Keep your head above the din (Unapologetically Shewa)

By Abiose. A.Adams

That Aunt Iwa was getting married, was classified information. It caught us all by surprise the same manner the quit notice she issued caught us all by surprise.  They had told Iwa that she had spirit husband; and in her 40s would be unable to have earthly husband. But she was not only going to prove them wrong, she was going to bring the man into her house.

She doesn’t believe in woman moving into her husband’s house.  Afterall, didn’t the bible say it is the man that does the leaving and cleaving? She often argued. It didn’t say a woman will leave her father and mother; rather it says a man will leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife. She doesn’t believe in being found and chosen. Afterall, what are matchmakers there for? That’s how she mixed a little bit of eccentricism and antiestablishment sentiments into her decision-making. 

And so everyone wanted to know this classified man.

Boniface breezed into our flat in a black tuxedo carrying kolanuts and two bottles of gin that Sunday afternoon. Mama, Adeiwa, I and the children, fastened our eyes on him.

They looked compatible; her fair complexioned matched his. His talk was smooth and juicy. There were no after thoughts in his appearance. Everything was a product of careful premeditation and good scripting —the way he held her hand, his moderate smile. Even his physique was well-chiselled for the occasion. But compatibility is one thing, chemistry is another. And chemistry could not be rehearsed or scripted. We all felt iffy about her choice. But its her choice, nonetheless.

Sheri, on the other hand went downstairs, blowing hot air in protest,. Her older brother and his wife joined. Iwa had issued them quit notice and paid them off to get their own accommodation, but they would contest her decision in court. It was their collective inheritance and she had no sole right over it. Mama, in Iwa’s defense, said the house belonged to her; and that Iwa was managing it on her behalf.

Sheri and her brother kept huffing and puffing.

‘No family was going to attend the wedding.’

‘She is destroying family,’ they ranted.

Boniface talked sweet. The children swooned over him as they opened the gifts he bought them. Mama was heartbroken to see her family fall apart. I was dragged in the middle of them all, as though I don’t have my own problems.

The feud deepened, when following Thursday, Charles and Sheri, fixed a date for the official engagement ceremony. It was a Saturday March 10.

The following day, Iwa released another bombshell; fixing same date as Sheri’s. Iwa posted it all over their social media handles, with the contact details of how to get the aso-ebi.

Sheri was shocked.  Who wouldn’t be?

Iwa was wielding her powers and Sheri was the less powerful here.

“I was the first to choose that date,” she burst out.

 “You should know your place in this house,” Iwa, who was in the kitchen replied.

“Aunty, you are so inconsiderate! Why are you even doing this? Is it to get back at me and Charles?”

“Precisely,” she said tersely. “I changed your diapers in this house. You don’t disrespect me and expect nothing to happen. Your fearlessness should have limit. You should know your level!!”

“You are such a hypocrite. You ruined Adeiwa’s marriage, and now you want to get married. The same institution you criticized, you want to enter?

 “I saved her life from an abusive marriage.”

“Iwa…. Why don’t you show some understanding with your sister…,” Mama weighed in cautiously lest Iwa explode. “Moreover, you barely know this Boniface man….he might just be after your money.”

“Mama, I know Boniface enough…. My wedding or her wedding? Decide the one you will attend.

And so House 44 became a hotbed of chaos. Sheri who was going to help me pursue a lawsuit against Naffy, my former employer, is now embattled and distracted.  

So I began searching for my own house. I imagine what put power and confidence in Iwa’s hand. It was her career stability and money. As for me, I was six months pregnant— a poignant reminder of my incipient pennilessness, powerlessness and vulnerability.

I sold out some of my clothes so I could add up to my rent. I was online all day, searching out an estate agent that could help me get a house. And then I met Dexter online and we agreed to inspect an apartment.

He was 5ft 11 and looked thirtyish. After inspecting five different apartments, we finally found, one room-self-contained apartment in Ijesha. It was in a block of four flats, with no verandahs, corridors, terraces. Every open space had been renovated into rooms; making the whole place look like a ragtag civilian barracks.

We met the landlord in a cubicle-like office.

The moment we entered, he shivered as though shivering from cold. He told Dexter to give me a form.

I began filling the form. When I got to the marital status section. I paused. It read:

Married, I avoided it.

The next option was Single. Under this section, there was:

Divorced

Widowed

Never married/ fully single

I ticked the last option —never married/ fully singleandsubmitted.

‘’I want to give you a house, but it is against our policy to give houses to single women. You have to bring a male partner, preferably your husband,” he said.

“I beg your pardon.”

“I relate with the husband or the man who will represent you.”

“I don’t understand, why I need to be represented by a man in order to have my own accommodation?”

“It is for your own protection. You need a man to protect you….” He ran his eyes over my belly…. “or are you not pregnant? Who will carry you to the hospital if you fall into labour in the middle of the night?”

“I don’t see how that is any of your business. You don’t know what I need more than I do. I don’t need a man to protect me. Stop crying more than the bereaved!”

“Calm down,” said Dexter, placing his arms across my shoulders. And then he whispered to me, “I can pose as your partner.’’

“No way,” I yelled at him. “I am not going to take this lying down. This is nonsense! If you can give houses to bachelors, why not to spinsters. That is unfair!”

“Well, I see where you are coming from…. you are part of all these 21^st century feminist movement…eh…I see…you may call it unfair ooo….but this is my own policy, I don’t give houses to single women. I don’t want anyone to turn my house into a motel, where all sorts of men come in? The last experience, a woman turned my house into a motel.”

“To categorize all women as such shows how parochial and brutish your thinking is…you’re talking nonsense,… that’s is stigmatization, discrimination. You’re so misogynistic!” I roared, not caring that he was old enough to be my father.

“I understand English oooo,’’ he mocked, turning his gaze on Dexter… “You see all you independent, outspoken women of nowadays, you have no respect for tradition and elders….by the way why are you angry….is it not my property… anyone can do what he likes with his property…shebi you are a pregnant woman? Come with the one who impregnated you, rubbish…”

“You are being very unprofessional,” Dexter jumped in… “Can’t you separate your biases and stop judging everyone with the same yardstick….by the way we are no longer interested in your house,” he stood up.

“Mr. Landlord, or whatever you call yourself, you can’t even confidently look me in the eye to make your points. It shows you are a coward! I will get a house in this town, as a single pregnant woman! And I will sue you for this discrimination and verbal assault! For violating my rights to access housing….this is against the law of the land. Even if it is your property, there is a law in the land that regulates professional conduct…you have no right to discriminate against me on the grounds of my gender or marital status…..I picked my bag and followed Dexter.

As we left, my entire being trembled. His words were like blade cutting me into tiny little pieces. I imagined if it were Iwa or Naffy, Anwuli or Sheri in my situation. They would have macheted him back!

Even though I don’t agree with her definition of feminism, do I undermine women like Naffy, who advocated for gender equality aggressively? Or Iwa who challenged norms and do not wait to be given power, but seize power and wield it with purpose and deliberation. I may not like what she was doing to her sister, but I secretly admire her confidence, even if it could be confidently brutal. Both have learnt one thing I am yet to learn —ignoring background noises and keep your head above the din!

To be continued

I wanted to be a feminist

By Abiose. A. Adams

Naffy wore no make-up because she believes make-up was for women who still wanted to be attractive to men, and she was by no means in that category. In her own eyes, she is a liberated woman, a nonconformist to traditional social norms, who dresses freely and acts at her whim.

It was two weeks after my resumption at Garrison for the Defense of Girls and Women Rights, and I was at her desk where I report to every morning. I was surprised to see her without a scarf (for the first time). She had all the hair on her head scrapped off and she wore what society would normally call male colours- brown khaki suit and red tie.

My first rift with Naffy was that I used sexist language in my writings, therefore I must be sexist. She said she gave me the job, not because I was overly qualified, but because I am a woman and she would not hesitate to fire me if I refused to unlearn my sexist ideologies.

I stood in front of her partly trembling, watching her stare into the laptop, pointing out my errors to me, one by one. One of my job duties was to write weekly reports of our activities.

And I had written:

‘so and so is the grandfather of human right movement.”

She said I should have written ‘founder’ of human rights movement rather than ‘grandfather’.

I wrote ‘his and hers’. She said I should have written; ‘hers, his and others,’.

When I used the word, fraternize, she said I should have used socialize.

“Stop using gendered language,’ she said, struggling to control her rising temper.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Salami,’ I answered.

“There you go again….Mrs. Salami,’ she mimicked. ‘….did I tell you I am married? You don’t presume every grown woman you see is married….’ she lectured widening her bulgy eyes which had bags beneath them.

My first two weeks of work was full of nitpicking over issues of sexism, gender neutrality and biases. I had thought the organization was about empowering girls and vulnerable women about their rights. I loved the idea and I wanted to be a feminist especially after suffering in the hands of Tunbi. I wanted to be a strong woman— strong for my baby, strong for myself, strong for other vulnerable women. I want to prove to everyone that without the father of my child, I would succeed, but I was beginning to wonder if this

I would later learn that Naffy was married, but preferred to be addressed as Naffy and not Mrs. Salami claiming she doesn’t want to lose her identity by changing her name to his. She preferred to call him her partner rather than husband. She has only one child (a son) who bore compound names— Naffy’s mother’s maiden name and her partner’s name (Okigbe-Salami). She was filing for a divorce, not because she was in an abusive marriage but because she regretted the concept of marriage and the act of marrying. According to her, getting pregnant and having children renders a woman temporarily disabled— one of the worst things nature permits a man to do to a woman.

Oh my goodness! Should nature also permit a woman to impregnate a man in the name of equality? How was I to, in a space of two weeks, unlearn all the traditional ideologies of genders I had been raised with. This standard seemed to high to attain.

Every day I went to the office with my heart in my mouth— afraid of being sacked for being labelled as sexist, and afraid that she might discover my pregnancy— or that I had been rendered temporarily disabled!

While still trying to cope with Naffy, Anwuli Ogodo, a twenty-something-year-old front desk officer, whom, I shared the same space with told me I should always ask how to address her because she was neither male nor female.

I was confused because I thought she was the author of confusion. I took a second look at her; she looked female by natural construct, but claimed to be neither male or female by the evolving social construct.

Every now and then, I kept forgetting her face as she was always changing looks. She was as fluid as water; changing in states and forms. Her hair was cut low and tinted in gold, but wigs made it possible for her to have many looks. One moment she changed to a blonde with rough curls, at other times, she wore skull caps that gives her the gorimapa (bald) look, or she wore a thick afro that made her small frame thicken and stern.

         *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

One day, in my report at the end of that week, I addressed Anwuli as ‘she’, because, in my eyes, she is a woman.

“You are disrespecting my rights. I told you before that you should always ask me whether I am he or she… or simply address me as ‘they’.”

“They’? My jaw dropped. “I find that very confusing…how can I use the pronoun ‘they’, when I know I’m addressing one person? It sounds grammatically incorrect to me….this is all strange to me,” I replied in all honesty.

It was a Monday morning three weeks after my resumption and she was wearing a skullcap that gave her a bald, man-ish look. She tucked in a white shirt into a red shorts and wore white socks on black trainers. I believe it was one of those days she was identifying with male.

“It’s not about grammatical correctness, but about political correctness! By the way… that’s what you signed up for when you accepted our employment contract,- to abide by the organizational policies to respect the rights of your colleagues.’’

“I thought the HR would have handed me a policy hand book or at least Naffy would have briefed me. I don’t know about this. This is all strange to me,” I was sounding apologetic to myself. Anwuli was not even my immediate supervisor, so why was I pandering to her?

“Mind your language. We don’t use such words as ‘strange’ here,” she said, strutting back to her desk.

“I think you should mind your business here. If anyone is to tell me about political or grammatical correctness, I think it should be Naffy,” I retorted, unable to hold my misgivings back.

“Oh…in that case, let’s see,” she sniggered.

For the rest of the day neither of us spoke to each other.

The following day I clocked into the office and the ambience was like that of a disco party. Anwuli was playing music from her computer with the speakers blaring, in a place that is supposed to be an office.

“Can you please turn down the volume of your speakers or at least use an earpiece? I asked after a long period of keeping silent about it.”

“Well, I have turned it as low as I can, I think you should just try to concentrate on your work. Everyone should be free to do what they like.”

“I think you should try to consider other people. You are not the only one here.”

“That’s exactly what I think too…that you should consider other people of different gender identities apart from the traditional gender classification. You should respect my rights as to how I want to be addressed. I believe my freedom is my right, but do you consider that?

“You know what, Anwuli….you think about yourself only. Your rights, your feelings only. What about the more important rights of girls who were raped, or vulnerable women who were abused? How do we defend their rights which is what I thought this organization is about?”

“So I am less important?”

“I never said that. I said the more important rights.”

“How dare you trivialize my rights, or talk down the organization which employed you? You don’t tell me how I live my life. You are just a selfish and insensitive person! This is discrimination and harassment! The HR has to hear about this,” she stomped towards the HR department.

I couldn’t care less. I buried my head struggling to focus on my work, but I could not. This time, not because of the morning sickness, but something greater than nausea…the noise, the removal of natural boundaries, the social commotion and tension, caused by that!

The following day, when I entered the office, everywhere smelt like a kitchen. Anwuli was on her desk, not in the kitchenette, eating a big diet of Ogbona saoup and Garri (eba).

In the afternoon, I went to the kitchenette, made a cup of coffee and took it my desk.

“Hello, please you are not allowed to bring any food or drink into the hall. Please use the kitchenette.”

“And why not?”

“That’s the order I am the admin manager here. And that’s the company policy.”

“But I saw you eating here few hours ago. Moreover, I am not aware of such policy. Is the policy for some people and not some people? Is there also a policy for listening to music without constituting a nuisance to others.”

“I owe you no explanation, Shewa. Just do as I say.”

I stood up from my chair and walked towards her “…Anwuli, I think you should learn how to talk to people. What do you mean….do as you say…..Am I a slave here…I don’t have rights? I see you eat here, and I’m doing the same, and you order me not to! Don’t I have rights in this office too?”

“…ha…ha..ha…” she laughed…. “coming from you…that’s a joke…I think you should first preach to yourself on learning to be sensitive to and respect other people’s rights, preferences.”

“Oh…really..” I went back to my desk and continued sipping my coffee.

The next thing, Anwuli just charged towards me, and then snatched the cup from me. The tea spilt on the computer and it stopped working. My goodness!

The following morning, I opened by email and saw a query. I was being reprimanded for working at cross-purposes with the organizational objectives and policies, using violent and discriminatory language, insensitivity, verbal harassment and physical assault.

I quickly took a bite of bitter cola to keep the salaiva, that had suddenly welled up from drooling out of my mouth. I stared at my computer screen and saw nothing but faces of humans and objects.

All these charges on me alone? Anwuli was supposed to eat on her desk, increase the volume of her music to the highest pitch, while I was to shrink to my desk in silence and fear. Anwuli has the right to expect that I pamper her eccentricity by asking her everyday whether she should be addressed as he/she/they? Anwuli has the right to physically assault me and then go and report otherwise? I am expected to be sensitive to Anwuli’s whims and understand her?

How about understanding others? How about giving me the right to at least a fair hearing? How about giving me a proper orientation of this workplace. How about being honest and open about their true definition of women girl right? Is this freedom or confusion; nonconformism or chaos; feminism or female supremacy; egalitarianism or totalitarianism!

To be continued

God doesn’t mind you being wronged

By Abiose Adelaja Adams

We are living in a world where justice has been thrown into the dustbin.
A world where cheating, hurting, belittling others, character assassinations, amongst friends, siblings, co-workers, have become the way to show superiority.
I have been thinking about this, and I thought as Christians, how do we respond when we find ourselves here? Do we also repay their evil for more evil? I think that would be condescending to the world’s standard. So we have to go straight up higher and live the higher life in Christ.
The truth is God doesn’t mind us being hurt or cheated by others because he has a plan for us. One of the scriptures in would like to share is in the book of first Corinthians, chapter 6, and verses 6-8.
“But brother goes to law with brother, and that before unbelievers? Actually, then, it is already a defeat for you, that you have lawsuits with one another. WHY NOT RATHER BE WRONGED? WHY NOT RATHER BE DEFRAUDED?
Imagine what the Lord said through Apostle Paul, -wouldn’t you rather be cheated? It means God doesn’t mind you being cheated because he has provisions for compensating you.
Another scripture in the book of second Corinthians chapter 7, verse 6, say, God that comforts those that are cast down, comforted us……
He declared himself as the God who specializes in comforting or compensating those who are cast down, cheated wronged, etc. He knows best how to compensate you. In the book of Hebrews chapter 13, verse 5-7, again the bible says:
Stay away from the love of money; be satisfied with what you have. For God has said, “I will never, never fail you nor forsake you.” 6 That is why we can say without any doubt or fear, “The Lord is my Helper, and I am NOT AFRAID OF ANYTHING THAT MERE MAN CAN DO TO ME.”
Notice the term, I am not afraid of what man can do to me. That means humans may do things to you. They may hurt you, abuse you, back-bite and back-stab you.
But what did the Word say? The Lord is my helper. He is indeed your helper. He wants you to look to Him as your helper. Trust Him to help you and lift up your head above all who come against you. David said; ‘then shall my head be lifted up above my enemies that surround me. He is the glory and lifter of your head.
God told Abraham; I am your shield and exceeding great reward. Trust Him to shield you from arrows of detractors. And not only shield you but also vindicate you. He alone can make your righteousness shine forth like the noonday sun (Isaiah 62:1). Your compensation is that he will help you. He will promote, protect and preserve you. He will not allow their evil wishes for you to come to pass.
Do you actually know some people wish you evil? Why do you think some people are sad when something good happens in your life. It’s because they don’t sincerely wish you well. The Jews wanted Peter dead, but the Bible records that God did not deliver Peter to their expectations. It’s the same God!!!
He will bring you out and He knows just HOW- in 2Peter 2:9 -the Lord knows HOW to rescue the godly from trials.
God who is telling you to look to Him as your helper, is big. And He knows He is. It doesn’t matter who curses Him, questions him or blames Him. The Bible says in the book of Psalms chapter 2. Why do the heathen imagine a vain thing and take counsel against the Lord. Against the Lord? If you read from verse 1-4, it says further; He that sits on the throne shall laugh. That’s God’s attitude to those who come against Him. He knows that with a blast of His nostrils, he can wipe them out. But He won’t because He is love, full of compassion and mercy. In the same manner, he wants His children to have the same attitude. The book of Ephesians chapter 5 verse 1, says be imitators of God as dearly beloved children. That means copy God your father. Do what you see Him do. How do you copy him? By doing His word. Jesus clipped back the ear of the high priest’ servant that had come to arrest Him. What an attitude! What love! That’s the higher life. Rising above the standards of this world. The world expects you to multiply evil- repay evil for more evil. But as Christians, we can extinguish the evil fire with love.
Jesus said do good to those that hate you. Those that despitefully use you. Yes that person that hurt and cheated you; and even assassinated your character. Pray for him or her. Do not curse.
As a child of God, you are full of power and backed with the exceeding greatness of His power. That is why the only way to exercise that power is to love. If you use it the wrong way, you will destroy everyone including yourself. As a child of God, know who you are. You are an heir of God and a sharer of the FULLNESS of Christ. The whole world belongs to you. So if the whole world belongs to you, who can successfully cheat you? How much water can anyone steal from the Atlantic ocean? As a child of God, you are a wellspring of life, an unending spring of joy. No one can destroy you, wreck you or cheat you successfully. No has the power to hurt you.
It is often ignorance of who we are that demeans us, and not anyone in this world.
Be comforted by these words.

After These Eerie Days, novel to be published soon

Have you come to say goodbye?

(An excerpt from the novel AFTER THESE EERIE DAYS by Abiose A. Adams… continued from last week)

Our doorbell rang and Ruth jumped at the door. An ashen-faced man, in a FedEx cap, reared his head as though to deliver some ashen news.

He flipped the clutter of letters in the crook of his hand, doffed his cap to take a second, squinty glance at Ruth, as though the address on the letter were also written on her face.

It was a Sunday evening and we were making pancakes in the kitchen. She sorted the letter and tossed at me.

With my flour-smudged hands, I ripped the envelope. It was an admission letter into Luigi Angelo fashion school for a diploma in fashion illustration.

“Congratulations,” Ruth said. “Now your life begins.”

I signed the acceptance letter, and the following day, I went to the school, enrolled and paid my fees by myself.

In the mornings I worked at the spa, and in the evenings, I attended classes. I spent 40-hours a week developing ideas for clothes.

Life began to take on a new meaning as I rediscovered myself. I was reading my bible again. There was something in the scriptures that cured my broken heart. The more I studied it, the more I discovered myself, and life began to make sense again.

By August, my fashion instructor, Manfred -a tall, good-looking blond- told me of a fashion house that wanted to publish a ‘Fashion Lookbook’ for black Italian women.

“I thought you’d be a good fit.., you got the looks, the curves and the strokes,” he said.

Wow!!! I accepted the offer -very quickly. So I did a series of photo shoots – I wore skalter dresses, V-necks, turtlenecks; I posed in cold shoulder blouses; in blouson sleeves; in jumpsuits. I struck glam look and the sultry pout. I struck the naïve look, and the girl-next-door look. I saw myself in multiple images as in a kaleidoscope.

This was Funto Questa Colesworth, rediscovered, re-branded. Wow! It was good to be empowered, successful, free, emotionally un-entangled. I was simply happy myself! Though occasionally, I feel the pinch, the insult of him walking out on me and sending dogs after me. I felt I deserved a decent closure.

By September, the weather was changing again, and the fashion shops were screaming: Sales!!! All summer clothes must go! Thankfully, Manfred renewed my modelling contract for winter clothes.

A day before I was to start, I saw him in the Salon. He was wearing a blue denim shirt and a matching baseball cap. I was rushing to school so I didn’t heed him. But as I sat to write my test, I saw him in on the pages of my question paper and answer sheet.

“What did he come to do,” I later asked Ruth when I returned at 10pm. I was preparing to sleep at my usual place- a convertible sofa bed in Ruth’s living room.

“Of course he came to see you. He is at the door, as I speak.”

I wondered at Ruth’s ambivalence. People like her love to eat their cake and have it. One minute she was telling me to get a life, the next minute, she was telling me to milk his life.

“To see me? It possibly can’t?” I shook my head, as I set down a mug of hot chocolate, and the novel, I read before sleep.

“I know you still love him dearie. It’s in your eyes, so let this be over, at least now you have your life now. You are no more a liability; you can call his bluff anytime you want.”

To further shock me, she started dressing up, applied a matte lipstick threw her heavy laps and hips into her favourite blue pedal pusher, on a yellow cold shoulder blouse.

The bell rang, Seth came into the living room hugging everyone, and laughing. He followed doing same, but his steps were as unsure as that of one running when no one is pursuing. I buried my head further into the book pretending not to notice him.

And then the sound of the TV went off. Before I could ask where she was going at 10:45pm on a Thursday night, “Ciao,” she kissed the air, closing the door behind Seth and her.

The silence in the room was suddenly uncomfortable and I wanted to leave the flat, but it was 10:53pm. Meanwhile, he was pacing the floor restlessly.

“So who is this?” he finally broke the ice. I looked up, and saw him, pointing to the modelling pictures of me in Luigi Fashion Catalogue. I looked at him, and then buried my head back into my book.

His voice was firm, and I was irritated.
“I believe I am talking to someone here.”
“And I believe that someone can’t possibly be me.”
He moved idly past the u-shaped arrangement of the settee, towards me on the sofa bed.
“Mind if you answer me, Questa? I believe we have an inconclusive discussion,” his voice was flat.

I raised my head. “Yes of course, we have an inconclusive discussion….have you come to say goodbye? Have you come to give me the closure that I deserve….?”

“I’m not ready to ride on your guilt-trip,” he said, his voice flat, his face, void of laughter lines.
“Neither am I feeling impressed by this supposed august..in quote, visit of yours.”

“You don’t need to be impressed. Just be civil,” his tone was even flatter.
“It’s you who needs to be civil, Khalil?” I said, irritated at his grandstanding attitude.

“You can’t just walk in on me…so crass!…No pleasantries, no revision or review of the past. You are acting as though nothing ever transpired between us. Let me quickly refresh- you walked out on me over two months now, just because I told you the honest truth. I went looking for you at your Milan house on St Francesco avenue, and what did you do. You sent dogs after me? And now you come here bossing me around, demanding I answer you, as though I owe you any answer. You can see, I’ve since moved on after all attempts to reach you failed. I am actually very surprised that I hadn’t died sorrowing after you. And as you can see, I’m not same as you left me. I have a modelling job now and I’m about to get a diploma.”

“Questa?” He laughed cheekily. “It looks like this modelling job has gotten into your head…It’s me you’re talking to. Do you realize that?” He placed his right hand across his chest, as if to verify his existence.

“Then you don’t talk to me as though nothing ever transpired between us. You don’t come barging in on me rudely and pretending all is well. I believe I deserve some lil bit of respect.”

“..damn respect Questa! You hurt me. Do you realize that?” his voice went a pitcher louder.
“I hurt you? You left me Khalil. You had been away for two months… two months,” I emphasized dropping my book, and pointing two fingers upwards…. “and I am actually very surprised I had not died,” I laughed mirthlessly. “So what about you, tell me about yourself?”

“You hurt me deeply. I couldn’t bring myself to believe that all the while we were dating, Hamil was having your ass.”
“…now…that’s so disgusting,” I said and rose to my feet.

“That’s the worst insult, I’ve ever received in recent times, and I demand an apology. How dare you even think of me in that light! I am a very decent girl, from a decent home. Forget that I was trafficked to Europe and you met me here homeless. I know who I am, and I know where I am coming from. I am not your regular gutter girl. I was already on my way to the university to study medicine before all this shit happened. I didn’t cheat on you! I told you whatever happened between Hamil and I, was a misshapen, but you chose to believe the worst part. I should have known that if frowardness is bliss, it is folly to be honest. I shouldn’t have been honest with you. It’s all my fault. ”

“…hey you..don’t give me that bullshit, Questa…” he wagged his finger, “misshapen my foot!…and don’t try to blackmail me, playing that guilty card…huh? …misshapen sex?…You and I know you owe me an apology for not telling me before we started dating. You know how strongly I feel about my brother. You know Questa, you know,…you damm know,” his voice turned hoarse at the mention of his brother. It sounded like the voice of one into whose throat had been forced a lump of poison, and he was screaming for help..

“I’m not playing any guilty card… does a girl have to tell a prospective date about all the men she had slept with before she takes on a new date? Where in the world is that done?”

“That’s beside the point, Questa. I told you about my girlfriends, didn’t I? I told you everything about me, my mom, my job, my properties. I was up-front with you, Questa…but you didn’t come clean until…”

“Until what! You are missing the point because Hamil was not even my boyfriend. We never spoke to each other in the house until the night he saw me with you.” I was panting and pacing the floor. By now, I was standing, several meters away from my original position -towards the door.

“…but why am I surprised Khalil…. It’s your way, you always leave me without saying goodbye. The first time we met, you left me inconclusively, without saying bye. The second time, I opened up to you with all sincerity, you also left without saying bye. You should have at least said goodbye. Why Khalil?” I couldn’t believe that my voice was shaking and my eyes misty. I didn’t believe I was still this vulnerable.

“If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t goddam give a hoot. But I do,” his voice suddenly turned calm, as he moved to closer to where I was, trying to hold me.
“You do what?!” I rebuffed his attempt.
“I still feel strongly about you,” he spread his arms apart. “Congratulations to you, at least you could cope without me. You survived me. …but I couldn’t survive you…I guess, perhaps that’s why I’m here,” he parted his lips, and I wasn’t sure if he was preparing to laugh or cry..

“So why did you send dogs after me?” I quickly moved away from him, as though moving quickly away from the memory of the dogs…. and went back to sit on the sofa bed.
“Dogs? Where, how? When?”
“I was at your house in St Francesco avenue, in Milan!”
“It wasn’t me. I checked outta there!
“Oh my God,” I muttered.
“…also didn’t you see my texts and calls, Khalil?”
“I was hurting Qesta. I was hurt, not quite at you as much as I was with Hamil. My brother is an usurper. He exasperates me. He always takes anything that belongs to me. Right from childhood- he took my toys, he took my food, my friends, my girlfriends. He is a damn good bully,” his voice went hoarse and feverish, as he kept gesticulating with his hands and eyes; even the hairs on his skin were standing.

“You see, my house in Rome, he’s taken over it. And he’s damn too broke to maintain it. The house is not only growing with weeds, it reeks of weeds, hemp, marijuana. My papa, and mama know, even heaven knows… that Hamil is an asshole…a bloody pissant…and I am sick and tired of running away from him. I am sick and tired of having him have my house, my money and now my girl?… I’m fucking sick and tired…” he yelled, gritted his teeth and punched the air. “And one day very soon, I am going to face him and put an end to this,” he lowered his voice suddenly, stood and flung himself into the settee, very far away from me.

I was speechless. “There is problem oh,” I said to myself. “Real palaver!!!!” How would I get on with this guy and his deep-seethed animousity for his brother and father.

There was no way I wouldn’t be mashed in their jumbled mishmash of what is supposed to be family love and hatred, egoism, favouritism and complexes of inferiority. I would a target for trouble- an endangered specie.

And then he sauntered towards me again, and sat, stretching his strong athletic arms across the back of the sofa.
“….I’m sorry I yelled at you…..anyway, congrats on your modelling job,” he whispered and pecked my forehead.

“I’ve always known you are a smart girl!”
“I don’t even know what to say. I am very confused now, because I am afraid to have you back in my life while your brother Hamil is lurking somewhere in the dark. I am really scared Khalil.”
I cocked my head to look at him. He looked at me for long time, with his reddish, misty eyes.

“I promise to keep you out of his way as much as I can,” he said cooly, his hands squeezed my right shoulder.

“To start with, can you come with me to Bonn, next weekend?….,” he paused and watched my eyes… “…we could go see Beethoven house, since we share the same music interest, we could go watch a Mozart symphony, visit the vineyards, walk together in the woods…I mean, I just wanna gerraway with you…. I mean leave you with some good memories?
“…leaving me again…?”

I widened my eyes at him. “Of course NO…,” he began laughing. The ring was back and the zing was back.

“I miss you,” he whispered, and took a long look into my eyes.” And I wanna give you some real, damm good memories.”

I laughed too.

“Please don’t say you have a modelling job….don’t say ‘no…,” his voice was a plea.

“Well, I will have to think about it, cos I’m starting my midterm test tomorrow, and I have to begin modelling for winter clothes.”

Abiose A. Adams is a novelist, investigative journalist and programme officer at TheCable Newspaper Journalism Foundation. She can be reached on abioseadams@gmail.com, @abioseadams, 08174217144(WhatsApp only).

Synopsis (After these eerie days)

She is ambitious but unschooled in street-wiseness. Seventeen-year-old Funto Colesworth did not know the trip to study her dream course, Medicine, in France, is one to nowhere until she finds herself in a brothel in Cotonou.

Rather than remain there to hawk sex which she is mandated to do, she escapes and joins another set of human traffickers to cross the ghoulish Sahara Desert with ten other trafficked girls. On surviving, she continues her flirtations with danger; gets into a close-shave with death in the Mediterranean Sea, where she is the only survivor amongst the girls. Arriving Italy breathless, Funto is introduced to Rome’s red-light district, where she subsequently meets a rich and snazzy footballer, Khalil.

Their whirlwind romance would have resulted in marriage and landed her a fortune, but her hopes went up in flames again when he is killed by his irascible, psychotic twin brother Hamil. Then she realises the more ruinous cost of naivety when Hamil implicates her, leading to her imprisonment in Germany. Thrown in gaol, and with no clemency in sight, Funto felt defeated until she meets a Ghanaian missionary, Duncan Melanby, whose romance with her leads to the fence-mending between father and daughter, after twelve eerie years.

Wax poetic without being verbose

By Abiose A.Adams

Do you know that most commonly used proverb or adage in literature have their origin from the bible? Consider these few.

A Leopard cannot change its spot: Jeremiah 13:23, Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots? then may ye also do good, that are accustomed to do evil.

A thorn in the flesh: 2Corinthian 12:7- And lest I should be exalted above measure through the abundance of the revelations, there was given to me a thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I should be exalted above measure.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing- Matthew 7:5
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush- Ecclesiastes IX – A living dog is better than a dead lion.
Am I my brother’s keeper- Genesis 4:9

To be continued

Maps and Milestones: Magic of writing colourfully

If you are writing about a place you are familiar with, you can use milestones such as, Lydia (a fictitious character), stood by Crossway Avenue (a fictitious street) beside the National Stadium, on the mainland of Lagos, South West Nigeria. You can see that the only real structure there is the National Stadium and its location. I think it is possible and safe to use fictitious names and places, but give them a sense of realness by using a well-known mile stone. And if you want to make only the character fictitious while other details remain real, that is fine as well.

It makes your writing colourful when you can use kilometers to measure the difference from one scene to another. For instance in my book, A Girl’s Calender, I had never been to Kano, but I studied the maps and so I knew the distance between Lagos and Kano, and how many hours it was to travel by road. I also studied the distant between one local government and the other, the markets and hospitals used in my book. It doesn’t make sense to say, Sheila went from school to home. It is better to say Sheila walked home from school, some 150 meters away. It makes your writing richer and more three dimensional. Remember that though you are writing fiction, you should make it three-dimensional. A book someone can relate to.

Abiose Adelaja Adams is a midcareer writer and journalist. Having authored at least three books published on Amazon.com, A Girl’s Calender, Viral Diamonds, I am Not Afraid, she is passionate about coaching aspiring writers. She is the Chief Executive of the Global Center for Creative Writing as well as co-director of Pressplay Media Events, a company committed to mirroring societal ills through literary lens. For the purpose of Creative Writing, you can follow her on @itizwritten and www.facebook.com/pressplaymediaevents for Creative Writing tips, tweets, events and trainings.

Pressplay joins Presidency, UN to end child marriage

We are not the only one campaigning against early marriage. Yesterday, the Presidency joined hands with the United Nations (UN), religious and traditional leaders, the Canadian government and other stakeholders to launch a major campaign to end early child marriage in Nigeria. Spearheaded by Vice President Yemi Osinbajo in Abuja, making Nigeria the 16th country to join the campaign by the African Union (AU).

I did a report in 2015  at Shao town in Kwara State, a tourist site known for its annual mass wedding festival, on http://icirnigeria.org/culture-versus-the-girl-child/.

Here is what the village priest who marries off scores of teenage girls in a single ceremony, told me:

“The Awon is a spirit from the river in Shao,” Oloruntogun Ojetunde said in local Kwara dialect. “But it appeared in the form of a woman in the community when the inhabitants were still few. It introduced herself as a spirit from the waters to two hunters and a certain elder that she has come to bless the people, and when she was about to disappear, she gave an order that all women in the village must be married to men in the same village, in one single day. It also blessed us that we will be fruitful and prosperous,” he further enlightened.

The priest said that the mass wedding ceremony has been conducted every year since the day the Awon goddess so instructed.

So strict is the adherence to her instruction that if there are no women to marry off in any particular year, girls from age 13, 15, even 12, are considered marriageable. This contravenes the Convention on the Rights of the Child which pegged marriageable age at 18.

This is one of the inspirations for my book A Girl’s Calender on Amazon. Several copies have been sold already. So no more dillydallying. Believe in this cause. Get your copy as well.

Amazon publishes A Girl’s Calender

1. 

PRESS RELEASE

Press Play Events is proud to release from its stable a new title, A Girl’s Calender published by Amazon on Kindle.

The novel tells the story of the girl child and the travails suffered by a girl’s rights advocate in bringing education to girls who do not go to school due to certain traditions and cultures.

It shows how in certain northern climes in Nigeria, girls are married off early. As a result, they experience health issues during child birth. Two common examples are vesico-vaginal fistula and maternal and child mortality.

Without meaning to incite ethnic or religious strife, it tells the story in a very compelling manner. Though the characters are fictitious, the story is based on true life experiences and happenings.

The book also exposes the hiccups in the criminal justice system in the country and how the judiciary and police contribute to the over-congestion of the prison inmates.

Relevance of the Book

About 3.5 million girls have no access to education, according to the United Nations. This book contributes to the ongoing awareness creation that girls must be educated.

It is a contribution to the feminine virtue and strength.

recommended use

• The book is a literary material that can be used to promote the reading culture amongst young people in various secondary schools. One of the major challenges of students of Literature is a lack of contemporary literature that is both enjoyable and relevant to the time. Most still have books such as Shakespeare in their curriculum. Students will have better ability to excel in English especially the Reading and Comprehension segment of a typical English paper, if they find the subject enjoyable and relevant. Besides the book contains no violent or sex language that could incite the reader into an unbecoming lifestyle.
• Secondly, the book is for entertainment as well as social value.

The perfect scenario for your character

There are different types of scene ranging from the home, courtyard, beach, school, offices, prison yard, court, police cell, wedding reception and so on and so forth.

What determines your scene is basically your story plot. The plot determines where your character is at the point in time.  This should determine the kind of scene that you will place he/she in. Whatever the scene you choose, you must study the common things found in such scenes. For example, things found in a hospital ward will definitely be different from things found in a hospital lobby or reception or a doctor’s consulting room. In order to enrich your writing, it is important to study such a scene. If your character is in a scene that you have never been to, perhaps a prison yard, then you may need to visit the yard or research what obtains in such an environment. You may interview prisoners asking them to describe their cells. And if you can’t visit the prison cell, you may need to don an online research, watch videos, study pictures to enable you have a full grasp of what you are writing about.

Authored by Abiose Adelaja Adams.

The Author is a midcareer writer and journalist. Having authored at least three books published on Amazon.com, A Girl’s Calender, Viral Diamonds, I am Not Afraid, she is passionate about coaching aspiring writers. She is the Chief Executive of the Global Center for Creative Writing as well as co-director of Pressplay Media Events, a company committed to mirroring societal ills through literary lens. For the purpose of Creative Writing, you can follow her on @itizwritten and www.facebook.com/pressplaymediaevents