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It’s all for the money $$$- “A tale of one Lagos big girl” Episode 4

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I opened my eyes when I heard the thud of my body hitting the hard ground. I had to stifle a loud moan as the pain shot through my back. I had decided landing on my feet was a bad idea since if I couldn’t run I would still get killed. I tried to get up and winced at the pain. I had definitely dislocated something. I looked up and the distance didn’t look as far as it seemed when I was looking down. I steadied myself on my feet grinding my teeth together as jolts of pain shot through my back, left arm and left leg. I dragged myself away from the house as fast as I could silently praying I wouldn’t be caught. I must have walked for 20 minutes, it seemed longer. It had gotten dark and I was still surrounded by bushes. I saw a car parked up ahead and a man leaning on the car and my heart began to pound. Was he a good guy or an evil killer? There was no way I could avoid him seeing me unless I stopped walking and laid flat on my belly in the bush, I glanced at the soldier ants dancing haphazardly on the ground and dismissed the idea. I was injured and I was tired and I wasn’t about to spend the night in the middle of nowhere not far enough from those men. What if Samsudeen decided to tell on me or something or even worse come after me himself if he hadn’t been killed already? This man was my only hope. I prayed he wouldn’t be the death of me.

  “Good evening sir, please help me…I take God beg you”  

I immediately knelt down and cried out in pain as my stiff injured limb was bent out of shape.  The man jumped both startled and alarmed. He could see I was in pain.  

“Who are you? Why are you here? Get in, you need to see a doctor immediately”  

Seeing as I struggled to get off my feet, he helped me and I looked up to heaven thankful for the help…  

His name was Hussein and 24 hours later I was home with a white cast on my leg and a sling on my arm. Hussein was so helpful. He was such a gentleman. I lied to him that I was a corporate affairs manager at a private company and I had taken time off work. I know I had made a lot of promises to God about turning my life around but I couldn’t tell Hussein what I really was. He was nice and seemed straight-laced. It was nothing short of a miracle that he had gone there to inspect some property for a client and had been standing where I had found him at that precise moment. He checked in on me often and soon it became quite obvious that he shared the fondness I had for him. I knew I was taking a big risk, if Alhaji met another man at my apartment there would be blood. I considered ending things with Alhaji but he would have my neck if I tried and would probably find and torture Hussein. Many nights I would dream of Samsudeen. I wondered in my waking moments why he would want to kill me and what sort of scary shit he had gotten himself mixed up with. He was supposed to be a devout Muslim not a hoodlum. It didn’t make sense.  

I was getting used to my idyllic existence with Hussein and being thoroughly spoiled when my life was thrown into yet another turmoil. I was visited by a man in a black suit. He looked like he was trouble and introduced himself as Detective Adeyemi Bello. If I wasn’t so full of secrets I would have taken the time to admire his physique and clean cut looks. I didn’t realize the Nigerian police force had any correct guys, to me they were all a bunch of riff-raffs. Guess those who handled high profile cases had to be the better looking, more learned ones. The problem however was that what he was asking me made absolutely no sense. He was telling me Alhaji was dead and that I was a suspect- was he mad? How could a big man like Alhaji be dead and he’d be asking small me? He said they had found an envelope in a car that had pictures and they couldn’t tie any one of the people in the pictures to Alhaji except me. Even though I was eager to forget the recent occurrences the thought of even being arrested as a suspect had me determined to makesure it never became a reality. Detective Bello thankfully, believed my story but despite that I was still invited to the station and asked to repeat it countless times. They suspected that Samsudeen was a member of a rogue gang probably hired by some top shot Nigerian. They also didn’t believe he was the killer they sought, not after telling them what transpired but he was still listed as a wanted man. That was his bloody business, I didn’t beg him to follow bad people. After a couple of days, the police grew bored with me and stopped pestering me seeing as I had no new info.

The only good thing that came out of it was my not being labelled a murderer, really there was nothing else good about this incidence. Hussein had left me after he had been called in for questioning. They must have really brought him up to speed about everything and I mean everything cos the dude couldn’t even look me in the eye when he mumbled something about needing space and not wanting to get mixed up in police wahala. I tried to hug him and he acted as if he had just found out I had HIV. Thankfully Alhaji did not die of the dreaded disease. Speaking of Alhaji, his death had brought me plenty prayer points. I had bumped into his wife on one occasion accompanied by his unscrupulous son, the one I met at the club. Omo see curses the woman rained on me! As far as she was concerned, I had killed her husband. Trust her son to add pepper, he had been about to greet me with that air of familiarity and perhaps ask why I never picked his calls when his mum started cursing my ancestors, he was dumbstruck and when he finally gathered his wits was sputtering and cursing and asking me over and over whether it was his inheritance I had been wasting up and down. Chei! My fear now was that Alhaji’s family would track me down and strip me of all I had. That scared me shitless. I prayed daily like I never had before.

  Weeks after, the dust seemed to be settling. My fears had thankfully not become a reality. I hadn’t attended Alhaji’s burial because I didn’t want to remind his family about my existence. In my waking moments I imagined that Alhaji would have left me something in his will. He was really fond of me and despite the odds we actually were friends. I missed his quirky laugh and the way he called me yarinya even though we both knew I was one of many. I felt lonely. I had never made friends with the other Lagos big girls and had never been welcomed into their circle despite my obvious flaunting of Alhaji’s wealth. They seemed to be able to see right though me and right now I was tired of forming on the social scene anyway. Every once in a while I would think of Samsudeen wondering if he had been caught and what had become of him. He did save my life, once I even imagined how our lives would have turned out if I had given him a chance. Poor! That was for sure. But better poor than dead or in jail right? I contemplated getting a job, staying at home everyday doing nothing made my loneliness more evident. I could hear it in the empty rooms, in the kitchen, sitting beside me on the sofa, whispering and taunting. The song was always the same;  

“Nobody likes you, everybody hates you, better go eat a cockroach, tear off the head and eat the yamayama cos that’s all you are good for…”  

Once I could have sworn I saw a cockroach run past at precisely that moment. The song Mr Loneliness was singing was one I had heard once or twice as a child but it had been mixed with Yoruba verses then, and now definitely remixed by my mind. I needed friends, I needed a man, I needed change. I was on a mission! If I continued like this I would either lose my mind and commit suicide or die a lonely spinster or something. Every night for the past 3 weeks I had considered going out and experiencing Lagos night life like old times but ask any one who has ever been kidnapped, outside the confines of your home, the world takes on a new foreboding with imagined danger lurking on every corner. Loneliness eventually drove me out of my house. I was a Lagos big girl after all, we were built to fight! I had worked my way up from the bottom. Sleeping with bus drivers and artisans after I ran away from Charles’ house to sleeping with bigger boys and men I met gatecrashing carefully selected owambes. Alhaji had been by far the most generous which was why I had agreed to be his special babe but now I needed to get my A-game back. I had been given a chance at a new life. I was rich well not fabulously wealthy but at least I had managed to enter upper class status and I had 2 cars and a house and money in the bank. It was time to get myself a life and maybe make a name for myself. It was time to think smart, act right and make mama proud. Not many women had the kind of opportunity I had to set things right. I needed a new identity one that would be so far removed from my past. I needed-  

I was broken out of my reverie by an urgent knock on my door. I froze. Could it be the police or that handsome detective with more questions? Could it be Alhaji’s family here to take what was legally theirs or Hussein returning to grovel and beseech me to marry him? The knocking continued with increased fervor. The television was on and quite loud so I couldn’t pretend like I wasn’t home. My heart was pounding as I walked towards the door. As I unlocked the door fearing the worst, I looked into the eyes of my late night visitor and screamed….  

………………To be continued……….

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Posted by on September 19, 2013 in It's all for the money!, Series

 

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The blood of the innocent must be avenged!

    Friday the 26th of August, started out as an ordinary day in Abuja, no one except those behind the attack could have predicted that the city would be thrown into turmoil before noon that day. It was business as usual at the office of the United Nations, a conference was on and about 300 people were gathered to discuss issues geared towards making Nigeria and Africa as a whole, a better place. They were unaware of the car that drove into the premises, they couldn’t hear the commotion outside amidst the applause as the guest speaker climbed up the stage. Human ears would never have detected the timer as it ticked in precision, counting down to the massacre.

We’ll never know what was on the pages of the speech so thoughtfully put together by the guest speaker, we’ll never know if any of the children in the creche would have grown to be the next Nnamdi Azikiwe or Wole Soyinka. We’ll never know if one of those people killed, housed an idea within him that could have changed the world, it’s all gone now. In a cloud of thick smoke. All we see now are rubble and blood. Blood everywhere. Blood on the walls, blood on the floor, blood on objects that could have once been human flesh or a nice suit. All gone. What a waste! Who is the god of terrorism? Definitely not Allah. I may not be a muslim but I know that people would not readily worship a God who encouraged war in the place of peace or death instead of life. Who are the people that belong to Boko Haram? Have they no wives or children? Are they dead men walking amongst us, without feeling nor reasoning? The blood of the innocent cries out! The earth is red, I look to the right and to the left and all I see are death and destruction. From hurricanes to suicide bombers, the human life becomes nothing but a laughable wisp, as man rises up against man, nation against nation and the earth against its inhabitants. A wisp nothing more, that rises up like a cloud to be seen no more.

Once upon a time, terrorism was tied to a man called Osama and to the people whom he led but now it has infiltrated every country and every sect. From the blue eyed Nordic monster that swallowed up the lives of the innocent in a country that long ago won the Nobel Peace prize to the faceless demons called Boko Haram that sign their name in blood wreaking fear in the hearts of every Nigerian, Moslem and Christian alike. Everywhere across the globe we work, we live, we sleep, we play like chickens in a cage, not sure who will be the next sacrifice.

Boko Haram I beseech you, if you have something to say, say it. If you have a grudge against someone, point him out, maybe he will be willing to die to save his people. One man in exchange for the life of many. Why do you continue to make mothers mourn their children? Why do you continue to rob children of their parents? If you had done your homework, you would have realized there were 20 little kids in a creche in the UN building. Did you not care that the blood of these young innocents would speed up the hand of vengeance upon you? Would you visit upon the children, the sins of the fathers? Where is your mercy? You send men out to die, sacrificing their lives and taking many with them to the grave but all to what end?

I weep for my country. I weep for a nation that can barely take care of itself. I weep for a government that seems helpless amidst the chaos. I weep for Nigeria. Begone with the propaganda, begone with the plots, call a spade, a spade. If you need help, ask for help. Let every man turn to His God and cry for mercy. We cannot continue to sweep under the carpet the issues that surround us. We cannot continue life as usual because our little circle remains unharmed. The human race did not survive millions of years by being passive. Sometimes good must stand up and fight. We are a population that is dying out, we need a saviour, we need help. We cannot continue to downplay the death toll or half-heartedly tackle this issue. We cannot continue to react rather than act. Boko Haram is made up of people, every human being, every sect has a weakness, find theirs Mr President before they take away all you hold dear. For they have found your weakness, they have seen the light go out of your eyes every time they take away the life of one of your beloved people.

Nigerians now isn’t the time to criticize. No one gives a rat’s ass anymore whether we should have voted Buhari or GEJ. That is ancient history. Now we must join him and fight terrorism in this country. It is not the president who loses wives, children, husbands, mothers and fathers everyday. It is us the people. Speak up, rise up as one Nigeria, sitting back to criticize while danger draws nigh is a sheer act of stupidity. While you jeer at the man the nation put in charge, our enemies plot their next target. Don’t wait till it’s too late. Adversity tests the character of a man. He needs your support. He needs ideas. He will listen, he will act. And let us as one nation cry unto God to have mercy on Nigeria and indeed the world. We will not be wiped out by brothers who have turned their backs on us. We will not let Boko Haram have the final word in this country. Stand up and fight!

Arise o compatriots, Nigeria calls, obey!

May the souls of those who died in the bomb blast rest in perfect peace… My prayers are with their families.

YOU SHALL BE AVENGED

Nigerians, may those who crave peace indeed have a peaceful week but as for those who seek destruction, there is no rest for the wicked…

xoxo

 
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Posted by on August 28, 2011 in Hall of Fame, Inspirational

 

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Her side of the story…

  I glance at his sleeping frame and my heart constricts, I rub his tummy and he sighs in his sleep, I snuggle up to him and try to sleep but with every toss and every turn, I know sleep will not be kind to me tonight. Why should it be? I am a thief, living off borrowed goods. I look at that body that has become so familiar to me, I can hear his laughter in my head, he makes me so high, makes me so glad, touches my heart and soul, this lie that I call my own. When did I stop being that person with morals? When did I agree to this pact that tastes so sweet but stings so deep? I hold tight to my treasure, I’d never have embarked on the quest if I knew the prize was not mine for the taking. Could he be any more perfect than he is? I love him I whisper. Words I can never say out loud. I talk about him everyday, I smell his perfume even in my sleep. Yes I’m sprung, but would I be judged any less harshly? These were circumstances beyond my control. Nobody told me that he’d steal my heart, no one thought a warning necessary. Oh I wish I knew some magic, so I could erase the ties that held him bound and vanquish the enemy and rightful owner who claimed his heart and kept him from being entirely mine. Oh how I’d managed only a farthing of his love, oh how I’d made do with the littlest share of commitment. What could I do to make it all make sense? Why did fate punish me so, making our moments together bittersweet?

We were friends, he knew me like the back of his hand. Knew my quirky side, knew my craze, knew me when I was scared and afraid but we had crossed the line. I hadn’t meant to taste those lips, hadn’t realised I’d ever wonder about his mandingo. But now here we were, neither here nor there, still friends but less friends and more of something more, something dangerous, a liaison laden with trouble. This wasn’t the plan, a little fun was all it was meant to be. A l’il sumtin sumtin to warm up a cold evening and add flavour to an otherwise normal friendship. Now I was royally screwed, desperately needing to keep up the maturity charade and put up paper walls to save my aching heart and pick up the pieces of my ego that crumbled into little pieces every time she called and he became a different person. Stolen moments, stolen kisses, a love twice removed from my fantasies. What could I do to save myself from this sinking ship? I was fiddling with the mechanics of the ship, refusing to jump ship, refusing to catch one of the buoys tossed at me by boys at sea. Maybe if I was pretty enough or wifely enough, the papers would finally read B’s property, rather than B’s loot! Mama had taught me ages ago that you couldn’t keep stolen goods, they always got you in a heap of trouble. What was I to do? He plagued my thoughts, plagued my life, plagued my dreams and his only offence was a smile.

I could blame him for not telling me about her, I could blame him for doing all the right things and saying all the right words. I could blame him for not sending me straight home the first time he saw the love in my eyes. I could blame him for wanting more when he had all he needed. But I couldn’t blame him, wouldn’t point fingers when it was me that chose to stay. I chose to be a thief; to love a man who would never give me more than an artery leading to his heart, to keep a woman awake at night, worrying where her man had been. Well I was awake too, tossing and turning all night and every night. Wondering and scheming, too afraid to utter words other than ‘God please’. Thieves were allowed to pray, the one beside Jesus hanging on the cross was saved by his supplication. Maybe my sleeplessness was punishment, surely she must have called on the powers that be to rob her enemies of peace. When I was a little girl, I dreamt of a man such as this, he was all I ever wanted, nobody warned me that he would be taken, nobody warned me that I would be hanged for stealing…I PLEAD LENIENCY…for he stole my heart too!

Written for every woman who has to wait her turn for the love of her borrowed diamond, guard your heart diligently young woman for out of it flows the issues of life. If your hands hold so tightly to what is not yours, how will you receive the gift of love that the Father so graciously pours upon you in season?

Have a lovely evening peeps…xoxo 🙂

 
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Posted by on July 26, 2011 in Hall of Fame, Relationships

 

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LASTMA is your friend!

photo courtesy dailytimes.com.ng

Growing up there was this jingle on TV I loved, ‘Make una call police oh, make una call police oh!’ It ended by saying, ‘The police is your friend!’

In kindergarten our teacher, Mrs F always emphasized that the police was our friend. We always preferred to be police when playing ‘police and thief’ and after traffic wardens, police were the next set of people I loved to randomly wave at while my mom drove by in her white peugeot 504. Those were the days.

As I grew older and became cooler, I wondered why Lagos didn’t have cops or bobbies, we had olopas and mopos and our traffic controllers were called yellow fever! Why give such disrespectful names I wondered? Did it have anything to do with their shoddy appearances and shifty eyes?

Everyday I was regaled with tales of evils done by the very people supposed to protect us from crime. Tales of bribery, thievery and harassment. I couldn’t believe my ears or eyes. Even my friend Y who wanted to be a police officer back in primary school promptly gave it up. No one wanted to be part of the oppressive lot that asked for your particulars and after asked for your fire extinguisher and chasis number only to beg for something for the boys after delaying you for several minutes.
No one wanted to be associated with law enforcement agents who’d kill a man over 20 naira.
The police force became on the most part a band wagon of half-baked, barely educated riff-raffs who smoked igbo on the job and were as trigger happy as the number of bullets in their fire arm allowed!
There were a few good men no doubt but somehow the bad cops always craved the spotlight!

People quivered as they neared a police check point. Frantically searching for the photocopies of their car documents and any lose change and silently saying a prayer to God and on the flip side, the police seemed to quiver at the sight of actual armed criminals remembering suddenly that they had kids at home and a wife to feed.
Citizens learned quickly that running to a police station for help when a house was being robbed or when they needed a hero was the most futile of attempts.
The Government continued to loudly air on government-sponsored stations that the police was our friend and there to serve and protect while ignoring the plight of the police force, leaving them under-paid and desperate despite the potential risk their lives were subjected to on a daily basis.
Yes the police was our friend. Our friend, the thorn in our side and just another on the lists of menaces to our increasingly corrupt society.
In lasgidi we thought things couldn’t get any worse. Most of us had even mastered how to handle these uniform men and some of them were actually nice and helpful till the governor at the time introduced LASTMA, the force to be reckoned with!

If you’ve never driven a car in Lagos or been in a car that got flagged down by LASTMA, you can stop reading now.
LASTMA is unique because these blood-thirsty law enforcement agents don’t carry a gun or any form of ammunition yet they are feared above the police by majority of Lagosians.
Yes they are supposed to be there for our own good, afterall road traffic accidents have sky-rocketed and obeying traffic regulations goes a long way to ensuring preservation of motorists’ lives but like every common man given power, the average LASTMA guy has seen it, tasted it and gotten drunk with it.
It has become a very lucrative job!
It pays the bills, puts food on the table and pays for shayo whether the government pays their salaries or not.

Their highest number of victims come from the group comprising of johnny just come motorists. Drivers not familiar with the Las gidi terrain, who look frantically for the no U-turn sign and find none only to be shown a barely visible, crooked, half-buried sign by an over-eager LASTMA guy with a wide grin on his face! “Thanks for falling into my hands” he seems to say.
After you stop sometimes you are unfortunate to have left the back door open and a Lastma guy jumps in. Following this are the two longest hours of your life as you beg, bargain, reason, beg again, scream, cry and eventually part with an undisclosed and usually exorbitant sum of money and you never got a ticket cos they make you believe they did you a huge favor by saving you from paying the hefty sum charged to offenders at their office. You feel frazzled and far from ecstatic and the Lastma guy can barely contain his excitement as he counts your hard-earned cash, promptly pockets it and bids you a good day as his mind wanders to Mama Eze’s bukka and the huge plate of food he’ll order not to mention that bringing money home to the mrs tonight means he may be getting some! So yes you’ve given to charity, a bitter lesson learnt and the LASTMA office non the wiser!

I’ve gathered some tips Lagosians swear by in tackling LASTMA!
I call it my LASTMA-SURVIVAL GUIDE:
1. Makesure all your doors are locked.
2. If they flag you down, speed off unless you are on Ozumba where there’s a traffic light every 5 minutes or if you can spot a LASTMA vehicle.
3. If they ask for your licence, always give a photocopy.
4. If they are hell bent on taking you to their office, immediately beg. If that fails, speak their language immediately (please tell me you know I’m talking money)
It costs you less in the long run.
5. Watch your car key like a hawk, they’ve been known to snatch them from the ignition in the twinkling of an eye.
6. If your seat belt is bad put it across you and sit on it.
7. If you see them afar off, double check your seatbelts and reduce your speed. Also look out for easily broken traffic regulations and avoid falling for ’em.
8. If your car lacks air-conditioning still wind up the glasses when approaching them. Some say it is better to keep a barrier between them and you even if you die of heat!
9. If they are in your car and are acting unreasonable, scream at them and threaten to drive to a destination unknown. (I must warn that this only works on rookie LASTMA guys)
10. Pray against LASTMA as you leave your house!

As a doctor, much as I hate to be on their side, especially with the level of corruption amongst their ranks, I must warn that they were put there for a good cause.
Everyday the average emergency doctor sees at least three victims of road traffic accidents and only one out of three survive.
The commonest causes of such accidents are drunk driving, exceeding speed limits and ignoring traffic regulations.
LASTMA is actually here to help.
Better your money, than your life but to ensure they do a better job;
1. Ensure they give you a ticket if the money they are collecting from you is exorbitant. Caution fee is 15,000 naira. That way the money doesn’t enter their pockets.
2. Be vigilant. Some armed robbers disguise themselves as LASTMA guys.
3. Most importantly, obey traffic rules.
-Use your seat belts
-Don’t run a traffic light or a stop sign
-If you’re not sure a U-turn’s allowed or if it’s a one-way, slow down and ask, don’t drive head-on into their hands.
It’s christmas season and Maga must pay!
Help them help you.
Don’t be the maga.
LASTMA is your friend and speed kills!

May we all live to see 2011. Amen.
Have a great day peeps and merry christmas! Xoxo

 
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Posted by on December 22, 2010 in Uncategorized, Urban Culture

 

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Cutting your clit to spite your libido!!! *Adult content

     My first call duty as a corper doctor was four nights ago. It didn’t help that I was on call again the next day which was a public holiday. I’d previously been handling the saturday clinics and hence was exempted from call duty but with the increase in salary promised to us by the government well on the way, the other doctors felt it necessary to ensure we corper docs earned every penny.
I had skipped work that morning based on the fact that my call duty would run from 4pm on monday to 8am on wednesday. Did I hear someone say bloody hell? Nobody bat an eyelid at work at my obvious absence, half of them weren’t even at work and the others that made it to work were just happy that they had the public holiday to themselves. I got to the hospital at some minutes past four and realised that I didn’t know where the makeshift children’s wards were. The hospital has been undergoing some renovations of recent and every unit has been moved around a bit. I also came to the unfortunate realization that the houseofficer that was to work under me for the night was green, pediatrics being his first posting. So there I was bag and laptop in hand, armed with a hair net, wrapper and tissue paper and trying to find the key to the call room while my houseofficer ran down my phone battery begging me to come set a line he hadn’t even attempted. I finally got myself sorted out and prepared myself for forty hours of call duty!

Several patients later, I snuggled into bed, grateful for the cold airconditioning and steady power supply the hospital provided. It was past midnight and I was ready to take a bow when my blasted phone rang yet again. I cursed loudly in Isoko and struggled out of bed, not bothering with earrings or my wristwatch but remembering to whisk my hair net off my head. Yeah yeah despite what Noble Igwe thinks, I still wear hair nets to bed when my boyfriend isn’t anywhere in sight! 😉
I got to the wards and met the houseofficer, a nurse and a couple with a baby. The baby was a month old and had blood dripping down its legs. What happened I asked? Trying to sound as calm and professional as I could given the situation, the fragility of the child, the volume of blood and the thought of the work that lay ahead.
‘We circumcised the child at home and it didn’t go well’
The mother was sobbing, the father was exasperated. The woman who performed the act was fast asleep in her home, her wallet fatter! I christened the unknown woman ‘Edward scissors-hands’. Yes I’ve got a brain that depends on humor to preserve my sanity in the medical profession.
The child was paper white, had used six pampers in quick succession each being thoroughly soaked with bright red blood and all her tiny veins had collapsed, making my job a hellish one.
I am pleased to say the child survived and nights like this make my job worthwhile but it got me thinking. She survived but Lord knows how many other female babies die from massive hemorrhage because their parents want to keep them from the evils of sex. The poor baby’s elder sister had been circumcized, her mother had been circumcized. They were from Imo state and miles away from their village but still held bound by tradition. It was their identity, all they knew. As the mother wailed to Chineke God not to punish her by taking away the child she suffered to carry for nine months and I mumbled a prayer under my breath begging God to let me find a vein so I could resuscitate the dying child I couldn’t help wondering why….

Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) is practised all around Africa. It is a rite of passage for most women. Their choice in the matter never sought for as most of them are circumcized either as infants or before puberty. Just to ensure purity, a preservation of sexual morals and reduce fornication. I have a friend whose mother was circumcized as a baby yet she got pregnant in SS3 and gave birth to my friend so what was the motivation? If FGM turns women into frigid creatures uninterested in sex except for the purpose of reproduction, then why was this glitch present? Did she enjoy her boobs being played with or strive to please the horny teenager she called her lover that she didn’t care that she would never experience an orgasm but still went ahead to give life to his seed?
Surely a tradition that has left many women maimed, in pain and dead not to mention scarred and frigid should be fool proof right?
Why would a man want his daughter to lie stiffly in bed as her husband had her way with her? The only sounds in the room being his grunts and the squeaking of the bed?
Women have learnt to fake orgasms but could it be that this was the origin of the trend that has spread so widely amongst women?
Why would a woman deprive her daughter of the pleasures of cunnilingus? Even if it was morally frowned at, did she not care that her daughter would never know what it meant to be fingered? No wonder in african movies, grabbing a woman’s breasts made her squeal with such delight hence the term african romance was birthed in its rawest form as that was all the pleasure the woman could hope for since the bundle of nerves responsible for the feel-good feeling down there had been permanently severed.

Many people have pointed out that sex is a thing of the mind and maybe that’s the rationale behind searing her womanhood. But has FGM achieved the purpose for which it was created? Statistics show that the number of pregnant teenagers who are circumcized is not significantly lower than those who are not. These same statistics however prove that the number of women who have been circumcized who suffer complications like massive bleeding and tetanus is on the increase and those who had long term sequelea like HIV and Hepatitis B as well. Would any parent happily give up the fruit of their loins to avoidable morbidity and mortality? If this was a well-established tradition why aren’t there government approved hospitals that cater for this need rather than putting the lives of innocent children in the hands of a pepper-seller with a sharp knife! Everyone turns a blind eye saying the tradition has been abolished yet everyday a new generation of circumcized children are reared.
What guy would willingly marry a frigid woman? These women rather than carrying the mark of their culture with pride have an aura of shame around them and a humility that is decidedly ungodly. One can’t but shed tears for these beautiful creatures who have been branded for life.

As that baby battled for her life, her parents in great sorrow, I wondered who was to blame. These parents obviously loved their kid and only felt they were doing the right thing. We had to call in the surgeons to sew up the tangle of flesh that used to be her external genitalia. I couldn’t help wondering if Edward Scissors-hands had been high on kai kai or blind as a bat when she made the cut or cuts.
I must say at this point to parents that there’s no guarantee your child will not get pregnant in highschool if you circumcize her and the elders and keepers of tradition won’t sit with you at the hospital at 3am praying to God to spare your child’s life neither will they provide money for the funeral.
Men who think it their place to uphold the tradition, I have this to say to you; if you think breaking your woman or daughter’s spirit will keep her grounded remember the bird with a broken wing. One day it will fly again. If you loved your wives so silent when being f**ked why do you spend so much on porn and secretly crave a woman who turns every alphabet into a swear word when a man rocks her world?
Don’t maim these women, their tears and shouts for mercy have reached high up into heaven.
Stand against Female Genital Mutilation, stand for the rights of women everywhere.
A woman’s smile is like blessed rain, don’t take it away.
She needs all her lips and smiles intact! The vertical smile included.
Don’t cut off her clit to spite her libido!
Say No to Female Genital Mutilation! Let our generation see an end to this awful tradition.
Stand for something today!
And women on a final note when you are scrubbing down there and you feel your clit or you are contemplating whether to wank or go for fellowship, remember to be grateful. There are some women who don’t even know what a clitoris is!
Have a great day peeps! Xoxo

 
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Posted by on November 19, 2010 in Hall of Fame, Health, Inspirational

 

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