Friday, 20 January 2017

Oppression of Womenfolk in the Society: is it a Divine Will?


I wrote this article as a feminist due to the glaring rights deprived the female folks which many including the females themselves are veiled from seeing. Before I begin the sail, let me quickly proclaim that my intention for baring the unseen is far from instigating rebellion in the female folks or infringing upon some blessed ways or kneading the already placid human relationship until it becomes ruffled. Rather, I put forth my thoughts into writing based on my brainstorming and events which have been unfolding before me since I became conscious of my existence.

I should start with the discourse of the plights faced by the girl child who has above all borne the cruellest brunt of gender mainstream. In most parts of the world especially the developing countries, a girl child is often treated more or less like a slave as compared to her male counterparts; she is considered a builder of an alien family rather than hers, so that as a consequence, she is deprived some opportunities which the boys get. As early as her breasts are seen, she's pushed down slippery matrimonial slope with little or no formal education.

It is shrewd to say that this issue of gender inequality didn't start in our age; it dates back to the days of yore. In fact, it was more appalling in those days. Not until recently, women were barred on the political stage; they were denied access to communal lands. A woman without a spouse was scorned till death, even by fellow women. Very often, women tilled the land while the men got the plaudits: this I prove with Achebe's magnus opus - Things Fall Apart as my guild: the man cleared the forest, felled trees, planted yams and staked the young tendrils while the women weeded the yam farm amid catering for their own cocoyam and cassava farms. But in the end, Okonkwo - the hero won all the accolades as a successful farmer.

The society in general has done apparently nothing to arrest the insidious issue of gender discrimination. Often times, the topic is swept to the dustbin as it's considered flippant. Most circumstances, when the word 'man' flips into a statement, it has positive meaning, whereas the reverse is the case when the word 'woman' appears. For instance, even mothers tease their lazy male children, 'you are a man, and hence stop behaving like a woman.' or 'why are you gossiping like women?'

This leads us into the issue of politics as affected by gender inequality. Over the years in the political atmosphere, women have been kept at bay. This is not unconnected with gender mainstream. Up till date, only few women have been able to climb the ladder to become leaders of their countries and kingdoms; a very alarming case begging for attention. It is worthy of note that in the 2011 presidential election in Nigeria, a woman ran for the PDP primaries, but had only one vote, and that was from herself. There were delegates who were women in that congregation. In some cultures, women are barred from choosing their leaders by virtue of voting - an infringement upon a very important fundamental right of vote and be voted for.

The viper called gender inequality has also sprawled its dank and venom-coated flesh to some vital social recesses of feminine life: a married woman must not stay out late, else tongues would be wagging, indicting her as promiscuous. Her husband could be pardoned for such offence. A man can marry as many wives as he can under one roof. But a woman who tries the 'taboo' is set for perdition. What inequality!

One could point out that women are at advantage during the war because they are not selected as warriors to brawl. But it is faintly true. Although men go to war and suffer severely, women are nowhere near better life during and even after the war. During the war, they are at home living and catering for their kids with fear and heavy heart. And sometimes when their territories are raided, they suffer rape and even death. After the war, those who have become widows become bread-winners for their families - a rather hideous job owing to societal discrimination and their physiological disadvantage.

Conclusively, a most irritating and obfuscating aspect of all is that nature in some way is in support of feminine oppression: at forty when most men are still sexually active, most women experience menopause.

This and others rolled in one leave me agape and forge a big question in my mind - question rhetorical as well as philosophical - oppression of women in the society: is it a divine will?


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Wednesday, 18 January 2017

If You Forget Me: Poem by Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine. 



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To His Coy Mistress: Poem by Andrew Marvell

-
Had we but world enough and time, 
This coyness, lady, were no crime. 
We would sit down, and think which way 
To walk, and pass our long love’s day. 
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side 
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide 
Of Humber would complain. I would 
Love you ten years before the flood, 
And you should, if you please, refuse 
Till the conversion of the Jews. 
My vegetable love should grow 
Vaster than empires and more slow; 
An hundred years should go to praise 
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; 
Two hundred to adore each breast, 
But thirty thousand to the rest; 
An age at least to every part, 
And the last age should show your heart. 
For, lady, you deserve this state, 
Nor would I love at lower rate. 

       But at my back I always hear 
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near; 
And yonder all before us lie 
Deserts of vast eternity. 
Thy beauty shall no more be found; 
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound 
My echoing song; then worms shall try 
That long-preserved virginity, 
And your quaint honour turn to dust, 
And into ashes all my lust; 
The grave’s a fine and private place, 
But none, I think, do there embrace. 

       Now therefore, while the youthful hue 
Sits on thy skin like morning dew, 
And while thy willing soul transpires 
At every pore with instant fires, 
Now let us sport us while we may, 
And now, like amorous birds of prey, 
Rather at once our time devour 
Than languish in his slow-chapped power. 
Let us roll all our strength and all 
Our sweetness up into one ball, 
And tear our pleasures with rough strife 
Through the iron gates of life: 
Thus, though we cannot make our sun 
Stand still, yet we will make him run.


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Friday, 13 January 2017

How Diversity in Language Has Destroyed Nigeria


About a year ago at the Lekki area of Lagos, Nigeria, while on a Yuletide visit to an Uncle who lives there, I had met a man – my host’s old acquaintance (for I could tell from the dialect they spoke)– who had visited with his Journalist wife of slim built and two chubby-looking children who appeared good and tender by all standard. One of the girls was perhaps four (the older one), while the other was a lovely toddler who drew irregular lines on my books when she wandered into my room.

One bright morning (for we had both come the previous night), while eating in the dining section, the man – middle-aged – had said to his wife, ‘Look at our children, they can’t even speak a Nigerian language. They only speak English.’ I saw frustration brewed in his brows, as if it were his one singular problem in the world. So while his wife defended herself that she could not speak the man’s dialect to the children because she did not know how to speak it, and while the man replied still with the same gloominess, that he didn’t care whether his children spoke his language or that of his wife; all he cared about was for them to master a Nigerian language, I was deeply engrossed in the discourse and thus tore off my reticence to dare give my thought. My voice was deep, devoid of the faintest coat of nervousness when I spoke:

‘Sir, diversity in language in developing country like Nigeria is a nuisance rather than a blessing.’ Said I. Then I saw a sudden glimpse of exasperation smeared over his face, which dissolved abruptly into something like pity (either for my disposition or for himself). But, this faded, replaced by a somewhat pitiful smile, when I added with the same confidence: ‘You know in this country, if one can find someone who can speak his tongue, he becomes so carried away that he can trade competency for familiarity. I am afraid, but I must say, one language is enough for Nigeria.’ The man nodded in consent either in admiration or to put an end to the topic (I couldn’t then tell from his countenance).

I have recalled this scenario in the beginning because it is quite pertinent I do. Before that morning, I had had no distaste for language diversity, and if I did, it was buried somewhere in my philosophical mind, so deep that I could not reach easily to get hold of it. Moreover, I had said what I said that morning to defend the woman; to make the worry all writ on the man’s faced disappear. But since that day, I began to think deep into this grave subject, weighing, with the same scale, the advantages and disadvantages, and discovered the later by far outweigh the former.

Language is powerful with respect to unity, or else the biblical Tower of Babel, would not have been foiled. And this wouldn’t have caused me any trouble, if my very close friend, while lamenting the mess Nigeria had yet been found, confided in me that studying countries with language and religious complexities around the world, he was able to find out that a common string binds them all – retrogression! Then he went on to tell me that majority (if not all the world powers) have common languages they speak in their countries; there was not as much diversity in language and religion as evident in Nigeria. I grappled on the ugly truth and at once felt soporific.

Yet, I wouldn’t have thought of a blog post as this – I would have ignored how language keeps segmenting Nigeria into a weak structure (keeping the youths at bay), while greedy politicians feed on the ruins without being noticed, because of the nightmarish effect of tribalism (a direct offspring of different languages) – if not that one of my friends had but last night given his own sad tale of how language had wounded him. According to him, he had taken a close friend – an Igbo boy – to a market in Lagos because he wanted to buy something. Unknowing to his friend that he could understand his language, his friend was communicating with the Igbo seller (who he did not know) on how best to extort him in the bargain. The results were breach of trust and hatred for language.


Filled with this thought, today, while some people spoke Yoruba very close to me, I became irritated by it, but I felt superiority over them because I spoke perfect English their tongues verily lacked. When they pointed to me that I was missing something nice as if they were devouring honey (because I couldn’t understand their tongue), I asked (in sarcasm) if they understood my dialect. Afterwards, I gave them a stern lecture why it may never cross my mind to speak any more language save the ones I know now. 

Ohikhuare Isuku
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Wednesday, 11 January 2017

I Am Not Humble: Poem by Ohikhuare Isuku

I am not humble, though
shyness may be my demeanor.
I can not be humble;
Humbleness is a virtue,
Only for the downtrodden,
Only for those whose heads
Are trampled upon by booths.

If you do not greet the elderly
In the morning,
You are not humble,
If you do not fall flat,
To wipe off the dust
From the rich man's shoes
With your tongue,
You are rude...

If you keep your speech stiff,
And do not cower,
In protesting against
Injustice against the poor,
You are rude, not humble at all.

I thus desire rudeness,
Detest the foolishness of humility,
For your feet can't
Find a flat land on my head
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Tuesday, 10 January 2017

A Hundred And Forty- Four Will Make Heaven? Intriguing!

For the last few days, my wing of friendship has hovered in this new place of adornment, this quiet settlement buried in the heart of the forest, and somehow it has found rest. It has found a balanced platform, where it can ruffle its plume of philosophical feathers, and still not waver off.

Often times in my friendship search, I scout those whom my philosophical questions would not prick, or who would not look at me in dismay when I ask, 'how sure are you about the virility of the bible?'. I am philosophical in my thoughts and speaking, and thus I have quite a large heart for inquisitiveness. I ask questions because it is from the crumbs of answers I get, I use to embellish my scholarly reserve.

I have met this wonderful fellow lately (a Jehovah Witness) who has received my philosophical questioning with lightness of heart and without the faintest shrink induced  on his face for want of courage to discuss something so 'blasphemous' about something celestial, so high above human knowledge and questioning. Our discussions have thus progressed for some days past now into something of a cognac so irrepressible, so true.

Few days ago (the day he told me he was Jehovah witness), he told me that in his Faith, it was believed that only one hundred and forty-four thousand would make heaven. I smiled peacefully at him, because I had heard this before from many of their Awake magazines which they assiduously share from door to door. After he had laid down his piece, I said to him, 'who are these one hundred and forty-four thousand?' And he replied - the Jews.

'Why?' I cried.

'They were chosen by God.' He replied.

'Does that mean I won't be counted among because I am not a Jew?'

The young man then heaved. I noticed his face was placid, and his lips were numbed as if dipped into a pail of ice. Seeing this initial vantage of mine, I struck again calmly and with beauteous balance: 'If Yoruba were so civilized enough long ago when the Jews did, if they could develop their own language six thousand years before and being able to write down the history of their creation, if a great teacher like Jesus was a Yoruba by birth and his preaching had been carried by the Roman Empire  and spread across the universe, God now would have been called Olorun all over the world and Yoruba people would have been regarded as the selected for the kingdom of God - those who are special. So don't raise one race above the other because history favoured them.'

My new Yoruba friend, nodding his head to consent, said, 'You are right.'

I cherished his frankness.
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Monday, 9 January 2017

The Kitchen: Poem by Warsan Shire

Half a papaya and a palmful of oil;
   lately your husband’s mind has been elsewhere.

Honeyed dates, goat’s milk;
   you want to quiet the bloating of salt.

Coconut and ghee butter;
   he kisses the back of your neck at the stove.

Cayenne and roasted pine nuts;
   you offer him the hollow of your throat.

Saffron and rosemary;
   you don’t ask him her name.

Vine leaves and olives;
   you let him lift you by the waist.

Cinnamon and tamarind;
   lay you down on the kitchen counter.

Almond soaked in rose water;
   your husband is hungry.

Sweet mango and sugared lemon;
   he had forgotten the way you taste.

Sour dough and cumin;
   but it cannot make him eat, like you.



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