Nigerian Women Rock! My taxi driver thought I was crazy to go to Nigeria. African American himself, he said, “Those Nigerians are crazy. During market when he have long lines of taxis at the hotels we often have to call the police to break up fights between the Nigerians and the drivers from Sudan. It gets ugly. You be careful over there.” I heard that more than once.
Flying to Amsterdam I sat next to a Nigerian man going home for a visit. He introduced me to a pattern I often saw in Nigeria – unexpected flash flood emotions. He pointed repeatedly to his watch. “Look - what time is it? Look at the time, why are we not taking off?” Facing eight hours next to this 6 foot 3 inch Nigerian man I simply replied, “I don’t know. Maybe there are late passengers.” He scowls. He keeps looking out the window like he might spot the culprit and not seeing any sign of him, looks again at his watch and slams his back into his seat. I just bounce silently as he does this ten or fifteen times. “I am hot. It is hot in here.” I smile with genuine empathy and say, “me too, but help me understand what it is you think I can do about it.” He pauses, “I just thought I would tell you.” “Okay.” One full minute of silence and he erupts again, “I can no longer pretend I am fine. I am NOT fine. I am hot. I am taking my jacket off now.” I try to be supportive, “That’s a good idea. You should be cooler without it.” The threshold for Nigerian anger seems rather low. I saw it in the market many times. Sort of like the Italian’s enjoyment of yelling as sport. My seat mate then became incensed that I was writing in my journal. “When are you going to stop writing so you can talk to me?” I stop. “What would you like to talk about?” He says, “This flight is 12 hours.” Now, I happen to know that this flight is not 12 hours – but there ain’t no way I’m disagreeing with this dude. I wait until and attendant passes, “Ma’am how long is this flight?” “Seven hours 20 minutes.” His eyes widen at her audacity. Now he is really ticked. He looks me straight in the eye, “WHO told me it was twelve hours?” I make the international shrug that means, “some jerk, I guess.”
He begins a right leg jiggle, then switches to a fast thigh flapping movement that moves his knee rhythmically an extra two inches into my meager allotted space. His arm never budged from its place of dominion on our theoretically shared armrest for the full seven hours and twenty minutes. “Why is that woman on this flight? She is a mother – where did she get the money?” My response is unnecessary. This portion of our conversation is pretty much a monologue. “You know… it doesn’t take anything to be a mother. My wife she was angry I am going on this trip but I earned this money. It is mine to spend as I please. She sends all of her money back to her family – earning prestige with her family. I need a vacation. I like night life there is nothing to do in Phoenix where I live. I just work, go home eat, sleep and work.” He has five children and his wife has a full time job as a warden in a women’s prison. She works overtime at the prison without his “permission” for extra money to send home. I pray she is eating chocolate and watching a video as the plane finally taxis off. He’s less monster, and more a child playing one on TV. I smiled at the studied attention he gave to our safety instructions. He was so guileless as he carefully read the safety pamphlet, checked the location of his life vest and the nearest exit.
During the flight I read Chinua Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart” a Nigerian classic novel written in the 50s about the end of tribal life. I learned that when men are angry with their wives they refuse to eat food prepared by the wife. My seat buddy took a distinct dislike to the Latino flight attendant. It quickly became mutual. He refused to drink the tea he demanded of her. I leaned over and teased him, “That’s really getting her back – probably will keep her up late tonight.” He cut me a look and sullenly drank the tea. Every time she came down the aisle, he said loudly, ‘I do not like that women.” Or “She is ugly. Look at her trying to be a girl. She is at least fifty.” I began to call her his girlfriend as in, “Here comes your girlfriend” to distract the flow of invective. What a flight. I am glad I know the story about not delivering “a rebuke that cannot be heard.” It saved me lots of wasted effort.
In Achebe’s book people recite at a woman’s funeral: “For whom is it well? For whom is it well? There is no one for whom it is well.” A family stays with the father’s tribe until disaster or bad luck sends them to the mother’s clan.
Nigeria is second only to Bangladesh in corruption. It is highest among all countries in terms of religious observance. Sixty percent Muslim and forty percent Christian. Arriving in Abuja we were graciously met by the IODA conference team. Abuja is a created capital like Canberra. Placed in an area hard for any special group to claim as theirs. The groups that fight include hundreds of tribes in fifty languages, Muslim, Christian, warlords and political power mongers. Elections aren’t trusted as ballot boxes often disappear and most are openly rigged.
The best speaker was a woman who didn’t show up. She was in the hospital and had to send someone in her place. He read her speech and her words were still mesmerizing. The head of the equivalent of our FDA, Dr. Dora Ikunyilli has survived two assassination attempts and still perseveres in establishing and enforcing systems and laws that prevent the sale of fake or dangerous drugs. They’ve burned down her state of the art testing facilities and still she has managed to get one of the worst offenders to apologize publicly on TV. Loads of fake drugs are burned within days with the “owners” present to prevent the seizing and back door resale (or accusations of it) that was the trademark of old enforcement agencies. She has placed representatives in India and China the primary source of fake “cure AIDS” drugs sold on buses. What a woman.
We watch a show on TV because Ben our Nigerain organizer and Rita IODA president are guests. A scarfed Muslim woman talks of unsafe miscarriage and the rise of deaths. Turns out this is Muslim-speak for abortion which is as illegal as possible in Nigeria - even in cases endangering the mother’s death. Because no one in the country is allowed training or tools to perform any kind of abortion for any reason it makes the illegal ones even more deadly. A Nigerian male social worker is interviewed, “this is crazy. Women are more resolute than men. If a woman wants a baby she will give all her worldly goods and nothing can stop her from having a baby. It a woman does not want a baby, it is the same.” Good point, but so far no exceptions on the 100% total abortion ban – the mother’s life is not worth saving, and lawbreakers deserve it even less.
We went to the market. With my skin condition necessitating gloves, scarf long sleeves, hot only begins to describe high sun hours in the open market. Our guide Numso is bossy and curt with vendors. She herds us like goslings and we are too newly arrived to rebel. One small man was helpful locating good African beads. He hung around and she noticed my open wallet and grabbed a 10 Nira note. 1000 is about $8USD – He looked at it in his hand. I grabbed another note to add – unfortunately only a 20 Nira note. I regret the small amount. Five minutes later he came up and handed the 20N to me and the 10N to her. She began yelling, “You tell me how much you want then.” He yelled back, ‘I am not a beggar.’ I was powerless to undo the damage. A crowd gathered. He refused 200N and 500N notes, “I am not a beggar.” And then dropped his wrists and swept us, our money and our existence away with repeated sweeps of his two hands. She was embarrassed and he was humiliated. Lots of yelling and an excited crowd escalated the exchange. Numso later said he came up and apologized to her the next day. I doubt it. She just wanted to make me feel better.
We went to church both Sunday’s at His Father’s Court. Three back up singers, electric guitar, drums, keyboard and four nightclub quality lead singers that had me up and dancing with the crowd. My buddies – a Jew from Israel, a Buddhist from Thailand, and an atheist from Hungary – had never seen me show my southern black roots before. I loved it and reconnected to the Holy Spirit in a way I’ve been craving lately. The sermon was predictably patriarchal. I bought Nigerian authored books on how to be a good Christian woman and how to be a good Muslim woman and submission is quality number one for both. I don’t stand a chance. Although I enjoyed the preachers metaphor of "comparison shopping" for a religion so you don't end up like some teenage marriages unhappy vs. someone who has shopped around and then married “they continue to call their spouse darling long after the shine wears off." He said “go try Islam if and get your hand cut off for one sin, go try the shrine of Akira where the one with the most money wins the case, and then come back to Jesus.” The Shrine of Akira was in the news recently for the pile of corpses discovered in back. Apparently church and decisions about “cases” is intertwined as justice was always administered by the gods. Often Nigerians see “church” as a place to seek justice. This Shrine of Akira was “inviting” individuals for a case hearing and some of them never left. His other metaphors were fun too. There is a passage where Jesus asked the Pharisees, “does it offend you?” as in touching the unclean when doing good in the world. He talked about how much everyone (Nigerians - not me!) loves to eat snail (and we are talking giant steak sized snails barbequed on the grill). “But” he asked “when you look at the snail in its mucous, does it offend you? Yes? yet the meat is good to eat.” I guess you have to really love snail to get that one. The second Sunday we had a Muslim convert that fancied himself a revivalist. He paced, used repetition to a pounding volume then dropped to seconds of silence followed by whispered profound wisdoms. Scary dude. Divisive. Apparently Christians and Muslims get along just fine until someone wants power. He wanted power - his mouth watered for it.
I already knew that Nigerian women rock. They made international news when they forced an exploitative oil company to build a school and a hospital by threatening to take their clothes off during a public protest. Toki told me of seeing them do just that in 1982 when someone stole an election. Can you imagine the scene? Women from far and wide gathered in the streets, solemnly disrobed and marched naked to every house of every official involved in the scandal. She said the symbolism of “I have nothing left to lose” is more important than feelings of shame. What would you march naked for?
The women’s workshop was magic- even better than I dreamed. Beginning with a praise poem (adapted from a tradition of the Yoruba Tribe – my lineage, physical description, and essence) we introduce ourselves and see our “sameness” from the beginning. “I am Annette, the daughter of Harriet, daughter of Eunice, daughter of LaLa.” “I am Ulla, daughter of Margaret, daughter of ‘dash.’” “I am Fatima, daughter of Aisha, daughter of ‘dash’,” many of the women were the great granddaughters of “dash” and said they would ask her name when they got home. Some needed new paper because they wrote their father’s name in the space that said, “I am the daughter of…” It was a surprise to discover they never thought of themselves as their mother’s daughter.
The workshop was “women only” because I know from experience how charged the atmosphere gets with men present. Before we started, I had to ask a man from Sierra Leone to choose another workshop. I explained that women tell more of what they really feel when men are not present. The man from Sierra Leone understood. In fact, he smiled with understanding and applauded my reasoning. When a woman speaks up about being marginalized, men feel attacked or somehow responsible and therefore attacked Even my boyfriend can’t hear my stories without identifying with one of the male characters or becoming so protective he forgets about me and wants to kick some stranger’s ass. In both situations men stop listening, move to “protect,” and women retract their story or the conversation gets combative. I wanted to give women space to tell the truth without tending to men’s discomfort.
The reason we argue about gender power issues is that the topic is totally subjective. Whenever a woman infers “men keep women from power” a man directly counters with, “Not true, women run my life!” And both are true. This looping dead-end conversation seems to occur on all continents and in every language. Both are true and false at the same time. Instead of arguing about it, the payoff for women is in understanding our feelings about power. When women can admit hidden negative feelings and frequently unique definitions of power with high internal and low external payoffs we learn what keeps us stuck.
We were twenty women packing as much diversity as you can manage into twenty bodies. My skin is pale, I am slim and small but energetic. My skin is very dark and beautiful, I have small feet and a wide African nose. I am blond and well proportioned but I have a very big nose, my father used to tell me it made me look strong, for many years I did not think so but now, I do. My body is abundant and my skin is light coffee colored, I have a pointed nose so that some think I am not African. I have dark skin, flat feet, and a strong body. My hair is silver but my spirit is young, my body is a mother’s body, strong and soft, ferocious and tender, I am full of paradox.
What do women want? I spun a dramatic and vivid version of Lady Ragnell, complete with graphic beheading and an ugly Ragnell with skin like a rhinoceros, face warts sprouting hairs and tiny peg teeth spaced too far apart. In the end Sir Gawain finally says “I choose whatever it is you choose for yourself” and his wisdom breaks the terrible spell that keeps Ragnell ugly during the day and beautiful only at night. Some interpretations were new for me. “I think being powerful can make you ugly, sometimes.” In my version, I had King Arthur’s wife whisper an answer to the giants riddle “what is it that women want most?” which he waved off. Many women liked that part. “ If men would listen to their wives earlier they could save themselves much pain.” I am reminded that Ben (Nigerian) told of a painting that “summed up Nigerian family life.” The father sits in an easy chair while two of his wives wag their fingers in his face, scowling. He ignores them and smokes his cigar, head back and eyes shut. Nigerian men often have up to four wives. The traditional family compound is a circle with five huts. He and his four wives each have their own. Numso told me the outdoor space in the middle is for the evening play, stories, and so the wive’s arguments occur outside where they are in no danger of “blowing the roof off of one of the huts.”
After discussing the story, we told our personal stories about “The last time I felt powerful.” Ngira told of her work as a journalist – not a respected job in Nigeria. How one day she had for “no reason” retrieved her passport from the place her husband kept the family passports. She was happy she had because the next week she was invited to attend a conference in another country. She sent her passport for visa approval. Her husband was furious, “Who told you, you could go…I am the man of this family and if I want to take my family on vacation I will decide when and where and we will go as a family.” For two weeks he refused to speak to her. She served his favorite food. She talked to every person he respected and begged them to talk to him and intercede on her behalf. Nothing worked. He told her to stop sending “her messengers.” Even my western mind could grasp that she would never go without his permission. But at the last minute, he not only granted her permission he gave her $1000USD to for shopping. She was ecstatic. She then slowed down her telling for emphasis and told how when she arrived home the entire family was at the airport to greet her and her husband had arranged a party. The other African women’s jaws dropped when she said he shopped for the food and invited the people himself.
An American woman told of how she protected her son from an abusive father and ended up divorced. Her son is now a talented and well known artist. She did well. Dijai told about having the courage to contact the local Catholic Church to help with “reproductive health” education classes. Tersia had us in stitches with her story of insisting one of the 200 male Nigerian soldiers volunteer to demonstrate how to apply a condom. She held a straight face as she finally chose a volunteer too proud to refuse and only smiled when his face beamed with relief at the sight of a wooden phallus.
Karen was still shaken from a death threat back home in South Africa. She wasn’t sure if the cars tailing her were only to intimidate or for real, but her back straightened as she told of driving her car nose to nose and recording the license plate number without a trace of fear as she stared the other driver down.
Fatima, the only woman on the school board in her Muslim community investigated an unfair sanction on a female student past the point the men considered reasonable. She tracked a long trail back to a male administration official who considered the student rude and had arbitrarily delayed her graduation two years. Normal delay for maternity leave was one year. He insisted it was not a personal issue. In the meeting she said, ‘Look at this woman. I know she is not your wife but this is an investigation and it is acceptable for this once. Do you know this woman?” There were too many witnesses for him to deny it. Fatima got the woman reinstated with her graduating class.
Chiomo told of young man who had hocked his car for a short term loan. He was about to lose the car for a tenth of its value because he did not yet have the cash. He had exhausted all avenues before he finally came to Chiomo with his story. She was beaming as she described the power of knowing she had her own money and did not have to ask her husband for permission. “It felt so good to write that check. I don’t know if he will pay me back or not, but that wasn’t the point. It felt so powerful to have the money to give if I chose to.”
Toki wrapped it up with a gripping life or death story of a distant nephew in a second rate hospital with bleeding stitches after running into a plate glass door. The doctors said he was fine. She was not his mother, not even a real aunt but she said she was sure…completely sure he was NOT fine. It was pure intuition but she “just knew.” Unable to get assistance from she checked him out of that hospital and took him to a better one. She argued with a series of doctors who examined him and pronounced him “fine.” Her “real” job was crazy. She managed via cell phone and short trips back to the office while keeping pressure on the doctors who finally discussed the case at their staff meeting. As a result, they reopened the stitches and found a four inch blade of glass. The young boy would have lost his leg and maybe his life without her intervention. The hospital has changed intake procedures as a result.
After these stories the circle of women was sacred. Someone sent me a quote. I cannot find the author. Perhaps it was “anonymous” – She said, “If one woman ever told the entire truth about her life the universe would crack wide open.” We cracked opened the universe a bit that morning.
Chief Emeka Anyaoka was hopeful that Nigeria is on the right track to justice through free universal primary education, political reform to destroy corrupt power mongers, and new trade agreements like NEPA. He points out that Africa is not poor – Africa is rich with natural resources. It is Africans that are poor and they are poor because they cooperate in their own exploitation by acting like victims. He quotes St. Augustine “Government without justice is a band of robbers.” Right now financing a road costs enough to build ten roads because of all the money that goes to inflated contractors and bribed officials. He is setting up due process for all government contracts, independent investigations and most important a declaration of assets for all public officials. Prof. Ihobvere went further to talk about how politics became business with judges and politicians for sale. He described how the elite privatized their own sources of education, their own private security forces even their own electricity (generators) so the lack of public services was immaterial to them. My question about election reform got a very creative answer. He said, “All systems can be corrupted – and will be as long as political office here provides 8-12 cars, free phone, travels expenses paid, servants enough for wives and girlfriends…now we make the political office less attractive to those who only want the power and perks by making it one car, limited phone, and no servants. Suddenly elections are not so attractive for stealing.”
Alhaji Bashir Adamu Jigawa State Commissioner for Finance and Budget Implementation came to brief us on the new values based organization for civil servants for the state of Jigawa. Value Number One: 1. “Total submission to the teaching of Islam along with a full commitment to the religion.” Value Number Two 2. is Honesty, then 3. Good conduct. 4. Justice Equity and 5. Obedience to leaders whenever they are on the right path. They play “jingles” over the PA system that are passages from the Koran, like one about punctuality whenever stragglers are coming in late. In a survey “honesty” was the biggest problem. Low responses indicate sexual discrimination/harassment are not problems – wonder if that has anything to do with the fact that less than 16% of the respondents were female. Ah…Muslim country where you can smell the freedom in the air.
Okay I’m being divisive but Nigeria sort of inspires belligerence. Lydia Umar re-ignited my love for peace by talking about how women bring answers men don't see. Rather than looking at peace as “conflict resolution” why not concentrate on the practice of peace so we cultivate peace on a daily basis rather than “wait for conflict then run to go fix it.” She said it is like washing the outside of a building and leaving it dirty inside (good female style metaphor). She was very clear that continuous rehearsal of peace is not cheap. We must invest time, money and energy in peace. Yamah Mohammed was much more focused on lack of funding for police and the under funding of the judiciary. We come from different planets don’t we?
The last day we drove to the Niger River and crossed in a boat to a traditional village. The children and I played. We chased a lizard and sang each other songs. There is a school there but as far as I can tell no one takes it very seriously. The “You are Welcome” greetings rang out as any new person noticed our presence. “You are welcome” a traditional greeting delivered with genuine warmth. Of course I immediately follow with “thank you” and never quite get over how backward that sounds.
I love Nigeria and Nigerians. Proud beautiful people with passion who dance and sing with abandon and earthy connection. My African dancing is better but I still have a few movements to practice.
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