… where sa-tyres never go flat
… where sa-tyres never go flat
This pot has seen things. It has seen me boil water I had no intention of using, just to convince my body that life was happening. It has seen me cook noodles with only pepper and pride. It has seen me measure crayfish like diamonds, count seasoning cubes like votes. My pot knows the weight of scarcity. It knows that sometimes, hunger is not a feeling. It’s a timeline.
When occasions call and yam is involved, fathers shun off their crying precious daughters—their once-upon-a-time apple of the eyes—and they sheepishly welcome a few tubers of yam to their mortar. Gbegiri, egusi and assorted will accompany the daughter’s dowry on the journey of no return.
People are raised to believe suffering is spiritual. They’re told to fast their way through emotional abuse, and to forgive predators if they can quote Psalm 91. We have glorified silence and called it submission. And because nobody wants to offend “men of God,” many people suffer in silence, hiding wounds under long skirts and choir uniforms.
If you’re the smooth talker, your job is simple: form alliances, overuse words like “representation” and “inclusivity,” and write long WhatsApp broadcasts nobody will read. If you’re the tyrant, be prepared to threaten, manipulate, and intimidate—yes, even your own campaign team. Either way, nothing must actually change on campus under your administration. That’s the golden rule.
“Guy, ask about me, I dey craze gan o,” the first man would assert. To which the second man would say, “Na where your madness stop, my own begin o!” That should have been my first clue that something was terribly wrong. How could sane people want to be mad so much?
You know who you must avoid? A woman who does not cook or clean every day, who outsources food and cleaning services regularly, who has a career, who is ambitious, or — God forbid — who hires nannies to watch her kids while chasing her dreams and living her life. The icing on the cake would be an unmarried woman, a divorcee, and a feminist who is also a baddie. LOL! This category of women are tagged “bitter, wicked, frustrated witches”.
Once upon a happenstance, the people of the valley where the sun rises were beset by all forms of marginalisation, subjugation, intimidation, exploitation and all other —tions that bode despair. They were treated like strangers — nay, pariahs — in their own country. Who would blame them for seeking to break away and forge a new path? There is a limit to what a people can endure.
The last time I coughed, I looked around to confirm that Banku was not at my back to demand a tax. Anything you do here, you must pay for it. This is how we live in the Bolebaji community. The only thing Banku and his bloodthirsty boys are satisfied you do for free is shedding tears of agony. Tears of joy are not free.
The one that is still paining me is the way they make rejection emails sound so sweet. If you won’t publish my work, simply say, “Sorry, we won’t publish this. Try again next time.” At least I’d get it straight up. But no, some magazines that love drama will first raise your heart rate with the arrival of the email.
There are many types of Fine Girls. We have the Fragile Princess, the Femme Fatale, and the Fancy Feminist—to mention just a few. Before you start assessing where you fit in, I need you to know that being a Fine Girl will cost you. It doesn’t matter what type of Fine Girl you choose to be. Not being a Fine Girl will also cost you; this one is certain. Remember that you are a woman: everything you do or refuse to do in this life will find a way to pull your wig.
