Layi. The boys survive by petty larceny, and acting as thugs for politicians.

They also had a regular supply of weed (which is emphasized throughout the story, so I thought I should mention it too, since it seems so important).



The story was told in a simple, straightforward language, which made reading it easy. But did I enjoy reading it?
Frankly, I don’t know what to make of this story, maybe because I am familiar with the author’s writing style and expected something ... more?

The story comes across as stilted and rather unimaginative. It has been told, over and again, in a thousand different forms, with different characters, in different settings, but it is still the same old story, of young boys living rough on the streets, of brutality and poverty.

The most unbelievable part of the story is when Dantala and Gobedanisa stole sweet potatoes from somebody’s farm, the farmer had caught them at it and in the process of chasing the boys, he had fallen into an antelope trap (laid conveniently in the middle of a potato farm). The boys had watched with disinterest as the man struggled till he died. It wasn’t that they abandoned him, they watched. After the farmer stopped struggling, Dantala had reiterated his usual saying ‘It is Allah’s will everything that happens’ also known as ‘c’est la vie’ or if you’ll pardon my French ‘shit happens’.

You can see the end right from the beginning, and one has the impression that the author was telling himself all the while writing the story ‘please, not a hair out of place’.

Like I said last year about one of the stories shortlisted for the prize, it is as if the author has a tome titled ‘How to write for the Caine Prize’ open beside him while he was writing the story.

It has every quality the Caine Prize judges appear to seek for in stories written about Africa, young children who are hungry and homeless, politics, violence and death.

I also noticed that every word that is not English is italicised, another literary tool employed to emphasize the ‘otherness’ of the story, in case you missed it. There was also the ever present fruit tree and the stealing of food by characters to appease the god of hunger.

If it wasn’t on the Caine Prize shortlist, would I have bothered to read this story to the end? I seriously doubt it, but as they say ‘he who pays the piper, dictates the tune’. As long as the West provides the affirmation that African writers need to boost their careers, that is how long it will take us to be brave enough to write our own stories.

Maybe I would have liked the story better if the characters weren’t such caricatures and so predictable, maybe I would have liked it better if it was an honest story about Almanjiri’s, maybe I should simply go and find that tome and write my own Caine Prize story.

Handbook for Successful “Runs” Girls by Yewande Omotoso and Ayodele Olofintuade

We all know how hard women have it, right? Anyone who thinks that’s still up for debate should be…can’t really engage in inflammatory material on this blog but use your imagination as to what I think should be done to such a person – not nice stuff. Anyway, so things are hard. Women are second class citizens, either overtly in states where…or covertly.



One of the ways women are subjugated is we seldom (arguably never) get any thanks for all our hard (behind and in-front the scene) work. For instance how hard do you think it is to look this good, remain this smooth for that long, always have a smile for the runt on the side of the road who thinks all you need to make your day perfect is to hear that sucking-of-lips sound – “OMG he wants me! OMG, he see me!” Oh and those trainee mechanic in that just perfectly oiled and dirt-stained overall that makes him ALL MAN and make my thighs shiver. Their catcalls return purpose to my otherwise aimless life as a woman.

Okay so we’re agreed right? It’s tough. We gotta look good for the guys on the side of the road as we zoom past on the back of the okada BUT, ladies, we also got to get paid. Here’s a guide for that:

1) Let’s get one thing clear – who you are on the inside doesn’t matter. No man worth his sweat is going to reward you for anything he can’t see or touch.

2) This guide has everything to do with how you look. But work with what you got. If you happen to be slender, then despite the ten kids you pushed out in between licking the dirt lodged in the nook of your husband’s toes (see ‘Handbook On How To Please Your Lover’ coming to a blog near you) you are not permitted to gain even an inch of fat, especially not along the area of your gut, and your teats need to stay taut (by any means necessary) – nothing is more gross for a man than being reminded that your breasts were not always simply at his disposal.

3) If you are blessed with some flesh on your body – lucky, lucky you! Don’t our African men go for that? Yes that homogenous glob of man, the African man, he wants something he can hold onto, like the reigns of a horse (any analogy along these lines should give you an idea of what I mean). For you, fat one, eat! Eat as much as you can and leave exercise for people who are interested in lame things like being healthy, having a good self-image and being able to walk for long unbroken distances. That’s inside-stuff and a man isn’t going to pay for such.

4) The use of make-up is not debateable, as in you must wear that thing o. And I’m not talking cheap, cheap stuff. Do not make the unrecoverable error of buying products with names like ‘My Love’ nail varnish, ‘Come To Me Baby’ face powder and ‘Hot Stuff’ lipstick. Such products only end up making you look like you have no idea what you’re doing, like you’re in the kindergarten club of beauty, you’re ignorant and tacky – not worth paying for.

5) We’re not excluding our Muslim sisters. Hijabs can be the sexiest, most alluring part of your attire but your secret is the colour. Black is out. Pink is the new black. And don’t stop there, buy a matching pink bag, if it has hanging ribbons and beads, all the better. And there’s no need to feel left out when the rest of us are getting our acrylic nails put in, laali is good but you must pay proper money for it and get it done by the real Fulani women not the wanna-be-Fulani girls.

6) Now, let’s address the hot topic of hair. If you’re a black woman, in all likelihood you were born with some scruff of hair commonly referred to as kinky. Even the word kinky is too cute a term to describe the horror of “natural hair”. The best thing to do is to cover that shit up and hope people forget what it really looks like. Real Brazilian hair weave all the way, and when you walk past those misguided women with dreadlocks you’re permitted to lift your nose slightly and feel a well-deserved surge of superiority.

7) Never go on foot anywhere. Make sure you are regularly seen at the airport. Learn to air kiss. Make sure you know how to count (maths is totally useless for women except in this instance). When air kissing you usually have three options (note that the air kiss is directed towards the cheek). British – 1 air kiss. French – 1 kiss to each cheek – that’s two. Italian – 1 kiss to each cheek and then 1 more kiss for the first cheek , that’s three. If you’re blessed with a high voice all the better but if you have an unfortunate deep and unladylike tone to your voice practice shrieking at home then make use of your hard work when you go out in public. Extra points for jumping up and down as your shriek and hopefully remember to flap your hands around like you’re imitating a bothered moth.

8) Okay, you should have worked out by now that being a successful runs girl takes some money. This is why we’re giving you this hand book. First things first when it comes to getting paid – do not fall in love. Your aim is to be a permanent side-chick or mistress, never accept the role of girlfriend or wife (best way to avoid those ten kids and the extra fat around your gut that you won’t know what to do with).

9) Men have a very short attention span, you have about a month to get the point across (the point that you’re worth paying for, that his very proximity to you is an upgrade to his status and so on). During that first month of side-chicking never ask to go for lunch at Mr. Biggs or Tantilizers when there are restaurants where you can buy a bottle of water or a can of coke for N5,000! You must always prove you’re not cheap! If it’s a long distance relationship have him fly you in first class. If he ever asked you what you want don’t say bag or shoe. Ask for a car or even better, a piece of land. This has him realise that you’re an expensive lay and somehow, for a man (we’re still working on the handbook for how ((whether)) men think), that translates into him being wealthy. If you are ever unfortunate enough to receive golden jewellery from him throw one of your practiced tantrums and shove it back – no diamonds, no party.

10) As a side-chick you have to be on the look-out for any signs of demotion to girlfriend or potential wife. Once you start receiving N50, 000 instead of the regular N1.5m or N2m or if the guy suggests you take his clothes to the laundry disappear, it’s a dead end gig that awaits you of changing nappies and giving head for free.

11) It is probably worth stating the obvious, retirement for runs girls is pretty early, mid to late forties if you’ve been good at applying Estee Lauder face creams (or any other product that you find hard to pronounce – those are usually the best) but most likely by your early forties you’d be considered too old. If you live long (God’s grace) that still leaves you a good thirty to forty years of alone time and no skills to make money or any internal qualities that will help you win friends or be employable. Abeg, make sure you saved the many payments you would no doubt have received in your years of successful side-chicking, invest it somewhere, stuff it under your pillow, keep some in your bra whatever ... just don’t spend any of it. Haven’t you been listening? Anything need paying for? Get him to do it!

12) Final words – Avoid other women, they can’t be trusted. Watch out. And good luck.

In Defense of World Rapists Day

Going through my TL on twitter today I read that a wonderful man of god, Reverend Ogechi Ofurum, claims that rape is justified because of the way ladies dress ‘indecently’. Sometime last year Katsina’s State Attorney-General, Alhaji Ibrahim Dan-Soho made a case for rapists, in his own words ‘rapes are self-inflicted 90% of the time’. For those of you who do not understand English, this means most rape victims either rape themselves or force somebody to rape them!

I am not here to insult the ‘revered’ gentleman , who should be Christ-like in his approach to life and the people he’s supposed to shepherd or the intelligent Alhaji, who should be a vanguard of hope in our judiciary. Nope! I’m here to defend their reasoning and to advocate for a World Rapists Day, which I believe should coincide with Christmas or any other religious holiday during which love is preached, it would be so apt!

I was raped the first time I had sex. It was an older and trusted person who did me the favour of punishing me for being young and foolish. He is a hero! He cured me of my virginity, showed me that men cannot be trusted and taught me how to defend myself from would be rapists.

After the first time, two more men attempted to rape me, one a very close friend and the other the Pastor of a church I used to attend (thank heavens the guy cured me of all romantic beliefs in the sanctity of the church). Suffice to say that the two men rued the day they met me ... but enough about me.

To all sane men and women who are reading this piece, you who protest that rape is wrong, that it is dehumanizing, that it is a crime, I beg you to stop and move to the other side, let us form an association of ‘Nigerians Earnestly ask for Rapists’. We should hold a ‘One Million Man March for Rape.’ Yes, you read that correctly.

Rape should be legalized. Actually that’s why I love Nigeria, in a nice quiet way it is legal, on paper (as most of our laws are) it is a crime, but if you accidentally enter a police station to report a rape case you will be cured of all desire to ever do such again! You would be treated like a criminal! You would be asked questions meant to embarrass and anger you. You’d be treated like a pariah! You would be spoken to as if you just went in to the police station to confess a murder. God help you if you are vulnerable (eg a woman living alone, a young girl below the age of 18 or someone from a poor home).

By the way, in this great country of ours abortion is also quite illegal (like a lot of important things that would make life easier for women). So most women go to ‘doctors’ who specialize in abortions, men and women who have, in most likelihood, never seen the walls of a medical school before in their lives! These women (the word ‘woman’ is interchangeable with ‘sinner’ by the way) pay for it with their health and in a lot of cases their lives.

Women are nothing more than things in this country, you’re owned, first by your parents or male relatives who have the right to do anything they like with you. The paedophiles amongst them will molest you and the greedier ones will sell you off to the highest bidder given half the chance.

But I digress.

All rapists should be canonized. A lot of people would agree with me that too many women these days dress so indecently (including yours truly) .We go around baring parts of our bodies which should be only seen by the people who own the money on our ‘heads’, the person who has officially bought us by either sliding a ring on our fingers or better still paid the bride price. But no! We prefer to walk around the streets half naked, baring our breasts and arses to anybody who cared to look, we deserve nothing more than rape and nothing less than death sentences. Death to all sexy dressers! Off with their (our?) heads!

Although most rapists would not grab and rape us for being so dressed on the streets, rather they go home with their turgid wieners and rape the nearest girl (ages 3months to 99years). Rapists should be canonized. The fear of a rapist is the beginning of wisdom.

These men who lack self-control keep our society sane! They keep the women in their rightful place (the kitchen) and populate the face of the earth with children from their diseased loins. Yes rapists are heroes! They deserve 16 virgins when they get to heaven, who they can serially rape to their hearts’ content.

Rapists are wonderful, they are everywhere, they live among us. They believe they are god’s gift to women, the best thing since sliced bread. They are Superman, Spiderman and Robocop, all rolled into one great big specimen of manhood.

I know a lot of times in the process of raping a girl they also tend to beat them up, both physically and mentally, but all that does not matter, after all, men beat women up all the time, even women they are not married to.

I raise a toast to all rapists and encourage you all to continue doing the world this huge favour. We shall constitute a special squad for you called the Rapid Response Rape Team (RRRT) within the police ranks (a great opportunity for Policemen who specialize in raping sex workers). Where you will all be allowed to rape women and (if you swing that way) men who have not lived up to the high standards you guys live by.

You will be given the right to abuse anybody that dresses ‘indecently’ ... I wonder what happened to the ‘Act against indecent dressing in public’ passed by the Lagos State government (Eko o ni b’aje o) a few years ago. Such Acts would be resurrected. In fact rape victims should be arrested and thrown in jail (after they’ve been raped of course!).

We, as Nigerians, deserve the country we live in, we deserve the leaders in power presently, we deserve every humiliation these people mete out to us. When we are not giving our money to pastors, (who spend it on living the lives we dream about) with the hope that the Great Lord Above, will double it for us and turn us into overnight millionaires without us having to work too hard. We are out there condemning the very acts we indulge in, if not in reality but in our fantasies (the ‘gay marriage’ issue comes to mind).

We follow people blindly and refuse to question people in authority because we are cowardly and ignorant. We all want to go to heaven but we do not want to die. Ignorance and hypocrisy are the two words we live by. One thing by day, another by night.

We are sanctimonious and holy, we are all children of the Great White God who dwells in Heaven and the Great Black Man who dwells in RCCG on the expressway between Lagos and Ibadan.

We are always right and we can quote the bible passages our pastors quote at us word for word.

We are Nigerians, we Love and Defend rapists, the same way we defend our friends and relatives in government who are blatantly robbing us blind. If we had half the chance we would do EXACTLY the same.

Yes we would rape and plunder. We would steal from the mouth of the poor, employ underage children as maids, rape any girl that takes our fancy, pay our employees poorly or not at all (since there are many desperate people out there looking for jobs). Yes we can!

We are Nigerians. We defend the rights of men to rape. We want a World’s Rapist Day to encourage our men to rape in a more violent way, to rape more often. Rapists are Heroes!

I weep for my country.

If

if I shave off my beard,
change the colour of my hair,
go back in time, got born again.

if I spoke better grammar,
wore dolce and gabanna
the papparazzi on my Hummer.

if I become a bilgs gelz,
wore a lot more blingz,
counted my billionz with Bill.

if I'm related to Her Royal Majesty
the queen of England, Lizzie,
walked with my nose in the air.

if I got a new pair of tits,
a makeover from Style - lists
dropped names on the A- list.

if I got more class,
graduate with the masters,
kiss the air by your airse.

if I lived in the mews,
walked in jimmy choos,
rolled with the Gates.

maybe ...

The Hooves

Something to scare you witless ...

Come here, move closer, I can’t speak louder than a whisper, because the story I’m about to tell is of the spirits, and as you know those beings lurk everywhere. They are in the very air you breathe. If you don’t believe me please explain to me in detail how the internet works without descending into gibberish.

So my dear young lady, pull your chair closer and let me tell you of my adventure with one of them. This tale is true, I swear, every word I say is the Gospel, I have neither added nor taken anything away from it.

I will continue my dear, what you people lack nowadays is patience and the strength to whisper, whisper m’dear, don’t shout.

I had just bought my first Peugot 404, with my first salary, this was way back in the seventies. I decided to wash it for my friends and all of us planned to hook up at a peppersoup joint along Oke-Ado.

What I’d forgotten was the fact that I had another party in Abeokuta on that same day, my grandfather had been dead for some years, but some of his children decided to turn him on his other side, because the side on which he had been sleeping on must be aching, and they did it the old honourable way of throwing a chop and quench party.
I had to be there or my mother would have had my head.

So there I was in Abeokuta, conscious of the fact that my friends were waiting for me in Ibadan. As you well know, there were no mobile phones in those days, so I really had to turn up or I would be forever known as the man who reneged on a promise.
At 12pm on the dot, I jumped into my car and commenced the drive to Ibadan, of course I did not tell my mother or she would not have allowed me to leave.

To cut a long story short, I was nearly in Ibadan, at Omi Adio to be precise, my headlights picked out the figure of a young lady standing by the road side. I was shocked, what was she doing out flagging down cars that time of the day? In those days armed robbers were the last things on your mind, the country was enjoying a boom then, and all those caught stealing were instantly executed.

You got that right my girl, mob justice, tyres, petrol and matches ... and boom!

There goes the thief.

Barbaric? Aren’t we all animals?

Now back to my story.

I drove past her, but something inside, some insistent voice made me return to her. I reversed and smiled at her, I asked her what she was doing at that time of the night in that part of town, I asked her where she was going and finally I asked her if she wouldn’t mind a ride.

She smiled at me then

I thought you’d never ask.

Till date I don’t know whether she said those words to me or sent it by telepathy.

Anyway as she stepped into my car, I tried to speed off, but she was too strong for me. She sat down and asked me why I was such a scaredy cat. I pointed at her legs. She smiled at me and said that was exactly why she was going to borrow mine, she showed me her face, her arms, flashed me a pair of pert breasts, a flat stomach.
She needs to snag herself a man she said, a real man not a manling like me. She’d have me for breakfast, she said casually, and that would not fill her up, she needed one that she can also have for lunch and dinner.

See every part of me? I had to borrow from some people. As you can see there’s only one part of me left, my legs, I like yours. I’ll just borrow them and hopefully return them to you soon. From the way you’ve been pressing down on that accelerator I can see they are in perfect working order. She said and leaned close to me, she stank like a he-goat.

That was the last thing I remembered. Till date I don’t know how I got to the hospital. The people that found me met my car intact, I was slumped over the steering wheel.

Did she borrow your legs?

Oh she did, she did all right.

How come you can still walk then uncle?

Why she replaced mine with hers.

Stop laughing, I can show you her legs, they are right here.

I pulled up my trousers and showed her my goat legs complete with hooves.

Falling in love

I spotted her as soon as I entered the fast food restaurant next door to my office.
Our eyes caught and I noted she’s another tall, slim, fair skinned girl. Yellow girls are notorious for catching people’s attention, I thought dismissively, most of them turn out to be unattractive by the second look.

I bought lunch and as I swung around to leave, her gaze locked with mine again. I noted her nose, lips, those eyes bored into mine, they whispered promises.

I walked out and promptly forgot about her?

She was seated at the same table the following day. Her eyes lit up as I entered. I groaned inside and pretended I didn’t see her. That long neck, I had always sneered at people who waxed poetic about people’s necks, now all I wanted to do was run my hand from her neck to her cheek. Those lips, how would they feel if I kissed them?

What did I buy?

I walked out of the restaurant in a daze, my thoughts spun round and around, those lips, those eyes, she should quit it! I’m not going to walk up to her table, I won’t sit down. I won’t.

My heartbeat picked up as I approached the restaurant. I willed my feet not to skip towards those doors. I took a deep breath and looked up, she was there. She smiled at me.

I walked over to her table, stretched out my hand which was grasped in her warmth. Her smile grew wider.

Hi, my name is Ngozi, what’s yours? I said as I sat down beside her.

She smiled, we held hands as we walked out of the restaurant together.

A Loss of Memory

I write this with a lot of reluctance.

Not as a response to Richard Ali and his ilk who seem to thrive on controversies and mud-slinging. The hysteria and melodrama that accompanies everything they say is off-putting and extremely boring.

This is written for people who cared enough to ask for my own ‘side of the story’. I fear no man.

First off I’d like to state categorically that I did not ‘formally’ invite Richard Ali to Laipo, the writer’s platform that I started over a year ago in conjunction with NSIAC(Nigerian Society for Information on Arts and Culture) and Booksellers. As writers who have been to Ibadan will testify, you can only consider yourself formally invited when Mrs Pimoh, the Librarian at NSIAC calls you.

So I don’t know the phone call Richard Ali referred to in his first point.

There is nobody that goes by the name Shola who is a member of Laipo, and I can’t remember anybody from NSIAC who goes by that name either. So I am totally baffled by this call received by Richard Ali. The question is when this ‘Shola’ called him to tell him that his reading has been ‘called off’ because it was going to be ‘boycotted’ why did he not make enquiries immediately?

There is however, an aggrieved member of Laipo, an elderly gentleman who heard about the accusation of plagiarism levelled against Rotimi Babatunde by Maiwada, a man Richard Ali is associated with. This gentleman called me and said that he does not want Richard Ali featured at the event. I told Afi about this call, who was at that time staying in my house (as she usually does anytime she’s in Ibadan) not because I planned to ‘uninvite’ someone who has already been invited, but because she’s my friend.

I placed a call to Mr Mosuro and Mrs Scott-Emuakpor, and informed them about what happened, they agreed with my point that the event will hold, because even if Maiwada wrote a book worth featuring nothing will stop us from inviting him, since the club is about books.

I, immediately (this word is used deliberately) put a call through to Afi (who had by then returned to Lagos) to inform her that she shouldn’t worry about the reading, we were going ahead with it.

Two days to the reading I stumbled on a tweet exchange between Richard Ali and another tweep where he stated categorically that he was NOT coming to Ibadan. I called Afi and asked her what was going on and that was when she decided to tell me that Abubakar and Richard were not coming. I was annoyed and asked her why I wasn’t informed earlier so as to make other arrangements but I did not get any straight response, so I immediately called up other people who graciously agreed to attend in spite of the short notice.

I want to ask Richard Ali who he called when he ‘declined’ the invitation. In his typical fashion he claims to be ‘censored’ and in the same breath claims he ‘declined’ to attend the event. Which one is it Richard Ali? Were you ‘censored’ (and by whom)? Or did you ‘censor’ yourself?

The next point I want to call him up on is his reference to Mr Kolade Mosuro, who he claims is a ‘philanthropist’ and ‘bankrolls’ Laipo. He said Mr Mosuro ‘dissociated’ himself from the way he (Richard Ali) was being treated. I do not recall Mr Mosuro ever meeting Richard Ali talk less of holding forth a discussion on Laipo and the role he plays in it. I will also like to ask Ali, since he’s so fond of making references to ‘evidence’ to please state the time and place this conversation took place.

If Richard Ali’s blog hadn’t been so mind-numbingly repetitive and full of hyperboles I would have been outraged. He asked me why I didn’t respond to his ‘interview’, well because I find all these tiresome. I don’t engage in fruitless argument or discourse with people who can’t even get their facts straight.

As to his demand to have the name of this elderly gentleman made ‘public’ simply because he expressed his opinion, I find that disturbing, to say the least, because somebody here is obviously suffering from delusions of grandeur.