#BringBackOurGirls: Lend Your Voice, Don't Stay Silent

A Nigerian guy and his Caucasian girlfriend moved into our house last weekend. Last night as they were having dinner, she asked him if he had heard of the over 200 girls that were taken from Nigeria. He said he had,’since last week’. Then she said… “but it’s in the news because nobody seems to be doing anything about finding them”. She added that international celebrities are lending their voice to asking questions about bringing them back. The guy’s response was: “It’s good for them”. I nearly choked on my salad. I wasn’t sure I heard him properly, neither did his girlfriend, because she said: “I don’t understand”. He clarified, “It’s Hausa people killing themselves. They should go and sort out their problems.” WHAT? I mean, I’ve seen stupid comments like this on Twitter and even in the comments section on blogs but I never imagined I’d meet a human being who actually thought like this. His voice had so much conviction. “Hausa people killing themselves?” I was trembling in anger. My father was born and raised in Niger State. He was born in Wushishi, grew up between Pandogari and Minna. He went to secondary school in Jos and uni in Zaria. He only came to the south in his 30s. My mother is a Jos girl through and through. For all intents and purposes, my parents are Northerners. I am a Yoruba girl with Northern parents. That statement made my blood boil. “Hausa people are killing themselves?” “It’s good for them?” If there are many more people who reason like this then what are the chances that our girls will be found? Here lies the thrust of all our problems in Nigeria. The disunity is deep and real. It’s far reaching, and I wonder if we can truly see ourselves as one – especially in trying times as this. These missing girls could be your kids, or my kids. They could be you or me. When the Nyanya bomb went off, there was no marginalization of religion, or tribe – it was a mass murder, for which nobody has been held accountable. These injustices prevail while we sit, do nothing and pray for the best. There are protests organized across Nigeria today. Here’s a chance for you to lend your voice to something. If you are unable to join the protest, tell someone about it. If you have access to the internet, use that tool to help bring change. We cannot underestimate the power of social media. Yesterday evening I saw a comment on Tiwa Savage’s Instagram page stating that she should have changed her name to Tiwa Balogun and not Tiwa Savage. In the bigger scheme of things, someone is more concerned about Tiwa’s change of name or lack of it therein? We need to be able to prioritize. What is important to us as a people? What is the basis of our value system? While we sit and complain about whether patriarchy should still be the prevalent value system, our economy is being eroded terribly; innocent lives are lost and our standard of living keeps dropping. While we complain about whether ‘celebrities’ are lending their voices to causes, we don’t realize that we’re not doing anything in our little corner. If you think a celebrity is just using a cause to improve his stats with his fans, think about the fact that he/she is actually doing one Indomie pack more than you – who is doing nothing. Every little thing counts… even if it means telling one person that it’s not about Hausa people killing themselves, then you’ve done something. If you’re in Lagos and you can join the #BringBackOurGirls protests, please do so. If what you can do is buy a pack of bottled water for those who are protesting, then do something. If what you can do is spread the word about the protests, then by all means… spread the word. But, please let’s not stay silent. This is about you. Let’s do this for the Chibok Girls. Those girls have faces, they have dreams, they have people who love them. They’re not just statistics. They’re not just ‘Hausa people’. Let’s bring back our girls. *** Originally written for BellaNaija.com

The Delight of Pembrokeshire

One of the best things about doing a Masters in Creative Writing at Swansea Uni is the teaching staff. It was one of the decisive elements for me with regards coming for the course and so far I have had no regrets. So it was with great joy that I received the information that one of my tutors was having a production of one of his plays done in Pembrokeshire – and we were invited. Awesome. As part of the Dramaturgy module, we were expected to see as many plays as possible, to enable us broaden our perception of dramatic writing and production. Going to see this play up in Pembrokeshire was like being in Fun School, and this brought out the 16 year old in me. Arrangements had been made for us to spend the night at the Druidstone hotel. We were getting a neat deal for a night in a cottage up at the hotel, and we rescheduled our Monday plans to allow us spend a luxuriously lazy day up in the countryside. Now, as an international student, the extent of my sights and sounds of Wales was just Swansea and Cardiff. There was the occasional stare at the map in wonderment at the idea of places like Bangor, but for me, Swansea a pretty good estimation of Wales. How terribly myopic. That Sunday, together with 3 other lovely ladies, I went on my first adventure outside my Swansea cocoon. I had planned that I was going to have my earphones plugged in my ear and I’d spend the 2 and half- hour ride peering at my Kindle. I mean, what exciting thing could hold my attention for the length of the ride? From coach ride experiences, I knew watching the unending stretch of black tar with white markings was no productive use of time. However, the ride to Pembrokeshire was different because as we drove further away from the city, the beauty of the countryside hit me. I wanted to know more. The clear blue skies met the lush green fields in the horizon in a sprawling display of colour. It felt like nature was showing off and there was no better evidence of it as there were long stretches of fields with lambs grazing and sheep adding light speckles of white against landscape. It was indeed a good day to be out there, and it opened my eyes to how limited one can be if one does not go out there. With school and other lifestyle adjustments, it’s extremely hard to take time out to see beyond the university community and city. However, the entire experience of being so far away is lost if one doesn’t explore beyond one’s oyster. I chided myself with these words as the fields rolled on both sides of the roads. When we got to the little town of Haverfordwest, I asked if we could do this more often. But we had only just started. We looped through the narrow windy roads of the town as we tried to navigate ourselves through Little Haven, and Broad Haven to get to our hotel. I had been told that the Druidstone was a hotel by the sea but nothing prepared me for the immense beauty of the Irish sea. I soaked in the sights of the towering grass and moss covered hills. Beside the hills were sharp crags and cliffs against which the force of the winds and the tide of the sea created a beautiful contrast of the ephemeral and the solid. Because right there, standing by the edge of the cliff, the waves, sand and skies transported me beyond the physical. There are no accurate words to describe the way the bluish green tones of the beach juxtaposed against the brown and grey of the cliffs. I wanted to be as close to the sea as possible. This was nothing like Swansea... it was like being let into an intricate Welsh secret. I wanted to be there forever. That Sunday night, as I watch the talented Welsh actor, Richard Elfyn, work his magic on the stage at the Druidstone, my heart yearned for the possibilities for creativity. It was creativity that could only be birthed by being in a place so wonderfully kissed by nature. At 7am the following morning, I slipped into my running shoes and headed for the beach. Walking along the trail, I imagined the people who had walked this path before me. I wondered about their lives, and their dreams. I wondered if they looked out in the sea and felt its powerful allure. I wondered if they told their children that the highland cows were special to them. I wondered if the farm hands that cared for the ponies looked into the beautiful skies and dreamt of a brighter future. I wondered if they realized how totally blessed they were to experience the Pembrokeshire Delight. After that trip, I came to the conclusion that it would be remiss of me to end my time as an international student at Swansea University without exploring more parts of Wales. My trip to Pembrokeshire was an eye opener. It said to me that I could find beauty, peace and joy in the simple things. The Pembrokeshire Delight was a perfect amalgam of these simple things. *** This piece was originally written by me for The Swansea Waterfront

Nobody Likes a Snitch.. Or Do They?

As the youngest child, I'd constantly give my parents the scoop on things that went on around the house when their backs were turned. It wasn't long before I learned that I suffered more from telling than from keeping my mouth shut. With cousins and siblings studying at the Nigerian Military School, Nigerian Defence Academy & Command Secondary School, I was treated to all sorts of special military type punishments. Imagine the kind of cruelty that would have thought of "Angle 90" but with a Technical Drawing board on your outstretched arms… loaded with Ababio, PN Okeke, and Modern Biology. I quickly learned to adopt the posture of a mute, with a worst case scenario being "I didn't see anything. I didn't hear anything. I wasn't there. I was sleeping".

For the past 5 days, my neighbours have been having a jamboree of some sort. The jamboree starts around 11pm. Children squealing, adults laughing and singing along to equally loud music. On Friday, I noticed they had installed an extension to their front porch. The extension was decorated with garlands and blue electric lights. Ah, that probably explains all the noise; it's a wedding. So all weekend, I bore the incredible night noise with quiet resolve. But something happened last night. It became unbearably loud. It was like being in bad, loud Karaoke at 2am. They were yelling along to all sorts of music. I tossed and turned. 'Make them stop. Let someone get tired. Let a fuse blow. Something, anything to just give me peace'. It didn't happen. So, I reckoned, why not go there and have a nice chat with them. You know, like in the trailer of that movie Bad Neighbours. So at a little after 2am this morning, I went over there to knock, just to say, 'Please keep it down a bit. I'm trying to sleep. Early start on Monday'. That sort of thing. I knocked, knocked, and knocked. No juice.

I went back to my room to try and sleep, but the noise was unbearable. So, I called the police. 20 minutes after, the problem was solved. But, I woke up this morning feeling like a snitch. Did I really report a misdemeanor to the police? When did I become one of those old women who reports noise making?

Then, I wondered again why reporting was such a bad thing. In light of the Abuja bombings this morning, I've had cause to think about this method of identifying the source of our problems. I mean, these bomb makers have neighbours, they have cousins, friends, relatives. Surely somebody somewhere knows they're getting up to no good. If your son was building a bomb in your backyard, would you report? Or are we so terribly scared of the consequences that we'd rather not say anything?

This morning, someone who would have gotten to her office, turned on her computer, read Atoke's Monday Morning Banter, is dead. She is dead because someone knew that there was a plan to take explosives to Nyanya park, this morning , and didn't say anything.

One wonders if we should be more proactive by snitching. Maybe we're not because we feel it's not going to yield any rewards anyway. However, I strongly believe in the trickle down effect. The dominoes rule. Like a house of cards, one tip and it sets off a chain of effect.

Please share your thoughts with us this morning, because we need to be able to do something. Not everybody can be an FBI field agent, that's why there are Confidential Informants. If as citizens, we can do something, then maybe we should. If we're not, then why? Maybe there's something else we can do in our own capacity. Something other than prayers - because we've been praying since 1960 and we still aren't making progress.

Have a lovely week ahead, against all the odds. It's such a grim Monday. Keep your head up.

Peace, love & cupcakes.

Toodles!

__________________________________________________

This post was originally published on BellaNaija.com

Book Review: John Grisham's Sycamore Row

My introduction to John Grisham was through the book Pelican Brief.  As a teenager who dreamt of becoming a lawyer, I was thrilled by his ability to talk about the practice of law while weaving a crafty web of intricate plots and stories. Many years later, and having read quite a number of his titles, it was with great joy and anticipation that I picked up his most recent book, Sycamore Row.

Set in 1988, as a sequel to his first book A Time to Kill, Grisham establishes that he still has the capacity to spin a yarn, decades later. Describing Sycamore Row as a sequel to A Time to Kill is not completely accurate. Especially as the story in the former is not a continuation of the latter. Some of the characters in the earlier story to make an appearance in Sycamore Row but the narratives are markedly different.

Wealthy businessman Seth Hubbard is dying of cancer and carefully orchestrates his own death. The body of the 70 year old is found by one of his employees, hanging from a Sycamore tree.  Being a meticulous planner, he leaves a note which eliminates any suspicion of foul play. He writes a holographic will, which disinherits his children and gives the bulk of his estate to his black housekeeper -- Lettie Lang. Seth also gives 10% of the estate to his church and his long-lost brother, Ancil ­-- in equal proportion. This new will is put in the mail to the office of our hero from A Time to Kill, Jake Brigance.

Seth and Jake have no prior association, but Seth states in his letter that Jake was chosen for the task ahead because of the good work he did with the Carl Lee trial (from “A Time to Kill”). Seth knows that his testamentary document is going to cause uproar. Warning Jake in advance, he writes:  “My estate is substantial – they have no idea of its size – and when this is made known they will attack. Fight them, Mr. Brigance, to the bitter end. We must prevail.”

And with that, Grisham unveils the story and takes us on the journey of finding out just how much Seth is worth and why he has made this unusual bequest to Lettie.

We are re-introduced to characters from the previous book; and while nothing has changed much with respect to their personalities, Grisham manages to use them to build and support the main framework of the story.

Lucien Wilbanks has bursts of insight when he isn’t drowning in alcohol, and together with Harry Rex, (also, a character who struggles with liquor and boundaries) they help with the progression of the story.

There are times when the narrative is long-winded; Grisham takes us on journeys into the lives of certain characters but, he doesn’t fully resolve their position in the plot. He spends a lot of time developing the character of Booker Sistrunk and kicks him out of the book halfway through. There is an attempt to give him  a certain relevance towards the end but it falls short of being effective.

Grisham employs the omniscient point of view style of storytelling. He basks in breaking all the rules as he jumps from the head of one character into that of the next. But, he does it so skillfully that there is no doubt in the mind of the reader about who is thinking what. The fact that Grisham chooses to tell use that tool to weave the tale,  helps with the transitioning of the plot because the reader is constantly moving with the character. This aids the pace of the book a whole lot.

He makes readers fall in love with the intricacies of the law and speaks through his characters, like a true lawyer.

As Carla Brigance asks her husband: “Why in the world do you want to be a trial lawyer?” Grisham, through gives us a glimpse into why every trial lawyer does what he does : “Because I love it. It’s what being a lawyer is about. Being in the courtroom, in front of a jury, is like being in the arena or on the field. The competition is fierce.”

The reader is also shown that like any game being played, the law can be dirty and extremely messy. “Ethics are determined by what they catch you doing. If you don’t get caught, then you haven’t violated any ethics.”

Grisham also dips into the issues of racial division in Mississippi, taking us on a historical trip to a place so horrible that we feel an intense desire never to return to a time so cruel and barbaric.

As Jake strives to ensure that Seth’s wishes are carried out, he has to face the challenge that is posed by the school of sharks representing the interests of the children now disinherited by the holographic will.

Sycamore Row is a great book which is a reflection of the author’s skill at being a legal fiction writer as well as a voice for the obscure Southern lawyer. There are salient issues enumerated in the story but he doesn’t smack the reader over the head with it. Rather, he slowly sheds light towards them in faith that he has passed the message across. His style is such that you will indeed get the message. It is not Grisham’s finest or most interesting work, but it is definitely a page-turner.

Who Am I?

Who am I? That has got to be one of the most difficult questions to answer. One wonders whether one should answer with one's name, one's profession, one's status in life...

It is basically supposed to be the complete embodiment of who one is.

I attempted to answer the question as part of a blog series that my friend hooked me up with. This piece was originally published on Opinion's Utopia. I hope you enjoy reading it.

*****

Who Am I?

I am Yoruba 

Deep, rich and cultural. The heritage passed on to me from my parents will not be left to waste. With my knees darkened from constantly scraping the ground in humility and obeisance, I proudly bear carry my history within my soul. A wellspring from the fountain of Oduduwa, my culture teaches me to embrace hard work. The ability to know right from wrong, the vision to see that which is true and real. 

I am Passion 

 Fiercely protective and emotional, I am energy and life. I have an unending desire to do more, to be more. I strive for a better tomorrow. Constantly seeking to push the boundaries, I glow with the passion of my cause.

I am Loyalty

Faithful and diligent, I stick closer than a brother. I’ll hug you close and never let go. Allowing the warmth of my heart radiate through my smile, I’m here to catch you when you fall. Crying with you when you are sad, wiping your brow when you’re ill and slapping sense into you when you need it.

I am Short 

My height or lack of it is my shield and my sword. I am constantly reminded that life is about choices. I choose to wear my height with pride. Not standing higher than my 5ft frame my spirit soars far above skyscrapers.

I am Music 

One with music. It flows through me and reminds me of a better place. Restoring my faith in humanity, the sound flows through my veins. I allow the harmony and the rhythm of sound soothe me. The soft thud of the drums, the delightful chords from the violins forming the beautiful essence of my soul.

I am Love 

Striving to be everything Christ asks, loving every one as He loved us. Constantly reminded of my imperfection, I look up to the author and finisher of my faith. To the One who keeps me from falling, He keeps me grounded safe within his love. He is with me, and I am with him.

I am Air

Whimsical and delightful, I understand that life is fleeting. So when my journey ends and I am no more, I want to be remembered with a smile. One as bright as the one I constantly wear. I want to be celebrated for being a happy person. I want memories of me to only be good ones because like air, my time here should have counted for something.

I am Atoke Ena 

Nurtured for cherish and care from the homestead of warriors deep in the heart of Ogbomosho.

Atoke's Savoury Soup Bowls

Someone did this ad for me last year. I never got it out there. 

In retrospect now the pictures look rather somehow as I have better pictures now but.... :D It was great!

Shout out to Shaf for doing this.

For Aroyeun

On Thursday the 7th of February 2013, my friend passed away. I wrote something for him on my column Atoke's Monday Morning Banter on BellaNaija. It was published on the 11th of February.
***

How do you write a banter piece when your heart is in shreds? How do you dig deep into yourself and write a funny, light-hearted piece on a Monday morning when you’ve been walking in a cloud of hurt, confusion and grief for the past 4 days?

I had just finished writing the BN Hot Topic on Thursday morning when I received a text message that my friend had passed on.  Shock? Is that what I felt? I don’t know. I can’t completely describe what I felt in that moment.  He’d been ill you see, with what the doctors had said was terminal but no amount of fore-knowledge prepares you for that which hits you. So I said to myself “he’s gone to a place where there’s no more pain, no more visits to the A&E, no more drugs. He’s gone to a place of peace”

But you see, as much as I said this to myself, my tears didn’t stop flowing.

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine oh! He’s in a better place” Like a robot, I’ve been responding, partly to get people to stop asking and partly because I know it’s true. 

“Focus on the happy memories. Don’t think about him in past tense. Write. If it’ll make you feel better, write”

So, I’m doing  just that.  My friend, Muyiwa, always  made me laugh. When I was in Law School, we would talk for hours on the phone about anything and everything. We shared a love for Lagbaja’s music  and we’d argue for hours; him constantly bashing  Nigeria as a failed state and me trying feebly to defend it. He would doggedly defend his religious belief and constantly call me a baby Christian, content on feeding on just milk. I’d call him “Paitor” and he’d call me “Omo’jo”. He called me razz, I said he was a fake guy!

I love Muyiwa with all of my heart. I haven’t come to terms with the use of past tense.  I’m not sure I ever will because he’d forever be the personification of love, devotion and strength.  As he battled the illness, we’d chat endlessly. There was NOT one time when he gave up the fight and boy did he FIGHT. When a man in his 30s is diagnosed with a terminal illness, he goes through different stages of acceptance and not once did Muyiwa throw in the towel. He’d tell me when he was delirious with pain and when he was strong enough to ogle the nurses. He’d share his fears and his pains but not once did he lose sight of positivity.

As I got on the train to see him in over the holidays, I was afraid that I’d see a weak and frail person so I braced myself for it. I was determined to be strong for him and be as cheery as possible. When I got to the door of the house, I nearly reeled back in shock.  He had become darker and looked years beyond his age.

“Lord, how will I NOT start bawling?” 

I spent almost 9 hours there and not once did I cry. I spent the day laughing and joking with my friend. He ate, slept, watched TV and it was a great day.

“I love you very much, you know?” He said to me in a voice that was barely audible as he fought the morphine-induced sleep.

“I love you too, Roy”

You see, love is such a powerful drug:  that pure, true and un-adultered love; the kind that makes you give your all without question.  It is one emotion that I am thankful that I have experienced. It is one thing that I always pray that more people will share because it truly makes the world a better place. It is one emotion which needs to be constantly expressed AND shown in order for it to be effective.

So as you celebrate Valentine ’s day this week, and as you go out to buy those gifts for that special somebody, remember that love is a lifetime feeling. It’s not limited to that one day but something that must constantly be expressed and shown. Love should be true and real because you really don’t know how much time you have left.

It doesn’t matter if you’ve been hurt before, it is an emotion that is so powerful that with it, we really can change the world.

Tell someone you love them today, show them how much you care and believe it.

Love, peace and cupcakes.

Toodles!

*This Monday Morning’s Banter is dedicated to my Booskie, Baba Esie; Olumuyiwa Aroyeun Oyewunmi. For every lesson you taught me, for encouraging me to do more and be more, for being there to fight with, for being there to share new music with, for being my friend over and over.  I ‘love you jeje, love you tender’.