I’m a feminist not a sexist… gerrit?

I’ve been thinking of doing an article on Nigerian people (mostly women) who go on and on and on (ad infinitum) about their not being feminists, on the other hand I was thinking I shouldn’t because… ‘hey, it’s alright, your opinions are valid’. And because it’s a pleasure seeing women expressing their opinions, no matter how reprehensible I personally find it, that’s what feminism is about, giving voice to people the society has fought for so long to silence…
… but … there are times that these fingers of mine just can’t keep their thoughts to themselves, they are too opinionated for their own good… and their opinions are as valid as yours.

One of the things I try to do before jumping into any conversation (in my usual half-assed, screeching, bush-Ibadan-woman way) is try to understand the other person’s side of a story. So I’ve read a whole slew of articles (written mostly by Nigerian women) on why they do not like the label – feminist – being used on them. And the one thing I’ve come away with is that most of these women keep confusing feminism with sexism… the summary of their arguments? ‘I believe in equality but I don’t hate men, so I’m not a feminist’, I guess this is as opposed to ‘I believe in equality, I hate men, so I’m a feminist’.
Well I’m a feminist, I believe in equality and I do not hate men.
My men can attest to this. I grew up with a bunch of feisty men. I’ve loved some as friends, I’ve loved some as part of my support network, I’ve loved some at the back of cars, up a wall, on chairs, in trains (no I’ve not joined the Mile High Club or whatever they call themselves…yet). I’ve loved them in the missionary position, doggy style, straddling… don’t let us get side-tracked here but you got it, right?
Now, a feminist is someone who believes that men, women, trans, asexuals, intersex or whatever label you paste on yourself (or whichever one the society has stuck on you) are first and foremost, HUMAN BEINGS, and should be treated as such… equally.
Everybody should be treated equally.
Nobody should be fired because they are pregnant, or don’t look feminine/masculine enough.
Everybody should have rights to justice, should live their lives fully without being afraid that they’ll get raped because of the way they dress or are undressed. They should get equal pay for equal work. Should be able to choose how they want to live their lives, without being judged by the ‘society’.
They should be free enough to choose whether to marry or not, to have children or not, to make career choices based on their abilities not because they have been told to or not, or because they are afraid there won’t be room for promotion for them because they are going into a field dominated by one sex or the other.
A society where equality is a tangible fact, not something someone is paying lip service to by forming ‘Ministry for Women and Youths and Children and the Disadvantaged and fools and idiots’ or distributing stoves to women so that they won’t return to the kitchen (oxymoronic right?).
Feminism goes beyond hashtags and social media banters, it is when women (mostly feminists) spend almost fifteen to twenty years pushing a bill called ‘Violence Against Persons’ into law. When they stepped in to make sure that the IDP’s do not go hungry or naked. When they are presently working on changing the language of our constitution so that someone cannot decide to marry off a 3months old child and there’s nothing you can do about it because the constitution clearly states that anybody who is married is a woman or you can’t bestow your citizenship on your spouse or partner because you are female.
Feminism is about working on inheritance rights, so that women can have access to the lands they work on.
Feminism is beyond Facebook or Twitter ‘rants’.
They are not rants, you moron! It is giving voice to people who have been systemically silenced over the years because you can’t talk too loudly or complain about the way you’re being treated simply because you’re of a certain sex or you will not be considered a ‘lady’.
Feminism is about giving platform to women who have been abused beyond your self-satisfied lower middle class smirk about how YOUR husband pays ALL the bills so what’s the big deal about a slap or two here and there? And how sharing house-hold chores is no big deal because you have a fucking under-aged boy or girl enslaved in your house in guise of a ‘houseboy’ or ‘housegirl’.
We are talking about women whose husbands take iron rods to them at the slightest provocation, break-bottles on their heads, turn them into punching bags. Women who genuinely have nowhere else to go, because they are economically disadvantaged and not staying in abusive relationships because they love the title of ‘Mrs’ so much they’d go through hell and fire and brimstone to keep it.
This as far as I’m concerned is a simple thing, as simple as abc. Unfortunately there is no equality anywhere, there is no justice (just us) but there is such a thing as the patriarchy. A system that has been so institutionalized it has even succeeded in making the oppressed oppress other people. It stands to reason that if you were bullied by your mother-in-law, for example, chances are that you will bully your daughter/son-in-law. If your clitoris was cut off as a child and you never got to feel sexual pleasure, chances are that you will cut off the clitoris of your female child.
There is no such thing as the Matriarchy or whatever ojuju is lying inside your wardrobe at night about to jump out and eat you up because you call yourself a feminist.
Feminism is not a cult, it is a choice… you can actually choose to be one or not. Nobody is trying to ‘recruit’ you or force you to work for the emancipation of women who are not as advantaged as you. It is not a superstardom, in fact you lose a lot when you’re tagged a feminist but you gain yourself freedom from mental slavery. Nobody will knight you or pay you for being a feminist. The fact that you even have a choice is because some people in the past (or presently) have decided they’ve had enough of being oppressed, refused the right to vote, raped in the name of child marriage or any kind of marriage, paid a pittance for what men are getting loads of money for doing.
Feminism is activism not for the faint hearted.
So please keep apologizing for daring to believe in equal rights and emancipation of the sexes, in fact you can continue jeering at women who are feminist, but please, get your fucking facts straight while doing all these, because you just look plain stupid.
Repeat after me … feminism is NOT sexism.

Yes to Domestic Viiolence: Why we should give up and give in (II)

Nigerian Justice is not a Lady - With Temilolu Bamgbose

Justista, the Roman deity that represents justice is female. She is the ancestor of the modern-day, double-edged-sword-wielding, scale-carrying, Lady Justice who stands (or sits as the case may be) outside every courthouse or institution saddled with the responsibility of upholding the law of any community.
Yet, many people agree with the view American feminist and lawyer, Catherine Mackinnon expressed in her essay Feminism, Marxism, Method, and the State: Toward Feminist Jurisprudence, that “the state is male and the law is an expression of a male point of view…The law sees and treat women the way the men see and treat women.”
Mackinnon’s assertion is particularly true in Nigeria, in view of the language used in the Nigerian Constitution, where “his and he” were used for humans, except for sections concerning women or children, and in most cases these references emphasise the fact that women are considered second class citizens, it makes women “the other”.
“Women” was used twice in the constitution (in connection with Social Services), women were, of course, grouped with children because it stands to reason that women need “nurturing” since they are in the same group with the “disadvantaged” and are considered “vulnerable” by the Nigerian State.
This assertion is proven under the law establishing Abuja as the Federal Capital Territory which states that “Social Services and Development includes the provision of a nurturing environment for women and children in the Territory, seeing critical social enablers such as the provision of microfinance for vulnerable and disadvantage groups...” (Establishment of Functionaries and Departments) and Ministry of the Federal Capital Territory (Dissolution) Order No. 1, 2004 S.I.4 Of 2005
The word “woman” also appeared in the Nigerian Constitution twice, the first was in Section 26, subsection 2(a) which says that a person may be registered as a citizen of Nigeria if the president is satisfied that the person has good character, shown a desire to be domiciled in Nigeria and has taken the Oath of Allegiance but the section only applies to -
(a) any woman who is or has been married to a citizen of Nigeria;
What the section says in essence is that only Nigerian men can bequeath their citizenship on their spouses. So, if a Nigerian woman marries a foreigner, he is not eligible for Nigerian citizenship (kind of similar to traditional marriage in some Nigerian communities, once a woman gets married, she is no longer considered part of her parents community).
It was used again in Section 29, subsection 4(b), where, in spite of the fact that the subject of renunciation of citizenship was being addressed, our lawmakers were able to sneak in the point that “any woman who is married shall be deemed to be of full age”, and since the Matrimonial Causes Acts (CAP 220 LFN) did not provide any minimum age for marriage, it means a girl married off at say, three years of age, is considered an adult in Nigeria.
The law specifically allows an under aged married woman to revoke her citizenship even when she has not attained the constitutional voting age and there is no corresponding provision treating a male married minor as an adult. A female minor is allowed to marry, but not allowed to vote... in Nigeria.
A Police woman must submit her prospective husband details for approval before marriage. As a “vulnerable” set of creatures, the Nigerian Police insists that women police must apply for permission to marry, in case she’s stupid (as women are considered to be) enough to marry a criminal or maybe someone just not “good enough” for her.
Police Regulation Act, 124. Women police to apply for permission to marry [L.N. 93 of 1968.]

A woman police officer who is desirous of marrying must first apply in writing to the commissioner of police for the State Police command in which she is serving, requesting permission to marry and giving the name, address, and occupation of the person she in- tends to marry. Permission will be granted for the marriage if the intended husband is of good character and the woman police officer has served in the Force for a period of not less than three years. [L.N. 93 of 1968.]
The Nigerian Police is your friend, and your father and your “big brother”, looking out for you because you are the “weaker” sex and cannot make sane decisions, particularly when you’re about to make a life changing decision, like ... marriage and because of their kindness they will not allow you to marry as soon as you join the force, you need to wait for a period of three years. Unfortunately, under-aged girls do not get to enjoy this luxury because they did not join the Nigerian Police.
No similar provision is made for men, therefore a male police officer can marry anybody, at any time, because, they are the more intelligent set of human beings.
Not wanting to be left out, the Nigerian Labour law states in Section 55 that:
‘...no woman shall be employed on night work in a public or private industrial undertaking or in any branch thereof, or in any agricultural undertaking or any branch thereof.’ (2) Subsection (1) of this section shall not apply to women employed as nurses, in any public or private industrial undertaking or in any agricultural undertaking, nor to women holding responsible positions of management who are not ordinarily engaged in manual labour’.
We believe that this is due to the fact that the primary “work” of a woman is done properly “at night” preferably “in bed”. Although female nurses are exempt from this wonderful clause, female doctors are not (or maybe they were left out because there are NO female doctors in Nigeria!)
The upside of this law is that since there are no laws in place concerning sex work in Nigeria - yes you read that right, sex-work is not illegal in Nigeria( not in the constitution, criminal code or penal code were they mentioned), sex workers are allowed to work during the daytime.
Section 56 of the Act also provides:
(1) Subject to subsection (2) of this section, no woman shall be employed on underground work in any mine.  (2) Subsection (1) of this section shall not apply to:
(a) Women holding positions of management who do not perform manual labour; or 
(b) Women employed in health and welfare services; or
(c) Women who in course of their studies spend a period of training in underground parts of a mine; or
(d) Any other woman who may occasionally have to enter the underground parts of mine for the purpose of a non-manual occupation.
Nigerian women are not allowed to be miners, or archeologists, or cave explorers, except when you’re studying to be a miner or an archeologist, but after your study you may “occasionally” enter the underground parts.
In the criminal code, the indecent assault of a female as a misdemeanour punishable by imprisonment of a statutory maximum of two years (see Section 222 Criminal Code Act Cap 38 LFN). If the girl is thirteen years old, the maximum imprisonment is three years, while the same offence when committed against a male attracts punishment with a term of imprisonment of more than three years.
The above code is the endorsement of the widely held belief that boys are more “important”, more “valuable” than girls, because assaulting a girl can only get you two years imprisonment but if you dare assault a boy, then you’re in for a long haul in the Nigerian prisons system.
In order to make no bones about the position of the ‘Nigerian People’ on domestic violence and child abuse the penal code Section 55. (1) states that “Nothing is an offence which does not amount to the infliction of child, pupil, grievous hurt upon a person and which is done-…”
(d) by a husband for the purpose of correcting his wife such husband and wife being subject to any customary law in which the correction is recognised as lawful.
This is an express permission for wife-beating insofar as it does not cause grievous harm (S55 of the Penal Code). The defence f:-) or reasonable chastisement is that the husband and wife are subject to native law and custom that recognises such corrections.
In Nigerian English, you may beat your wife or child, as long as you do not cause “grievous harm” to them, the question now is, who measures what “grievous harm” is, does it mean you may break an arm or a leg as long as it’s not totally detached from your victim’s body, or is there a specific amount of blood, considered “grievous”?
From the above, it is apparent that Justista has no business adorning our halls of “justice”, the law in Nigeria is blind to equality, Nigerian law is not a lady ... Nigerian law is not a gentleman.

#WhyIStayed – A case for Domestic Violence

One out of three women, worldwide, have experienced violence, and most often from family members ie parents, spouses etc.
Domestic violence was defined by Helpguide.com as “... when one person in an intimate relationship or marriage tries to dominate and control the other person... [using means which] includes physical violence...”
Earlier this month somebody posted on YouTube the recording of a Baltimore Ravens running back, Ray Rice, punching his fiancée, Janay Palmer (now his wife), so hard she became unconscious.
This video sparked outrage all across America, and Ray Rice’s contract with Baltimore Ravens was immediately terminated while the National Football League (ie American football not Soccer) placed him on indefinite suspension. The day following the incidence women across the world, who are (or have been) victims of domestic violence, took to twitter to explain to the world why it took them so long to leave their abusive spouses or why they were still with their abusers.
The debate took an interesting turn when Nigerians on twitter weighed in on the issue, using the hashtag #WhyIStayed #WhyILeft. There were voices claiming that most abused women deserved it and others (mostly women) saying that domestic violence is evil.
This is in face of the fact that a large percentage of Nigerian women aged 15-25 believes that wife beating is justified (91% in the South-West and 93.5% in the South-South *.) and in the penal code there’s a law which says “Women may be beaten as long as bodily harm is not caused.

Signs that you might be in an abusive relationship

The victims of domestic violence are not just spouses, the children of such marriages often experience emotional trauma which lasts into adulthood.
In an interview conducted with Ugo Chime(not-real-name), a public health and policy consultant, who, after the furore on twitter blogged about her experience as a child raised in a home where domestic violence occurred*, Ugo claimed she’d always been conscious of the fact that her parents quarreled a lot, but never saw her father hit her mother until she got to primary three. She also mentioned that her mother claims that was not the first time her father would hit her. Ugo says of her father, “…except for that one episode when it got physical, it was mostly the shouting matches that we endured, and those times it was very scary, we [she, her siblings and her mother] hid away… for the months he was around we watched ourselves, don’t laugh too much, he’d think we are having too much without him, don’t frown, so it doesn’t look like we couldn’t wait for him to go back [to Europe where he was working].”
When asked if her childhood experiences had affected her relationship with her father, she said “… there are so many phases to my relationship with my dad, loads of periods of not speaking and then reconciliations, it isn’t so much what he did in the past that causes the rifts, but what he keeps doing…very hurtful things and sometimes you feel you’ve reached your limit.”
Although Ugo’s parents are now divorced, they were married for thirty years (with a two year break), Ugo’s mother stayed because of her children.
Tokunbo Koiki, a psychologist who is currently a social worker and advocate for women and children’s rights in the UK, did not wait for thirty years before leaving her partner, a Nigerian man born and raised in England.
According to her “The first assault happened, I think after about 4months [of our relationship]. I remember we had gone out then went back to his place, as I often stayed over, he wanted me to cook stew and I didn't want to (can’t remember exactly why as I usually did) Next thing I recall is lying on the floor, in his room, with him using my own hand as a fist to punch me repeatedly. Tried to fight back and my screams were loud enough that a neighbour called the cops and he was arrested and charged ...but within a few weeks I had forgiven him and went for counselling as I was just finishing my psychology degree and about to go off on a gap year to help battered women in South Africa. The irony of life hey!”
“My memory of the whole relationship is hazy but I remember another time we were arguing in the car and he made me so mad I deliberately crashed into a pole (was very hot headed back then).”
When asked what made her decide to leave him she had this to say “... after another fight he was apologising and in the same breath telling me how his ex used to make him so mad he would beat her. I mean here I was, a recent graduate and he didn't even finish school. I knew I had prospects so it was easy to walk away. I cut him off completely and he never contacted me again. I remember next time I saw him was when I had to testify [against him] in court, but he got off.”
Ugo’s mother left after thirty years and Tokunbo’s relationship lasted for seven months, but there are women (and men) still living with their abusers for economic reasons, or are being threatened with more violence, some even believe they love their abusers and are afraid of being isolated or seen as a pariah in the society.
Abuse Circle

Says Tokunbo Koiki “Women need first of all to understand that they are not alone and that they decide to stay does not make them less of a victim nor does it make it okay for family and friends to abandon them.”
Presently, out of the 36 states in Nigeria, only Lagos State has promulgated a law on domestic violence.
Data from a study, published in a British Council report titled “Gender in Nigeria Report 2012: Improving the Lives of Girls and Women in Nigeria, Issues, Policies, Action” shows that in the South-West of Nigeria ,47.5% of 15-24y/o (unmarried) and 43.7%(married or separated) , while in the South-South 33.4% and 28.8% respectively. Which means 92% of women, living in the South-West, and 62% of women living in the South-South of Nigeria experienced violence in 2012.

Violence in the South-West and South-South of Nigeria, 2012

There are many NGO’s working to protect women from domestic violence, and one of the foremost ones is Women Advocates Research and Documentation Center(WARDC).You may contact them at 08180056401 (free and confidentiality is guaranteed) if you have any questions.


*2008 National Demographic Health Survey, NDHS
*http://knottypants.blogspot.com/2014/09/whyistayed-my-mom-stayed-and-for-this.html

Two Cows - A bitter woman's perspective

( Adapted from Mathias Varga's 'Two Cows')
(Art-Kehinde Awofeso)

Socialism

You have two cows
You give one to your husband

Communism
You have two cows
Your husband takes both cows and kisses you rather fondly

Fascism
You have two cows
Your husband takes both cows and just one mistress  (instead of two, or three, or more...) and one olosho

Nazism
You have two cows
Your husband takes both cows, divorces you and marries a new wife

Bureaucratism
You have two cows
Your husband takes the cows, accidentally shoots one, and dashes the other to his mistress to be well cooked in peppersoup, throws an owambe party, didn't invite you, neither did he attend the party. You both drank garri for breakfast.

Traditional Capitalism
You have two cows
Your husband takes them, sells them, buys a second-hand car, empties your bank account, builds a house and marries two new wives

Nigerian Banks Capitalism
You have two cows
Your husband takes them, collects all your money, sells off your jewelry, collects monthly house rents from you, charges you for sex, sells the cows to your parents at a profit and then tiff the cows.

Surrealism
You have two white elephants.
Your husband's seventh mistress just had their third baby.

The Government
You have two cows.
Your husband takes both cows, joins the organization for husbands with unlimited access to cows, sells the cows at a huge profit, keeps the money in your joint account, steals the money, hides it in a swiss bank and tells the whole world 'my family is not poor' in spite of your children's lack of shoes ... after all you're married to a rich man.

About Feminism, the patriarchy and the pepper seller

I didn’t realize I was a feminist till I hit my late twenties.

Not that I didn’t know the word itself, but I’d never seen anything ‘feminine’ about myself, and I never thought men were trying to oppress me, so why should I want to fight something called the patriarchy?

Up till that point I had no words to describe that frustration I felt whenever I was told I couldn’t do certain things simply because I am a ‘girl’. I couldn’t sit in a certain fashion, talk too loudly, pick my nose in public, scratch that itch eating ay at my legs, wear certain things to certain places simply because it is ‘unladylike’.

My question usually is … who made you the master of ‘lady?’ and what makes you think I want to be a ‘lady’?

In my early teens, I was ‘allowed’ to run wild, by the ‘guardians of our morals’, because it was still okay. I even got an encouraging smile or two, being a flat chested tomboy was soo … cute.

But.

There was no word for a woman in her early twenties, with a propensity for wearing trousers and weird haircuts, who had a string of lovers and more male friends than was permissible … well, except for ‘slut’.

Then I became a single parent, the society I grew up in breathed a collective sigh of relief.

“Maybe her head will settle into one place now that she’s in trouble.”

“Maybe she won’t, look at her lineage, a long line of wild women who live by their own rules, I doubt she ever will.”

But the ‘words of wisdom’ never ceased coming.

The moral guardians of our society were afraid their daughters will somehow sip from my cup and become infected with my psychosis, they watched closely. Theirs are the eyes that saw at midnight, the ones feeding off the blood of innocent ones while I slip out of my home to party hard. They knew I was trouble.

Or maybe I should have started this note from a conversation held with Temitayo Amogunla, (nee Olofinlua) who came visiting with her baby a few months ago. She complained bitterly about the women who practically stampeded her, in a bid to bully her out of strapping her baby to her chest, instead of 'backing' him, the ‘traditional’ way – secured to the back with a wrapper and a smaller scarf called ‘oja’.

A few months later, Jumoke Verissimo experienced the same angry, almost mob-like, reaction from strangers, who felt they had a right to dictate how she should carry her baby, simply because they were … older females.

That was when I told Jumoke something I’d known since the day the word ‘feminism’ crept into my dictionary, that women are the patriarchs.

Yes, the ‘patriarchy’ inherently is a male dominated order, but I put it to you that women are the guardians, the guardians of the rules, the guardians of our morals, the guardians of what to do, what not to do, how to be a lady, why you have to stay married to your abusive husband, why you have to be married at all.

I even dare say women made some, if not all of these rules.

The evidence is there, in the market places, where real, not virtual, affectations are at play. Those women, who plant, reap and sell you the tomatoes, onions and what-nots you use in your meals. The pepper sellers, those whom city dwellers often think of in terms of ‘poor, downtrodden things’. They are not 'poor' or 'downtrodden', they have studied the patriarchal system and they use it.

They use it to bully you into buying their stuff more expensively than you normally would because your skirt is not long enough, your make up is too much, they talk rudely to you when you strap your baby to your chest, because they have the right to shame you on behalf of the men.

Some hair splitters might say women in the north do not go to the market. But who whispers guilt inducing sweet-nothings in the mai-gida’s ears at night? Definitely not his male lovers!

I’ve watched these women operate, on their daughters and other women.

But wait ... it's not only the pepper sellers who go out of their way to make you feel the pain of the patriarchy as you conduct your daily business.

Let's talk about the gadget wielding generation of patriarchs with blood red nails. Go online and check out those horrible pictures of women beaten black and blue, their clothes torn off, with the caption ‘woman caught stealing pepper’ and check out the vituperation, now check the list of names, you’ll notice that more comments will come from the women, the worst comments come from the women.

Our psyche has been assaulted for so long that we’ve become the abusers in our own tales of woe. We perpetuate the abuse, the reign of the dictators.

Our places of religion are filled with women, have you ever wondered why so few of them own private jets?

Who are the people responsible for shaving off the hair of women who have lost their husbands, who are those that force feed them with water taken from the bath of the dead body, who forces them to wail and gnash their teeth and declaim their innocence of the murder of the dead husband?

Who knows the juiciest gossips about the sex life of other women and shares it gleefully?

Who tells you it’s a thing of shame to tell anybody you’ve been raped?

Who teaches their daughters to cook while their sons play out in the sun?

Who tells you that the course you’re about to take is too ‘masculine’ that you should go for a more ‘feminine’ course … like … literature?

Who determines what is ‘masculine’ or ‘feminine’ in the society?

Who birthed these ‘patriarchs’?

What would it take to end rape in Nigeria? A simple case of teaching our sons that there is no difference between men and women, that women deserve to be treated equally, with respect, that every woman, no matter her sex, deserves to be respected.

Where else in the world would a Chief Judge (male) get invited to an all female event (made up of judges) and pronounce that ‘rape is self-inflicted’ and GET AWAY WITH IT!(check out my blog on rape here )

Where else in the world but in Nigeria, where the women have taken up arms for the patriarchy, a country where an elected, sitting, female, Senator goes into the Upper House and pushes a legislature concerning the length of women’s dresses through. Where a child of ten, as long as she is married, is constitutionally recognized as an adult and when people protested about the fact that a child of ten should NOT be married, some women in the House of Assembly (or is it Reps) ‘refrained’ from voting? Where women are arrested for 'prostituting', simply because they do not have a ‘male’ partner with them when they go out during certain hours of the day.

When will we finally admit to ourselves that we appear to be our own patriarchs? We the prisoners are now guarding the prisons, while the guards are having the time of their lives.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to kick off women from my Face Book wall or blocked them from my twitter account because of the kind of anti-women stance they take.

Women tell other women they are beautiful, well except for the fact that you’re not wearing these Peruvian weaves, or have your hair ‘done’ naturally, or look this thin, or have your stomach this flat or your skin this light, this dark, your yansh … this big!

When will we finally admit to ourselves that the picture of that hardworking woman, with a baby strapped to her back, a pestle in hand and a determined frown on her face is our Mother Africa, our all consuming patriarch? When will we stop treating one another as present or non-existent sexual appendages, look one another in the eye, and admit that we are all simply … human.


Words … fail … me.

Stolen … Chickens are sweet

“I used to steal chickens,” she blurted as we walked down the beach.

I knew it! I knew she was in her ‘confession’ mode the way she’d gone all intense when she took her first drag.

“Congratulations,” I drawled laconically, “I’m glad you’ve moved on to stealing bigger and better things.”

Don’t get me wrong, I love Tosin. She’s my closest friend, a non-judgmental spirit, whose company soothes me because she knows when to talk and when to shut the hell up.

But, like the rest of us, she has her flaws, and the most irritating one is her compulsion to confess stuff. There’s nothing I detest as much as people confessing stuff to me. I mean, do I look like a reverend father? Kindly keep your confessions to yourself man, I don’t want to know the shit you’ve been up to. I’ve been up to a lot of crap myself, but do you see me going around looking for someone to unburden myself on? Why should I make myself feel better and leave you feeling as if it was your fault I did what I’ve done? What’s the point in that?

“I’m serious here Tobi, when I was at that Polytechnic up North, I used to steal the chickens in my neighbourhood.” She looked at me earnestly, as if telling me this would transfer a million naira into my account or change the pump price of petrol.

“Okay, you used to steal chicken.” I said.

“Don’t you believe me? Don’t I look like a chicken stealer?” She asked as a big wave came whooshing out of the sea and hit the sands beneath our feet with a boom.

I stopped and stared at the breathtaking sight in front of me. The full moon shone down on the sea, which was the colour of black coffee. The water looked darkly inviting, silky, smooth, like Irish Cream sliding down your throat. I knew if I touched the sea, it would be thick between my fingers, sensuous. I can hold it, I can hold water, I want to bunch it up in my fist and allow the smoothness to run through my fingers.

I also knew it was the Mary J in-between my thumb and forefinger thinking.

“I used to be the best chicken stealer in my school in those days. I mean, students from other neighborhoods would invite me over to their place to steal chickens for them. I was that good.” Tosin broke into my thoughts.

I looked down at her in surprise, for a moment there I’d forgotten she was walking beside me. That’s the thing about her. She has that ability to melt into you, making you feel like you’re two parts of a whole. She has this knack for sharing your experiences with you. She's Ogbanje.

"You need to be real quiet when you are about to steal a chicken, " she said as she took two quick puffs and tossed the butt towards the sea, "you need that element of surprise when you grab it's neck, so that it doesn't start squawking.”

The moon made her yellow skin almost white. She had escaped being an albino by the skin of her teeth.

“Are we still on this chicken thing?” I asked.

She nodded.

“You should stop smoking weed girl, it does not agree with you.” I said.

“Listen, I’m serious. I mean I spent a lot of time in heaven knows how many universities and polytechnics across Nigeria, I might not have obtained one single certificate from any of them, but I was really good at stealing chicken.” She said earnestly.

I love her crazy eyes. One moment you’d think she was looking at someone over your shoulders, the next her eyes would tangle with yours.

She has ogbanje eyes.

I smiled.

“Well, thank heavens you acquired one skill. I’m sure your parents are proud.” I continued walking, trying to lessen my long strides to accommodate her shorter ones.

Tosin is delusional about her height. Everybody in the world except her knows that she barely tops 5feet, but she thinks she’s a giant.

Tosin is delusional about a lot of things.

She’s delusional about my feelings for her.

"I love you, but not like that." She would say in that deep voice of hers which is so at odds with her feminine curves.

How do you tell someone you’ve known practically all your life that you are in love with her, her mind, her craziness? How do you tell someone who does not see herself as beautiful that she’s the most gorgeous woman you’ve ever known? That you love her droopy tits, her round stomach and even rounder behind? How do you tell someone who treats you like part of the furniture when she’s taking off her clothes that she’s the most sensuous being you’ve ever known, that every girl you’ve dated paled beside her?

She'd be sleeping beside me and it would take a lot of self control for me not to curl around her.

I allowed my bare feet to sink into the sand, gritty and smooth, both at the same time. The sand and Tosin. Gritty and smooth.

“So there was this day I stole my next door neighbour’s chicken.” She said as I took a final drag and allowed the bit of rizzler in my hand to float to the ground.

“We are still on this chicken issue,”I said flatly.

She ignored my tone and continued urgently, “and then she started looking for it. As she searched for the chicken, I felt really guilty, I mean this woman is poor. She has a drunk for a husband and about six children all under the age of seven. She sells sweets, cigarettes and other little things by the roadside and barely made enough to feed herself, talk less of her family, and I had just eaten the wings of her only chicken. The guilt was so intense.”

I looked at her and smiled.

“So did you confess that you stole her chicken?” I finally asked as another wave hit the sand, pushing foamy water our way.

“I did, but she didn’t believe me.” She said sadly, “when she knocked at my door and asked her if I’d seen her chicken, I told her it was inside my pot, she only laughed and said I should please keep an eye out for it, she planned to serve it to her in-laws when they come visiting the next day. I felt really bad. Why is it that nobody ever takes me seriously?”

“Wouldn’t you feel like something is wrong if someone suddenly starts taking you seriously?” I asked her. She looked at back at me, eyes skewed.

“Let’s head back.” I said as I held out my hand to her.

She placed hers inside it. I looked at her slim, elegant fingers and kissed each one tenderly.

She laughed.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She asked.

“I’m going to take you to my place and kiss every inch of your body.” I answered.

The Joy of Reading

Tomorrow being the Friday the15th of November, I shall be hosting a program tagged "The Joy of Reading" during the Lagos Books and Arts Fair. From 3.30 till 5:30 a number of young, vibrant writers will  be celebrating the sheer joy of reading with me by reading excerpts of their favorite stories. Its going to be totally brilliant.

Below is a banquet of brilliance that will be set before you:

Tolu Talabi is an alumni of the Farafina Trust Creative Writing Workshop
Has been published in Kalahari Review, 5x5 lit mag and is the fiction columnist for The Guardian's Sunday Magazine.

Adeola Opeyemi is a visual artist, a bibliophile and a writer. Her works have been published online and in print.

Poet and lyricist, Servio Gbadamosi works with young emerging writers across the country by creating multiple platforms to provide more visibility for their works and facilitates knowledge exchange between them and established culture-practitioners.

Pearl Osibu is a Nigerian writer from Cross River State. She is a Fashion designer and a writer/blogger. Her works have appeared on several publications, among which are Jetlife Magazine, Sentinel Nigeria E-zine, CharlesNoviaDaily, and on her blog (fifty shades of Me), which has been described as "fearless, brilliant and lunatic."

Others are Iweka Kingsley, who will be reading from his short story collection, Dappled Things, Kenetchi Uzochukwu, Femi Morgan and a host of others.

Honestly, you don't want to miss out on this.

LABAF 2013: BOOKS OF 2013

Like I said in my last post, I shall be hosting four authors during the book readings and panel discussion titled "Book of 2013". We will be looking at 2 books of poetry and two prose. Each book is unique in its own right.

Today I'm posting the profiles of two other panelists, Iquo D. Eke and Tade Ipadeola.

Iquo is a Writer, Performance poet and Actress who renders her words to the accompaniment of folklore, typically embellished with instruments such as drums, flute and /or strings.

She was born in January 1980, in Uyo, Nigeria, and was raised in Lagos.
She studied human resource management in the Lagos State University. Over the years Iquo has worked as a journalist, administrator and scriptwriter.

Her maiden collection of poems; Symphony of Becoming was published in 2013 and was long-listed for the 2013 NLNG prize for Literature.

She believes strongly in a continuous struggle for the betterment of her generation and nation, thus her work explores pain, social consciousness, passion, womanhood and the trials of the griots of this age.

Her past performances include amongst others:
 Macmillan Literary Night
 The Lagos Black Heritage Festival
 PLAY Poetry Festival
 Word Slam
 The Lagos Poetry Festival
 Poetry Potter
 Word and Sound

She has two children and lives in Lagos.

Tade Ipadeola, a Nigerian, was born in 1970. He has published three volumes of poetry – A Time of Signs (2000),The Rain Fardel (2005) and The Sahara Testaments (2012). He has also published short stories and essays. In 2009, he won the Delphic Laurel in poetry with his poem ‘Songbird’ in Jeju, South Korea and the NLNG Prize for Literature 2013.

Tade Ipadeola has also translated an important Yoruba novelist, Daniel Fagunwa, from his native Yoruba into English.

Tade Ipadeola is currently serving as the PEN (Nigeria Centre) President.

Tade lives in Ibadan where he practices law.

Venue: Freedom Park, Broad Street, Lagos
Date/Time: Saturday 16th November, 2013 by 4pm

Books of 2013 at LABAF

One of the panel discussions I'll be hosting is tagged The Books of 2013, on the panel are Tade Ipadeola, Igoni Barrett, Iquo Diana Eke and Sage Hassan. Below are the profiles of two people on the Panel, Igoni Barrett and Sage Hassan. We shall be discussing Igoni's 'Love is power or something like that' and Sage's 'Dream Maker'

A. Igoni Barrett is a winner of the 2005 BBC World Service short story competition, the recipient of a Chinua Achebe Center Fellowship, an Ebedi Writers Residency, and a Norman Mailer Fellowship, among others. His second book, Love Is Power, or Something Like That, was long-listed for the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award.

A poet, writer, thinker, teacher and author Sammy Sage Hassan is recognised as Nigeria's premier spoken word poet embracing the genre and bringing it to the attention of the art and music savvy populace in the mid 2000s.

He went ahead to perform hundreds of major non-poetry events like 2 Hip Hop World Award Shows, This Day Music Festival, Arts Alive's Speak The Mind In Jo'burg; he has performed near a hundred brand poems - poetry specifically created for companies and products from UniLever, Coca Cola, MTN, Celtel, NBL, Diageo etc. He has organised workshops and performances for schools and cultural organisations like British Council, Goethe Institut, Lekki British Int'l, Green Springs Int'l and more.

He has recorded and released 2 albums and 3 videos.

As a music executive he has worked with a lot of musicians like MI, Jesse Jagz, Ice Prince, Tosin Martins, Jagunlabi and a rash of upcoming artistes.

Lagos Books and Arts Festival

During this year's Lagos Books and Arts Festival I shall be hosting three events, two for adults and one for children.
The first of the events is titled The Joy of Reading, during which we'll be celebrating the sheer joy of reading.
For this year's joy of reading writers like Pearl Osibu, Tolu Talabi, Olubunmi Familoni, Adeola Opeyemi, Servio Gbadamosi, Kenetchi Uzochukwu and Femi Morgan will be in attendance to read portions of their favorite stories. The two hour event will be taking place on Friday the 15th of November, between 3 and 5pm.
The next event is a conversation amongst four of the most celebrated writers that has emerged this year on the Nigerian art scene. Three of them are poets, but one of the poets just wrote a book of prose(this is going to be so much fun!).
The writers are Igoni Barrett, Iquo Diana Eke, Tade Ipadeola and Sage Hassan. During the course of the week I shall be posting brief bios of the writers and short reviews of their books.
The event is titled Books of 2013 and will be held on Saturday the 16th of November between 4pm and 6pm.
The books will be available during the festival, the audience will have an opportunity to have their books signed and also have an interactive session with the writers.
The last event I'll be hosting is a spelling bee for children and it will be taking place on Sunday the 17th of November.
The Lagos Books and Arts Festival is an annual event that has been on for the past 15years and it is ALWAYS a fun time.
All events will be held at Freedom Park, Broad Street, Lagos Island.
You can follow @Labaf1 on twitter.
The hashtag #Diariesofabookfairslut documents my experiences at book fairs and authors.

When will you marry?

"So when are you getting married?" Chika asked, she was quite serious.

I laughed, I mean here I am in bed with this gorgeous woman, whom I've just finished making wild crazy love to and she's asking me when I'm getting married.

I ignored her question and kissed her deeply, I allowed my hand to wander teasingly to her chest, I felt her nipple tighten, I swallowed her moans. Then I bent my head and caught the nipple I'd been teasing on my tongue.

I sucked greedily on it, alternating between nibbling at it and laving it with my tongue.

She screamed as I quickly inserted my fingers up her wet vulva. I sucked harder, until I felt her come, instead of letting go I allowed my fingers to search for her nub of pleasure, she was panting and begging me to stop, not to stop.

"This is why I am never getting married Chika, I was made to give married women like you pleasure." I whispered into her screaming mouth.

Miraculous Adjectives

Miracle was written by Tope Folarin who was born in Ogden, Utah and grew up in Utah and Texas. He is a graduate of Morehouse College and the University of Oxford, where he earned two Masters degrees as a Rhodes Scholar. He currently works with Google.

The story is an excerpt from a work in progress.

Miracle is a story of hope, of keeping up appearances and saving face. It is the story of the problems faced by Nigerian immigrants in America.

The whole story takes place in a church and is centered on an elderly, blind Nigerian preacher/ miracle worker and a young Nigerian boy who is seeking for a miracle.

Folarin captured the mood of the congregants perfectly, which is a mix of hopefulness and hopelessness. His take of the church and attendants was dry eyed and non-sentimental. Describing the reason why most of the congregants were in that church that day, Folarin used short, crisp sentences, which allows the reader to feel the unexpressed desperation which must have filled the church.

“We have come from all over North Texas to see him ... We own his books, his tapes, his
holy water, his anointing oil. We know that he is an instrument of God’s will, and we have come because we need … jobs. We need good grades. We need green cards. We need American passports…”

Running beneath the story unfolding in the church is the protagonist’s history, the mother who abandoned her family, his uneasy relationship with his Nigerian father who raised him and his brother as Americans.

“We need our parents to understand that we are Americans. We need our children to understand they are Nigerians.”

As well written as this story is, it is not without flaws, first of which is the author's inability to decide whether he’s writing from a First Person point of view or an Omnipresent angle. The protagonist not only uses the first person but was also able to see into the heads of everybody present as he used ‘we’ a lot (maybe it's the royal ‘we’).



“We search our hearts for the seedlings of doubt that reside there. Many of us have to cut through thickets of doubt before we can find our own hearts again.”

There were long descriptions of every occurrence, which would have been taken care of in a few simple sentences. In fact the whole story can be summed up in three paragraphs but for the (as far as I’m concerned) unnecessary use of adjectives.

“Once there, he raises both of his hands then lowers them slightly. He raises his chin and says let us pray.”

I also worried a bit about this sentence “My lids slap open, and I see the same fog as before.” Because it beggars the question, what lids? And if they are eyelids, do they slap?

In a bid to make beautiful sentences Folarin ended up with this gem “The disembodied heads are swelling with unreleased joy.” Which left me open-mouthed with amazement, (you’ll all notice that my writing is improving).

This is a story that was written carefully and with a lot of thought, I found reading the story a bit tedious because of the long descriptions, even the climax fell flat because he had given the game away while describing the boy’s encounter with the old preacher.

But then you stumble on sentences like this once in a while and, for a second, understand why the story is on the shortlist. “His prayer is so insistent, so sincere, that his words emerge from the dark chrysalis of his mouth as bright, fluttering prophesies.”

On the other hand, you wonder when the Caine Prize judges will stop choosing stories that seek to bore you to death and reinforce the image of blacks as an overly religious, miserable lot.

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.