BE WOMAN. BE FREE

I envy old women. And it is not because I want to grow old. Why skip the good part? There is an immunity that comes with aging. It cloaks them with invincibility and grants them unlimited freedom. The kind that lets them do as they deem fit.  The kind that lets them grow wings and fly. So no one raises an eyebrow when their contours do not contour. No one notices that their earrings are better off hanging in a museum. Or that their outing clothes—their best combination of what they had rather than what matched—looks like the hurried work of a colour blind artist. Even more, no one notices that they do not bow before every man in a glorious praise of their masculinity—this herculean task. Or gush over their holy rare achievement of being male. 

More so if they had children. No. Not  young ones. I mean the grown ones. They say, ‘Who knows what she went through to raise them? Sacrifices. How many she had to please to keep her marrriage? Societal expectations. Who knows how often she had to gamble? Chances and Compromises.  There are not many years left, anyway.’ So they let them fly. But not so for the young. Not so. I digress. This is not how I intended to begin this story. So let me try again. 

 

Photo Credit: Joshua Oluwagbemiga

One would have thought that what I am about to tell you do not happen at this time and age. Not with this woke generation. Not in a university located in the capital city. I thought so too. How mistaken I was. And angry. These are things that I had assumed happened in rural areas where equality seems illusional and women's rights are less championed. Perhaps if it were so, I would have found it forgivable. They do not know better. But when this very simple event happens under the glaring sun, I knew we still had a long way to go. 

My day had started relatively well, if you do not count waking up late. I pulled up long forgotten memories of boarding school mornings when I had to bathe and prepare in the twinkle of an eye for direction. It turned out that I never forgot. Soon enough, I was on my way out. If you know the federal university system well enough, you will know that students' housing arena is very much different from the lecture rooms, if not far. We use kekes (tricycle) and shuttle buses to convey ourselves to school. You'll also know that it could take a while for them to load, if you're unfortunate. I was unfortunate. The lucky one had just filled up the first keke and they zoomed off before me. I promise you, I didn't take it personal. What I did take personal was the teases of other Keke drivers who, sensing my desperation, asked me to take drop. Drop is when a person pays for the entire seats in the keke. This way, he can be taken to his destination without any stop to pick passengers. It is usually for people in a hurry who want to fast track the load system. It can also be for snobbish rich people who do not like sharing rides. Yes. I am in a hurry. No. I am not rich. So I headed for the next keke in line to load. 

Photo Credit: Clarke Sanders

'U no go like take drop,' the keke drivers teased.

I kept walking.

Another said, 'Enter make we move fas fas.' 

I raised my head and straightened my shoulders.

One came closer. 'Come nah. You go go late o.'

I huffed. And puffed. 

'Fine girl like you no get money for drop.' 

I deflated. Chaii! this one enter. I would have been angry but where is the lie? I did not have money for drop and since no one pays me to be fine in Nigeria. I jejely bent my head to fit into the Keke. At least, I get to choose my favorite spot—at the edge. There, I could forget my classes for a while, pretend like I am one with nature and soak up its ambience. If I am lucky, I won't even feel guilty like I am wasting my father’s money. Or deal with the anxiety of missing classes. Are they giving number? What if it is an exam question? Are my friends recording? Can I cover up? Is it cover up-able?

Imagine my relief when two more girls joined. And my displeasure when the fourth, a guy, joined. The first girl had chosen the front seat with the driver. The other girl, like me, took the other edge.  Apparently, there is a written law somewhere preventing guys from staying the middle. Ironic, isn't it? Since I am studying law. I should know. But I don't. So when this guy says that he cannot sit in the middle flanked by two women, I kept my face blank and faced my front. 

Photo Credit: Miguel Bruna

He looks at me—perhaps the most seemingly pliant—and tells me to shift. I look at him and tell him point blank, “I will not.” I told him that if he had a specific seat preference, then he should have come earlier to take it before others. Better still, he should have just paid for drop so he could sit anywhere he deemed fit. But if I waited this long, it is to stay in my favorite seating position. He glares at me. I glare back. 

The tension was thick in the air. The keke driver decided to intervene, and chose the wrong side. He came to me and told me to move in. According to him, nwoke adighi ano na etiti (Men do not stay in the middle). You see, I wasn't born at a time I should have.  A time when women were seen not heard. A time when I had to show the quality of my upbringing by compliance. A time when to be good was to obey. To be agreeable. I thought to myself, ‘I am good, but I won't obey’. Believe me, it was tasking. I was brought up in a culture where aging means wisdom. Yet, here I am telling myself that even fools grow old. We had begun to gather attention. Everyone waited for my reaction with bated breath. I turned to him and asked, 'do you apportion your seat according to gender?' He moved his lips, nothing came out. I watched his face morphed into confusion. I let myself enjoy the sight before I continued. 'If you did, you should have put it on a notice board and saved our time. Until you do, I am not moving.'

Photo Credit: Houcine Ncib

I saw his confusion easen out to irritation. 'What to do with this stubborn girl' splattered all over his face. If I weren't so irked, I would have laughed. It was that look people gave me when they expect me to have sense because I wear glasses. And behave in some certain way because they have judged me ‘good’ based on my physiognomy.

But at my second decade attempt at life, I have come to find that being good did not mean blind compliance. In fact, I had never felt gooder better. I also felt righteously indignant at this man that wanted to rob me of my morning peace. This must be what Rosa Parks felt when she was told to give up her seat for a white. Except that in my case, I am leaving it for a guy just about my age. To live up to her, I sat stubbornly, with my chin up, refusing to move an inch. At that time, I had forgotten my major purpose for the morning: getting to class in time. In fact, I had even told him, ‘I will rather leave your Keke than move.’

Photo Credit: Thought Catalog

 Believe me, I felt his pain. Torn between the economic incentive that drove him out of his house in the wee hours of the morning and preserving the culture he had grown up with. Thinking back now, I must have been a serious impediment. Those stubborn tooth holes that won't heal and won't fill up.   Fortunately, the girl at the other side, apparently better bred and a more deserving aide to the Ukraine peacekeeping corp, chose to give up her seat for the middle position. Viola! Our problem was solved. But not without him giving me a bucketful of advice on my God-given role as a woman. ‘Don’t ever forget your duties again,’ he added, ‘maka ubochi ozo.’ And drove off.

I sat back and enjoyed the perks of the seat I had chosen, the cause of my problem. Well, the other one. I knew by then that I will never make it to class on time. So I can as well enjoy the cold slaps of the morning air on my face as it brought me to my reality. I let myself wander. This is not the first time I have had to let go for being female. What more will I have to give up? My left kidney? Will it ever end?  In my country, a female senator has just been suspended for making sexual harassment claims against the senate president. How many more of such men do we have to put up with? Yesterday, my friend ranted to me about a date gone wrong. It was sad, since I had rooted for this guy. He looked like he had sense. The man told her that it is a good thing she bagged her degree. Even better if she lets it stay in the bag. ‘I don't understand,’ I tell her. 'Neither did I,' she replied, 'until he explained further.' He said that nature did not build women to work. This is why they come back too tired to respond to their husband's advances. But same cannot be said for men. They work, come back and perform just fine. ‘Even better,’ he grinned. It led him to a simple conclusion:  my wife won't work. He must have felt like a genius because he expected a better response. Gratitude-filled, perhaps. Not a ‘good thing she is not me.'  End of date. My ears cringed as she told me. 

Screenshot of Chimamanda Adichie's Interview (Dream Count) 

I want to be woman. And free. I don't want to have to grow old to fly. To be allowed to deviate from conventions and culture. To have the rules slack in my favour. I want to fly right now, unhinged. I felt two things: a  molten green jealousy for the old. And the other? Pride. I was proud of myself for standing up to what I felt was right. 

Since I am very practical, on a good day, I will let you indulge me in an argument on how I could have saved my time by letting him have the seat. You will smile in triumph when you confirm that I would have done it for an older person.  Then, I will also tell you that giving up my seat was not the issue. That I wouldn't have had any problem conceding—out of my freewill—if it were an old man whose legs were about to give up. Or a pregnant woman allergic to shared air. Or even a man that asked kindly.  I will tell you that it is his sense of entitlement that hurt me the most. If you indulge me further, you will hear my fears. What if I never become free? Will I ever live for myself? If you're not looking, which I hope you're not, you won't see me wipe a tear (If you like look, shaa, it's a good thing that I wear glasses). 

Screenshot from IWD website

It is international women's day. I won't have agreed better with the theme: accelerate action. That day, I almost gave up a seat. Women have given up more. And you know it. It is a long walk to freedom. But it doesn't have to be any longer. Support the supporters. Accelerate Action. Let her be woman. Let her be Free. 

To every Rose that grew from Concrete; Blossom!