Archive for April 2014
We Love Our Women Poor
So maybe I make everything about gender. I am a woman, and gender
has little ways it screws up my life, so why the hell not. Like all the times I
was called nwa ogbarida by my mom and
relatives as a kid, and how I had filtered it to mean I shouldn’t been visible.
I shouldn't be so out there, for everyone to see me. I shouldn't be seen to like the
sight of myself and the sound of my voice. How I embodied all that disapproval,
and tends to wince when I encounter an innocent little girl who is doing these
things I had done myself. How I would cringe and think this one is in for wahala. Or how I had reacted on seeing Lupita’s
character in 12 Years A Slave dancing so conspicuously. How I thought, “she is
showing off herself; she is asking for trouble,” and even felt sort of
validated when she got hit with a wine (hard) bottle. I had embodied the
mind-set I had raised with, and no matter how much I shout from the rooftop
that a woman decides for herself what she wants to do and should be respected
for it, a teeny whinny part of me thinks a woman who draws attention to herself
will sooner get in trouble. And because I think this, I trip over myself all
the time. Whenever I am involuntarily being out there (I say involuntary
because it is my personality – y’all don’t know how many times I have told
myself that I am going to try to be ‘normal’ and ‘good’ but can’t keep it up), I
half-expect wahala. I am pretty sure
there are many who are waiting for my day of reckoning sef. Perhaps they thought it had come the day I partook in a Breast
Awareness Meme and joked that I had been cheated on for the past 5 months. I
could almost hear folks going, that girl that thinks her husband is the best
thing since sliced bread. Ehen, shebi she don see say men will always be men.
Ehen! Now, she go let us hear word. LOL.
Anyway, this post isn’t about my man, though he remains the best
thing since sliced bread. It is about how gender is a powerful presence in my
life. I am going to start by talking about my mother. Believe me when I say
that she is one very hardworking woman. One area she excels is her passion for
work. Na proper jacky that woman be.
She sleeps so little and goes into her office every single day of the week. And I’m
not just talking about the so-called feminine work – the house-chores – that
aren’t monetized, that are of little financial gain to women. I am talking
about ‘real’ work. My mother is an ambitious woman; she is the type of person
who yearns for an executive position, a position of authority. Unfortunately,
despite her passion, her hard work, that kind of career advancement she wants
has eluded her. She is fifty-four years old now, and doesn’t even have
financial security, after all these years of toiling at work without rest. My
mother believes, and I quite agree, that if she had been a man she wouldn’t
need to work this hard. Or rather, that she would commit the hours as she has
as a women, but the difference would be that her ROI (return on [time]
investment) would be higher. She would do the same amount of work she’s always
done but get a much higher income. A man and a woman would do the same sort of
thing, but a man takes more home at the end of the day because he is a man.
Anyone who doubts me or thinks I am spouting nonsense from my ass, please
google DFID’s extensive research on gender in Nigeria. What the document
doesn’t exactly state, but what I am believe to be true, is that men get more
because they are perceived to need it more.
Most of you will agree with me that a woman’s income is seen in
Nigeria to be jara even when it’s
clearly not. An employer may be inclined to tell her, “why are you stressing
yourself like this, eh? Go and get a man to take care of you” rather than
accept her proposal for higher wages. On the other hand, a male employee (who
is diligent in world, committed to pushing the country forward) won’t ever have
to hear such rubbish. He is in a better position to negotiate successfully. For
one, if he isn’t a shifty character, his time at the company is seen to be more
reliable because it is steadier. He isn’t going to be away on maternity leave –
even companies that are generous enough to give paternity leave don’t offer 3
paid months of it. When his kids are sick, his wife would be called upon not him.
His kids’ school authorities wouldn’t expect him to be the one attending PTAs
(just as bomboy’s class teacher expressed her surprise when MM that came for
PTA, not me). And if he works late at night, the possibility that his wife will
storm into office to make trouble and accuse him of sleeping with his boss is
low. Or that she would wake up in the mornings paranoid that her husband’s job is an
avenue for him to meet women, therefore he must resign and stay at home to take
care of the children. Thus making him more valuable. And if these aren’t enough
advantage, he is perceived to need the money to take care of the women in his
life. His income isn’t jara, so when
he presses for a raise or is driving a hard bargain during the recruitment
process, he wouldn’t be seen as a greedy motherfucker who only wastes his salary
on clothes, makeup and shoes.
However,
beyond the mindset employers may be working with, there is the matter of the
way women regard money. I am going to use myself as an example. In all the time
I have been working, I have never asked for a raise. I have only once sort of
refused a job because I felt the remuneration on offer left little to be
desired. I say sort of because I didn't tell them to take the job and shove it
up their ass. I simply argued that I was worth more. They couldn't afford
to pay more, so we mutually shook hands and say we shall meet again. Even then,
I would sometimes admonish myself. Maybe I should have taken what was offered,
even though it really wouldn't to benefit me financially. After all, wasn’t I
the kind of person who would say I was doing it for the experience, or I was
doing it because I was pregnant and nobody else wants to employ a pregnant
woman, I was doing it because I'm not the sort of person to fold my arms and
stay at home, or I'm doing it because of this and because of that. There is
always a reason why I am willing to take a job, and then moan thereafter about
people who got paid handsomely.
Perhaps
the reason I can afford to do this is because my basic survival isn’t dependent
on these jobs. True, I am quite low maintenance. Aside from my madness for Apple
products, I find it hard to spend what I see as an obscene amount of money on
anything. I buy cheap clothes or quality clothes at huge discounts. I recently began
buying M.A.C products, and mehn it took some psyching oh. Like the N3,500 I
paid for an eyeliner. Na wa ya. I asked myself, abi no be the same thing N100
own dey do e dey do? I be proper 'Aye' babe. *hisses and reminds myself say na
only one life I get oh ... na when I dey plan to enjoy am? Anyway, you get the
picture. My cheapness aside, it could be that the main reason I can afford to
work for pennies is because I’ve a husband who can afford to keep me, feed me,
clothe me, house me and take adequate care of our son. Our basic needs are no issue;
frivolities postponed till when country better. And if I think this way, it
means I did actually buy into exactly the kind of mind-set that kept Nigerian
women poor. My income is really jara.
For days I have wanted a M.A.C powder brush that costs N20,000. With my small change, I could jejely buy it without hearing husband
scream, “twenty thousand for gini?” Because truly if bomboy's school was impatiently
waited for my salary to land so it could get their fees, I wouldn’t be so
altruistic. I would be howling, “show me the motherfucking money!”
Or
maybe I still would. Maybe I would be concerned about how I would appear. Afraid I would be thought of as greedy. A ‘what does she want all that
money for sef?’ kind of situation. After all, sitting on the business class
section of the airplane (my second time ever, yay!!), my mind briefly went to the
people who may be thinking, “see this small girl, I wonder who is really paying for
that seat.” You know, because men have money and women don't, and if a woman is
spending more than the bare minimum then it had to have come from a man.
Perhaps absolutely nobody thinks that. It could be all in my head. Real or merely my
erroneous perception, it is something that discourages me from flashiness. The
fear that it would put a question mark on my source of funding. At least I
am married, so my husband is the first suspect. Not some Alhaji or Senator, or
bank manager. What about single women who, because they want to get married,
are turned off by jobs or positions that will bring them ‘too much money’? They
don’t want their integrity debated about. Perhaps they too had had it drummed
into their ears that virtue in a woman is in being demure, in quietness.
Society keeps showing them, through Nollywood and even Hollywood (hello, Being
Mary Jane), that there is a very good chance that a woman with shit load of money
and career success is going to end up alone. So, by Jove, even if being Onyeoma CY doesn’t come natural to them,
they are going to fake it till it becomes second nature.
So
yeah, gender is very much a part of my everyday life. It isn't something I
encounter on paper, or something the West stuffs down my throat. I honestly
feel I don't talk about it enough. But of course, you all are free to disagree.
Ciao!
P:S: Last week I posted something
about Giants of History. I honestly couldn’t stress enough how this is a book
to buy, even if you have a phobia for books. Seriously. Hey, it is Easter by the corner, and hampers are going
on. Chuck this one in there, and make someone’s day! By the way, I hope you all
clicked on the link and some can make it to the book launch. I still have my invite
for anyone who wants it.
Giants of History
I grew up in Owerri, a particularly insular town in Eastern Nigeria. I was born near Owerri, had all my education up to university level in the town, and the much I knew about the Yorubas and the Hausa - aside from the tiny bit of history from social studies – was what they did to us during Biafra and how these two tribes are still marginalizing us till date. I was in my first year in university when I first learnt that Itsekiri is a tribe in Nigeria, yeah I was that ignorant. Actually, I have to say that until about ten years ago, I thought all Northerners were either Hausa or Fulani. Such embarrassment I got when I served in Adamawa and I hardly met anyone who didn’t was that they weren’t Hausa. I felt like a dunce indeed.
Imagine therefore how I felt when I heard the news that history was
being taken off the educational curriculum. What I thought was, was it there in
the first place? If it was, it must have been optional or ‘relegated’ to the
arts classes – where the so-called serious students who wanted to make
something of their lives steered clear of. I had wanted to choose arts in
senior secondary, but you all know how e dey be na? My parents had illusions
about me becoming a lawyer. Besides, I thought biology was pretty interesting
subject. I did exceptionally well at GSCE for biology, so it wasn’t merely
‘that’ kind of biology I had in mind ;)
Having this background and
feeling my deficiencies, I do take interest in learning about history. I read
lots of historical novels. Sadly, I had to admit, I do then to read far more
European historical novels than Nigerian – something I need to do something
about as a matter of urgency. When you are a mother, you think beyond what you
are learning for yourself. But what you are learning for your child. I am on a
mission to make a reader out of bomboy. Not just fiction like me. As much as I
have got a wealth of information out of novels, once in a while one gets a
foot-in-the-mouth moment like when I was asking this Irish co-worker while I
was still in London why the English impoverished them. I could just see her
rolling her eyes and going, “seriously?” Baabu, bomboy will be a man of the
world – a knowledgeable fellow, if I can help it.
It was with bomboy in mind that I had a look at Giants of History,
a coffee table about historical figures of Nigerian descent. People who
succeeded in various worthy pursuits, at such large scale to earn them this
rather lofty but nonetheless deserved title of giant of history. People like Wole
Soyinka, Chinua Achebe, Nelson Mandela, Babatunde Jose, Madam Tinubu, , Usman
Danfodio, Funmilayo Ransome Kuti, among many other known and unknown innovative
figures of history. Above all, the author, Lateef Ibirogba, approaches the history
from a different and original perspective. It profiles the man and women that
the author admires, tells the story of their lives in two pages each. At two
pages devoted to each giant, it isn’t a comprehensive biography but a great
starting point for the layman. And I don’t think anyone is more a layman than I
am, really. Non-fiction isn’t generally my kind of thing, but I have found this
non-fiction quite riveting. I got an early look – you know, long legs
hehehehehehe. Oya, make I give una a peep too. Go to http://www.ktravula.com/2014/04/on-the-giants-of-history-book-review/
for a review of the book and come back to tell me what you think.
Giants of History is a coffee-table treasure for readers, writers,
journalists, students, and other research or history-oriented readers.
Published by Sage Publishers in Lagos, it features a profile of 150 “giants”
so-called because of their role in shaping the world mostly for the better, and
being pioneers that left the world way different than they met it. Think of
Nigeria, and the kinds of books you read as a child that made the most impact
on you. If that list is topped by books about history or about the biographies
of great men and women that have lived and died, then this book is for you.
There have been similar books like this in the past, notable of
which is Sanya Onabamiro’s Philosophical Essays (1980) in which the author
examines the past through the acts and eyes of great men of history. With
Lateef Ibirogba’s style of limiting each profile to two pages, the book gets enough
space to accommodate a number of historical figures. It also gives equal space
to each represented “giant” in a way that can be consumed at the time it takes
to eat a cookie at the reception desk of a dentist. A number of non-Nigerians
are featured too, for instance Aristotle, Plato, Marie Carie, The Wright
Brothers, Deborah Sampson, Johannes Gutenburg, and Mary Seacole.
Giants of History is highly recommended for students, particularly
in this age when history is no longer required in the secondary school
syllabus. It will also be a fantastic addition to the shelves of journalists,
doctors, writers, teachers, lawyers, broadcasters, academics, and a whole
number of people who are interested in looking at the past with a view to
understanding and appreciating the present.
Lateef Ibirogba was born in October 1960, and has worked as a
journalist (with the Punch and Daily Times) and as a publisher, among other
endeavours. He is currently the Commissioner for Information in Lagos State.
Giant of History is set to be launched on April 22nd at the Civic Centre,
Victoria Island, Lagos. The book reviewer is Barrister Tade Ipadeola, author
and lawyers, and winner of the 2013 Nigerian Prize of Literature. It will be
available for purchase at popular online bookstores after the book launch.
I have an entry pass for the book launch, but will be at Enugu on
the day. Anyone wants has a bit of time on their hands and fancies attending on
my behalf, let me know.
Ciao
Still Very Much A Work In Progress
I have been
negligent. Incredibly so. I am sorry. Please forgive. Done? Phew,
thanks. So it has been a few couple of months. What has happened since
then? I got a job – and almost as quickly un-got the job – in HIV/AIDS for
African and Black Caribbean women who had been newly diagnosed with the virus.
What happened was that the looming visa expiration date meant I couldn’t
flourish in this job as much as I had planned to. Overstaying my welcome,
of course, was utterly out of the question. But, it’s all good though. I learnt
what I could within the awfully short duration, and carried my kaya back to
Nigeria.
So, my boy and I have been home for a little over two months. It was
punishingly hot the first two months. It’s either I am acclimatizing or the
rains are finally doing their job. I’m not going to forget those scourging days
though. Ah! If you know much I pitied folks closer to the Sahara. Then again,
Arabs have no wahala. Dem sabi use dem oil money well. Their streets are
probably air-conditioned. Lagos, on the other hand, is so humid it makes you
want to kill yourself. When you know factor in the lack of steady electricity
from PHCN, it is tough to keep having a will to live. I didn’t cook the first
three weeks. I just couldn’t stand the heat from the poor ventilated kitchen –
hmm, don’t get me started about how poorly our houses here are built.
Anyway, enough of my whining. Oh, sad news though. Una remember all
those my gragra I been dey do to get a PhD admission? Well, none of am worked.
Rejections, rejections, rejections – the motherfucking bane of my life. I am okay
now. I took time to mourn (lol) and now I am duly wearing my big girl pants, ready
to face the world. The unsuccessful PhD applications presented an issue for me
– my family. Where do I seek employment? Being in development and public
health, Abuja or Northern Nigeria was the place to be. Truly, when I was coming
back to Nigeria, I was all set to relocate to Abuja. I was like, I will a job
ASAP (hehehehehehe. Well, one can dream) and I will leave bomboy with him papa
in Lagos. That was the deal – the blueprint. MM no fight me. He don tire. You
can’t chain a woman to yourself, after all. Within a month of our homecoming, I
began rethinking the thing. My kid is still very young, at an impressionable
stage in life. I have a lot of job to do in moulding him into the man he’d become,
and these early years count so much. Could I really leave him behinda? Perhaps
only see him two weekends a month? I could live with seeing my husband
infrequently – he is a big boy, he can take care of himself. But my kid, well
that na another story.
I remember having a conversation with a friend where I told him that
while I might struggle with sacrificing for my husband, with my son it is different.
I drop things for him at a heartbeat. Not like I live my life for him oh, or
have he dictates my every step. But, say with MM for instance, I don’t fret
about things like “another woman will take over my home,” or “mister man will
look outside.” For me, it’s like I married an adult. He has the thinking
faculties intact; he is very capable of deliberating for himself what is right.
If chooking around is his idea of what would exponentially increase his quality
of life, eh what else can I say? I no go hol’ am for leg saying, “lailai, you
can’t try it!” If you ask me, I would say that I am more inclined to shift
ground, so he can get the maximum opportunity to exercise himself without
having the need to explain jack to me. But my child, well I owe him. I feel a stronger
sense of responsibility towards him. For one thing, the boy is at an age where
he really really needs me. Above all, even if I fail at everything else, I
don’t want to fail at being a mother.
This brings me to a topic that I care very deeply about. Last year, if
you guys would remember, I blogged about seeking the services of both a
psychologist and a psychiatrist. At the time I told her about making the
appointment, my mom was flabbergasted. She couldn’t understand why I would want
to do such a thing as that. She said, “ikwuwala ara?” Translation, are you
going insane now? I wasn’t. Sure, the dissertation presented one of the most
challenging times for me (oh, by the way, I scored a distinction!!! Original
& primary research at that too! Very proud of myself). I had a near mental
breakdown. I have blogged about my depression episodes, so you kind of have an
idea that I did have a longstanding issue before now. Also, living with my
mother wasn’t a walk in the park. It was emotionally torturous for me at times,
but I shan’t be blogging about that!
During the sessions with the shrinks, I talked about my childhood. I
talked about my issues with my mother (precisely how she appears to strive on
making me feel inadequate and how I was tired to trying to please her, because
I never could). I talked about my dad, our lack of relationship, and the
conscientious decision I had taken to keep him at arm’s length because I felt
wounded by him again and again. I talked about how it was always at the back of
my head that I wouldn’t amount to much in life, because it seemed my parents
had decided that for me. Like they had looked into my future and seen it, and
it was just what it was. And how my entire life seems to be about proving them
wrong, yet believing that they really are right. And how tiring it all was.
The professionals thought my depression episodes were my body’s way to
shutting down. Of recouping all the energy I was burning constantly being
anxious that I was racing again a fate that had been signed, sealed and delivered
a long time ago. I didn’t believe them at first. I wanted a name for what was
wrong with me. Bipolar disorder? Anxiety disorder? Whatever, just give it a
name! So I could go onto the internet, google and google and google, make it
another project, conquer it. But they wouldn’t do it. The best I got was
‘unexplained depression’. But the worst part of the consultations was their
diagnoses. They said I was making myself depressive. And even when I wasn’t
depressed, I would expect it. That it was comforting to me to have the
episodes, because then I could tick it off and wait for the next one. It had
angered me, but today, I believe they were quite right.
I haven’t had any episode since the last consultation. I am not saying I
haven’t felt down. Those PhD rejections hit me really hard, particularly
because it was followed immediately by a rejection for a job interview. But the
difference is, there was a departure from my usual way of interpreting it as
“You see! Deep down, you always knew all these were a futile effort at any rate,
didn’t you?” instead, I spent many days reminding myself that I am a resilient
person. I get knocked down, I mourn, and then I get up again and keep going.
Some day I shall get that career success that appears out of reach right now.
That seems so far off, and me way down the ladder competing with people that
already have one leg in, or who have had better opportunities, or are smarter. I
know sha that some day I shall remember this phase the same way I remember the
time when I earned N25,000 as a monthly salary.
Bottom line, I am gaining a healthier perspective about my life. I am
putting my son at the forefront of it, because I felt my parents quite damaged
me. I keep reminding myself that that I didn’t have much of a family life
growing up doesn’t mean I can’t aspire to have one, and hold onto it now that by
some miracle I have it. I am very grateful for MM. He understands I am not
exactly a whole person. That I bear deep scars that flame up at times, and that
it clouds my vision. Presently, I am working on marketing myself as a public
health and development consultant now. I am going to have to put in some work,
get out of my shell, network and all. See how much crumbs I can get while I try
to dent the ground I walk on.
Ciao!
P.S: If you are into public
health or international development, join me on my other twitter account
@MsUzoaru