Now
Daddy’s gone,
Mother is gone too,
Everyone is but a shadow
She’s all grown up
And she’s met the world.
They were right, she thinks
She was best left alone,
But was she?
I was clearly born a hopeless, incurable but happy romantic and I cannot say that it bothers me. For some reason, I never read any of the popular Mills and Boon novels in my day, even though many young people at the time got their sense of love and relationships through those stories. Yet I had and still have an idealized view of the world and of relationships.
Anyhow, as I experienced life, the need for the subject of sex to be openly, systematically and objectively discussed and studied (yes I meant studied), especially with and by younger people became more and more important to me. It had occurred to me along the way that not knowing many things concerning the subject was an injury that could have had much more dire consequences than it may have had on me, had the universe not conspired in my favour. Take this short story of a young lady for instance:
It was in the mid-eighties. She was in her mid-teens and she was a virgin. She had no knowledge of condoms and whether they were even a thing, much less about the foaming tablet until she agreed to be the community bad boy’s girlfriend. She had no idea what it meant to be someone’s girlfriend, but this boy was a few years older and seemingly wiser, plus he was well known and quite a charmer.
At the time, her shapely body was taking form and many of the boys in her community, including much older males were already making comments about her body, telling her she was pretty, throwing sexual gestures and jokes her way and in various ways, reminding her daily of her sexual appeal and their dark desires. It was only a matter of time that she would fall into one of these arms. So, despite her naivety, she sensed there was something sexual required of her as a girlfriend. To her mind, why not the charming boy in the community.
When he took her to an empty house one night, she followed dutifully and strangely, without fear. The experience was neither exciting nor pleasurable. The pain was significant but bearable. The boy, obviously more experienced, knew about the pain and reassured her. He had pushed a tablet into her and had told her it would prevent her from getting pregnant. She believed him and took his word for what it was worth. Luckily it was over before she knew what was to be done. The pain did come and she saw some blood later but that was all there was to it. She did not get pregnant. Not a soul ever found out how she got her first lesson in sex and who taught it. She did not get pregnant and that was all that mattered. And she was in her mid teens.
In my part of the globe, there is continuing resistance to sex education in schools. At home, it is still mostly taboo to speak about such things even among adults. Some conspiracy theories even claim sex education is a ploy to spread the reach of the ‘rainbow’. Suppose there is any truth to that, should that not be more reason why we should be deliberate about talking; not simply about faith and morals, but about lived experiences including about sex and their social, economic, physical, emotional, psychological implications, good, bad or ugly?
Several years back, my son then about 5 or 6 asked me why his “willy” was much smaller than that of his dad. By the way, we long ditched the pseudonym for the actual word ‘penis’. He was visibly upset about the unfairness of that particular resource allocation. Rather than shut him down I explained, that it grew with age, then I took steps to make some changes in our domestic practices. Over the years, we have spoken about sexual topics including condoms. I concede that on one occasion when I tried to talk him into learning how to use a condom, he protested. What he did not know was that I needed the lesson myself. Good thing is, at least the subject was not off the table. When he was told at church that it was better to abstain from sex until after marriage and saw his (relatively) young church mate get married to an equally young woman, he came home to have a conversation with me. We opened up the subject of marriage before sex and questioned the rationale, concluding that it was a question bordering on morality and not necessarily an objective question. We discussed why marriage was the reference, rather than say, getting a degree or having a profession or being in a position to be responsible for the consequences of ones actions before sex for instance. We also discussed the value of examining sex in relation to those other considerations. We spoke about the implications and effects of sex. That babies are not the only outcomes of sex. That in fact, one could argue that babies are the least of the worries when it comes to sex, even considering the period of pregnancy, childbearing and the possible medical complications surrounding both baby and mother, not to speak of the socioeconomic and psychological effects on the unprepared.
I never had any of these conversations with any of my parents, so sex education was for me as was and still is for many young people, akin to that of the young woman in the story or any other rendition of it. Today, we contend not only with so-called community bad boys or girls whom everyone knows. We contend also with the various means by which technology brings instruction to the bedrooms of the present generation. And I wonder, are we really better of not speaking about penises, vaginas and sex?
photo credit: curiousdesire.com
This is the hashtag of the #FixTheCountry movement in the statement released by the group @ghfixthecountry, following the killing of Ibrahim Mohammed aka Kaaka. For how it resonates with me, I fully associate with it and take the liberty to use it.
Like many in Ghana, I have also read and heard the news of the killing of Kaaka and matters following. Kaaka is reported to be a journalist, a social activist and member of the #FixTheCountry movement. He was killed under circumstances yet to be unravelled if ever and as expected, several theories are already making the rounds about the motive behind the incident. We may get to the bottom of it or yet again, we may never get beyond the news value of the moment.
For some reason, whenever I hear such reports, I think of the unfettered influx and use of drugs (you know the types), and the obvious progression from a transit to a user country. I think of the challenge of small arms and increasingly bigger arms including those from official armouries in the hands of just about anyone who wants them. I think of the general intolerance of differences encouraged by and fed on by political and self-seeking interests which is taking the place of reasonable discourse. I cringe at the unrestrained greed and extravagance of people with ‘power’ plundering the resources of the vulnerable and the public. I think of the profane misuse of the media- and I am not just talking of the vulgarism, but the sheer lawlessness and dishonesty thrown recklessly at us. I worry about the unrelenting security blunders. I think of EDUCATION or the lack thereof. I think of the growing anger and desperation of the vulnerable, marginalized and oppressed, many of whom will soon exhibit the ‘power’ they don’t think they have, if not already. Oh, and I remember a certain Mr. Osei who has been drawing attention to the mental health situation in Ghana for a while now. There’s just so much that such reports throw up! And for some reason, I think that these are connected and inextricable from the current headline, the daylight robberies, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
I may be wrong but while ‘investigations’ get along on Kaaka and all others, and I hope we catch somebody; I wonder about these matters and how perhaps #FixTheCountry is about all of these things and how that slogan is quite appropriately a call on everyone. Fix the country may very well be fix me, fix you, fix us, fix the system, fix our society…and whatever the heck we want to call it.
Something is broken - question is, who is going to fix it, and who is going to make them?
#IAmKaaka
#IAmCaleb
#IAmSuale
#IAmAnyOtherSomebodyWhoMayKillOrBeKilled
Father's Day always brings with it some general unease- as if we were having to justify celebrating our fathers.
The commemorative atmosphere and outpouring of love around Mothers' Day are thought to far outweigh that of Fathers Day. Fathers have been up in arms about this and so in recent years we are beginning to see various programs and social media commentary aimed at addressing the seeming imbalance. Or is it to placate the men?
Why the scales have been so skewed against the males in this matter however must be left to another day. Someone put out a sound reminder elsewhere that Fathers Day is a day to celebrate men and not to 'insult' them. Although the admonition in itself carries a load of questions, I took a cue from it. After all there are many great daddy stories to tell and here's one in my letter to fathers.
Dear Fathers,
and that these things can't happen without you. We are grateful.
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| My Dad and I |
I arrived wearing ‘non-school’ (meaning not allowed) attire on my first day at the Grey City, the legendary glory of the coast set on the desert hill, many years ago. I may have turned a few heads, but I sure did not make headlines. I guess my infraction was seemingly not as detestable nor life changing as the current challenge so all I got was a mild scolding from the bemused lady in charge.
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| prim and proper on interview day |
Not so long ago, I came very close, very close to cutting my locs which I had worn for more than a decade at the time. Well-meaning friends, classmates and senior colleagues counselled that I had come too close to becoming a member of the robbed and wigged fraternity to risk not getting in just because of my hair. I agreed with their logic. After all, I was never shy of short hair and I could grow my hair all over again as I had done countless times again. But then I wondered, would this mean I could not grow my locs again for as long as I remained in the fraternity? I had also been advised to wear a skirt not trousers to the interview because females wearing pants were frowned on; so, did that also mean I could not wear trousers in practice?
Well, I did not cut my locs off but I did take the trouble to wrap it up 'nicely', if you will. I decided, if the interviewing panel could not look past my hair and would disregard my academic credentials and self-professed proven integrity then 'makola', the only professional law school in Ghana was probably not the place for me. Foolhardiness maybe or perhaps there was not that much at stake for me. My hair was not and never has been a statement of anything other than a lifestyle choice.
I recall one of my mates, finding the courage after a year of sitting in the same post grad class with me, asking with a knowing smile, if I was a 'roots girl' (whatever that meant). I told him that I was actually a full plant! Not to worry, I said that sweetly. Incidentally, many friends and family who advised against locking my hair when I first contemplated it and among other things opined that it was not professional, not nice and that it gave a bad impression about a person etc. now think it's nice. Some have even joined the ‘sisterhood’ because it is now what, trendy?
It's been several years of odd comments and assumptions about who I am but the on-going (dread) loc controversy is only symptomatic of our general attitude to many other things, attitudes that are unquestioned and presumably unquestionable; often justified by reference to the ‘who we are’ refrain. Really, who are we?
The real debates are yet to come but what are the odds that we will take a hard look at our fears and prejudices and challenge their very basis?
Salut
March 8. It's International Women's Day and I struggled to construct a pithy statement that conveyed my thoughts; thoughts that had been lingering on my mind for a little over a week. In the end, I settled for this social media post which I believe captures both the mood of the day and it's essence, including all the struggles and triumphs not only of the great and known but the small and unseen.
My thoughts had been stirred by another post stating, "Behind every strong woman is a story that gave her no other choice" - on an all-female platform over which I voiced some disquiet and the reactions flowing therefrom. It makes a 'strong' statement and I intend no pun as you would soon understand. My reading was that, a woman is forced to be 'strong' only if she has no choice. Question; what is she otherwise? and does it matter that she is not 'strong'?
After some back and forth, it was urged on the group by one participant and supported by others that women ‘…start off as the weaker sex because of the way we’ve been socialized. We later learn skills to protect ourselves and our own and become strong(er)'. This got me thinking as I struggled to rationalize the notions of natural as against socialized weakness of the female.
I was nurtured to be confident and independent, to have an opinion and see no difference except biological between myself and my brothers, be responsible for my actions, not expect another (a man) to carry my load. So I grew up defying, sometimes fighting extraneous expectations to exhibit tendencies supposedly more akin to females and though I caved to pressure sometimes I never departed from my true self. I started off being an ordinary girl, but grew more and more aware of the pressures to be other than myself- weaker maybe? Some say I'm a 'strong woman' (whatever that means) but I see nothing extraordinary in a woman with a worldview such as mine; even though I have come to appreciate the challenge of navigating society with preconceived labels. The idea that women start off as the weaker sex and later learn to be strong, if even theoretically defensible, was not my reality and I do not believe it is that of many females.
But that is not to deny the realities of others. Context and environment matter. The question though is whether the weakness is inherent in the female? More importantly, what does it really mean to be a 'strong woman' with the unfortunate consequence, sometimes, of defining the strength of a woman by the popular notions of achievement, success and superior ability to overcome a major life hurdle?
The
acclaimed Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie captured this well in her 'danger of a
single story' TED talk. ‘The single story creates
stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes is not that they are
untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the
only story’, she said.
That said, I would like to think that if even I was to be referred to as a
‘strong’ woman, it should not be because I overcame an unusual or dreadful
situation (though I have survived a few of those), but because I live, I survive,
and I thrive.
I am a woman. Nothing more. The labels don't count. Never will.
Daddy thought She's just a chirpy little girl; She should be left alone. Mother thought She’s daddy's little girl; Better let her be...
