Maria Oluwabukola Oni
Maria Oluwabukola Oni
Maria Oluwabukola Oni is a copywriter and storyteller based in Lagos, Nigeria. Her stories have appeared in more than a dozen mags, most recently in Hooghly Review, Spillwords, Hearth & Coffin, Black Glass Pages, Zinnia Journal, Iko Africa and forthcoming in others.
She tweets @OhMariaCopy.
Heat Spice -Trembling Sparks
There’s something refreshingly liberating and empowering about letting your feelings bubble out of you, unfettered, unashamedly, without fear, worry or remorse as an African woman. Like the lady who calmly went to an amala and ogunfe spot to eat after an examination, despite knowing she did poorly, and her family would have her head when the result comes out. Like the young woman who was waylaid and sexually assaulted on her way home from evening prayers, and came in the morning with police officers and a strong resolve for justice, to the shock of her abusers who thought she would be ashamed and silent about the ordeal. Like when I look right into a friend’s eyes as he trash-talks or guilt-trips me and I say with good measure:
“Shut up!”
We are trained from childhood to be fearful, vulnerable, submissive and unargumentative in order to appeal to men and be accepted as women. At a very young age, I was harshly taught not to pee freely by the roadside as young boys my age did so I didn't draw attention to my body. I wasn’t to reply or try to explain myself out of hot scoldings and whippings. I also wasn’t to show my displeasure or anger at being treated wrongly because I would marry one day.
“Why are you frowning? Because I corrected you? Is that how you’ll behave towards your mother-in-law and sisters-in-law?”
With time, the injustice I bottled up grew giddy like fermented wine. I began to visibly shake in anger even though I still couldn’t voice it.
“You don’t know how to endure or tolerate others. I wonder where you’ll end up.”
“You need to do something about your anger, it will scare men away.” My mum advised.
Exactly what I hoped to achieve after being emotionally, physically and socially caged perpetually for an imaginary husband. The most irritating talk was:
“See how you’re doing your hands! Is the pot that hot? What if your husband likes amala or semo? You won’t make it for him?” The older women would taunt as we gathered round a big pot, set on furnace-grade firewood, cooking for a party. So I turned out of cooking lessons since I was learning to cook, not to be healthy or to stay alive but to attract and keep a husband who probably was in another setting, idling away and being excessively excused with no thoughts of his coming wife.
Secondary school also had its fair share of seeking male validation and dependence. Every Literary & Debate topic…
Support or oppose the motion:
-Boys are better than girls.
-Women are better nurses than men.
-A woman can become the president of Nigeria.
As we were herded like sheep into puberty, we heard more nonsense in girl groups.
“I don’t know what to do about my pimples.” One worried member said.
“If you can get a condom, my sister said the oil on it clears pimples.” Another spoon fed member suggested.
“I heard sperm works better.” Yet another girl. From my seat behind them, I wondered about the feasibility of the advice. Can a girl of questionable age confidently walk into a store or pharmacy and ask for a condom to clear her pimples? Or ask a male classmate, friend or neighbour:
“Please, can you give me some of your sperm for my face?”
By implication, a young girl with no sex partner (as if boyfriends were even allowed) would carry her cross about till a man was kind enough to marry her, so she could get hold of a condom or spurts of semen, since the plethora of skincare products that worked wonders were produced for other humans aside girls.
Preening in front of the mirror and giving attention to my body by dressing well was the unveiling of the prostitute in me when I finished secondary school and took on casual jobs.
“How are your boyfriends?” A customer teased me.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“You?” It was ridiculous. Apparently, females of any age are for the consumption of every male around them hence not being accessible or not being passed around to all was unthinkable. Rare. An ex who I was in a long distance relationship with asked after I gave him a full account of my activities that day:
“Do men call out to you on the street? Do you speak with them?”
“They greet me as I pass by them and I reply. That’s all.”
“You’re a prostitute.” This wasn’t the first time he called me that word unprovoked.
“How? Am I supposed to glue my eyes to the road and hurriedly walk past when I see a man coming?” I asked.
“Yes. I’ll get you a hijab so you can cover your face when outside.”
I didn’t stick around long enough to know if he indeed bought hijabs for all the females he knew on his return from UAE. I soon began to retort and speak up in my defense, the tightness from being hushed all these years evident in my voice. Some heard my voice for the first time and complained it was too loud. A female colleague said to me,
“You have a bad commanding tone.” I sharpened it and used it more.
I heavily indulged in passionate romance- mostly Mills & Boons and Harlequin- novels about stories of headstrong, vibrant heiresses and virgins who somehow ended up married off to villainous, unloving husbands. Interestingly, the men often mellowed before their wife’s hot blood and quick wits. They fall in love and become highly possessive inside and outside the bedroom. I was reading one such steamy intimate session in the book- Bound By Honor by Cora Reilly - during my break at work when I felt a presence behind me. The head teacher, my supervisor, had been quietly reading from my phone screen.
“You are a wild girl.” He said, shaking his head. Emboldened, the embers of wildness flared and I easily exhaled fire like a dragon in face of male dominance and mediocre mindset of what a woman should be.
It always catches people by surprise; the sudden explosiveness from this fragile bodied, sweet faced female.
“I am a man. Don’t talk to me that way.” They would say quietly after the brief shock or surprise. But it is okay to talk rudely to me and expect servitude because I’m a woman. Perhaps, it’s by wearing big size trousers and having a deep, authoritative voice that a man is identified. Glory! I have both so I do not keep quiet anymore and allow my body to be groped by strange hands in public when previously I used to fear being hit. Or maybe I just grew older. One kept leaning against me as I stood on the queue in a wine shop, advancing each time I shifted my body from his.
“If you touch me again, I’ll slap you.” I boomed in belly-deep irritation to the combined embarrassment of the harasser and other males present.
“Ah! Don’t be doing violent things o.” My male best friend would caution me when I shared such encounters with him.
“It’s not good for a woman to have too much action so she can last in her husband’s house.” My mum’s brother said after seeing a glimpse of my trembles and sparks one day.
Some might call it anger problem but it’s actually calculated anger, a useful weapon of defense in a women-are-weaker-vessels society. Those who have experienced me, directly and indirectly, know when to retrace their steps with simple, pacifying statements.
“Oni, calm down.”
“I know you’re a troublemaker.”
“Anyone who sees you like this for the first time will think otherwise, not knowing you’re a nice person.” And we will laugh over the matter. I’m delighted at the recent daily exposure and radical developments provided on mass media for women and the society by extension on gender based violence, harassment, equality and equity.
A woman is no man. Agreed. But we will not continue to cower like second class citizens. We are unpredictable, dangerous to toy with, beautiful and bold. We are girls with loud voices and so WE ROAR!