THE SEX OF MY PROFESSION

Does the suitability of a profession depend on the sex of the person involved?

I can imagine a quick reader going through the question above and silently or even loudly answering with a NO. That does not mean however that they may not be people who will give a straight YES answer.

Personally, I had my answer way before I typed the question but as I examined my answer I could not help imagining how times have changed.  Before my growing up years, every boy wanted to be a doctor, an engineer or an architect. A girl with those aspirations would have simply been delving into a world that was not hers. By the time my childhood came to be, more girls were applauded for filling ‘medical doctor’ in the space next to any future ambition column.

It was not that any girl was ever refused admission into any higher institution into the engineering or architecture class or vice versa for a boy who wanted to be a nurse but it was simply an odd choice.

This reminds me of the first time I saw a male nurse. I stared hard, as if I had seen a man walking on his head.

‘Are you sure he is not a Doctor?’ I had asked my mama in vernacular.

She smiled and replied that there have always been male nurse even though they were very few.

By my undergraduate years there was more mixture of both sexes albeit little that mixture was. I remember one of the Students’ Union elections where voting was done on departmental basis. Each student had to queue according to his/her department. I had to assist a friend to locate her departmental queue so we had gone from queue to queue asking what department it was. My question met with lots of stares from several male pair of eyes in one of the queues before a confident ‘Engineering’ was answered. My companion looked at me and asked why I had bothered to ask seeing that they were all guys on the queue.

So back to the question whether there was a sex appropriate to a profession and vice versa.

There was a time when all the newspaper vendors on the streets of Nigeria were male. In fact I had then concluded with a secondary school classmate that one profession that was going to remain solely in the reins of male compatriots was the vendor. Ever since I began to see female vendors on our streets, I have learnt never to ascribe any profession to any sex. It does not matter how manly or womanly that profession appears to be. I mean what profession could be more feminine as that of a caterer/cook particularly in a country where every woman just has to know how to cook and there is no know or anticipated excuse for otherwise? Now we have seen male professional cooks. It has also ceased to be a surprise when one of them wins any cooking competition. Some organisations are also more comfortable with hiring a male cook rather than their female counterpart.

When the year started, I told myself that faux dreadlocks were going to be my signature hairstyle and began to shop for the appropriate beauty salon where I would get this done. A colleague referred me to one situated somewhere in the ever busy streets of Ogba. Inspite of my misgivings on the quality of work I would get, I was greatly relieved when I found out that the salon was run by male hairdressers. Rewind to twenty years ago, these young men would not have easily opted for this profession.

I remember when news was reported on a female auto mechanic. Her years of apprenticeship were also considered in the report. I could not help appreciating her drive as the report was given.

Again, is there a sex on any profession? In the wake of Biola Alabi and several females making their mark in what used to be a man’s world, I dare say that if modern day professionalism definitely does not contemplate sex as a deciding factor. So if you ever had to decide on a career of profession, do not ever let sex limit you. Neither should you expect an edge because of your sex.

Keep Faith.

AH! FEMININE TEARS?

It was mid morning Saturday. I told myself I was cruising as I drove through the highway. The truth was that I was tired to my bones. It was a good thing the road was not full, at least party makers were not all out to crowd the road. I had played tapes and CDs on my way to town that morning so I decided to listen to whatever my favorite station was airing at that moment. It was a talk program, I would have preferred music but since I was too tired to even change stations I listened.

The topic was rape. Frankly speaking at that moment I did not feel like listening to any gender sensitive issue but for some reason I stayed tuned. 

The speaker spoke deeply in pidgin even brought a rape victim whose identity was hidden to talk on her horrific experience.

Let me explain; I am not a feminist by any shot. The single sex secondary school I attended was probably the only sexist body I can associate myself to. When a colleague suggested that I join FIDA, I shook my head strongly. In trying to convince me to join, she explained that it was an umbrella for female lawyers and I had replied that was the same reason that would make me stay away.

Back to the matter, when this radio victim started her narration, I broke. I don’t think I would want to repeat her narration. I twitch whenever I think of it.

Another angle that interests me was the response of some listeners. One particular listener advised against provocative dressing as a preventive measure. I wondered if there we’re still people with this thought- line. I mean anyone who had a daughter, wife, sister, or niece ought to be more realistic when giving advices on this issue. As far as I know, provocative dressing has little to do with sexual violence. I am not saying that it has nothing to do with rape and other related sexual violence but trust me, when I say it has got little to do with it. Or how would one explain the reason for the females that are abused as children? In fact one of the victims who spoke that day said she first abused when she was three by an UNCLE.  Only recently Dylan Farrow claimed she was molested as a child by her adoptive father. It is sad that the protector can become the predator.

I was glad when the presenter noted that the provocative dressing angle was blaming the victim and that it would in no way encourage victim to report offences. It makes sense because no one would want to report a rape incident if all you would hear is, “How were you dressed?” “Did you sway in front of them?” and so on.

There is no use for us at any point to justify rape. Aside from shielding offenders from the law and possibly future healing (because I think rapists are sick), we create a society that could hurt every one of us, a society in which no one is safe. Do I need to emphasize that everyone has a female who is dear to him or her? And that no one knows for sure who the next victim could be? As feminine as the tears arising from sexual violence may seem, it is time we understand that the society is broken from these hurts.

...keep faith.

THE YEAR ENDS WITH A PARTY

Okay. Another year has just ended and I cannot help reminiscing about the things that marked my end of year. I mean aside from my usual time with family which has always been a way to end my year for as long as I remember.  What an eventful year 2013 had been.

The end of the year reminded me of the Road Safety Corps  campaign.

“The ember months are here again

              Drive carefully...”

These words have gradually become familiar.  The first time I they made sense to me I ran to my mother to find out what ‘ember months” meant. After her usual referral to the dictionary and not getting the definition there, she explained that it meant all the months ending with the letters MBER, that is, September to December. After trying in vain to understand why special care should be taken in those months, I had to go back to listen to her explanation of how it was essential for one to keep safe towards the end of the year while entertaining the hope that the coming year would meet one in good state, physically and otherwise.

As the innocence of childhood wore off, I too began to take care. The familiarity of those words did not commonize (is that a word?) its meaning. After all, who was the one that did not want to see the New Year? The community I grew up in liked life. That alone meant that majority of the people wanted to live life to the fullest.

Before I became solely responsible financially for my basic needs, the thought of getting new things was the major source of my excitement.  Well, even though time has passed and the girl I was has become a woman, I still made sure I got at least something new for myself, it did not have to be expensive, my end of year gift to me only had to be newly acquired. There have been years that I have been really broke and had even scolded myself for this practice but that was me.

One of my unlike towards the end of year was traffic; human and vehicular. The roads were usually crowded, the markets were too full and scammers were always on the prowl. I also hated the fact that there were always too many commitments. It did not matter to me if these commitments were parties or even weddings after all there was always very little time to enjoy them.

I remember trying to attend one of such parties towards the end of last year- a Sunday party- which meant I had to do church first. I felt I was already late by the time church was done as I had to make a ninety minutes journey to the venue. Anyway, I began my journey and silently prayed that I still remembered the route. That prayer was not answered, at least not in the way I wanted because after making one of my turns I noticed I could not see the next turn. So I decided to use my option B driving method which is to move in any way towards your perceived direction until you get to a familiar place and if not, seek help. This option implied I would get to the party later but I kept up with it. Somehow I hated to stop to ask for direction. I only resorted to it when I cannot view anything familiar or a direction sign.

I was in this state when I ran into them, or drove to the point where they had the stoppers. Some group of youths that had put lots of objects on the road to serve as stoppers. I had to stop. Irritation was what could best describe my stare as they explained to me that they were trying to raise fund for the upcoming end of year street carnival. The first thing that came to my mind was, “What is my business?”

You are right, if you thought I did not give any money to them but it got me thinking. Whose responsibility is it to sponsor any street carnival? Was raising funds for the carnival enough reason to block any road or better still harass road users?

The end of year comes with plenty definitely.  I always knew that so I did not have to be surprised when I saw this carving on a head just before the New Year. 

The youth was a coming in from the city and was on his village. My reaction was only a chuckle and a smile. I did not want to incur the youth’s wrath. As I wondered where and when I missed the trend I could not help imagining how those in the village would react on seeing him. Would they emulate him, silently wish they had it on or mock him?

I alighted at my bus stop and could not wait to share this hair style with my folks. I was glad I was able to steal a picture from him. So at home we had our laughs in between food and drinks in front of the television that no one was watching. Our own kind of party.

While we wait for 2014’s parties, keep faith!

THE FIRST MAN IN MY LIFE.

The day had started as my usual work day- full of hectic commitments, meeting, running up and down the stairways in a bid to meet with deadlines.

In between my hectic schedule I tried to find the time every hour to view my private phone, in case there was a call missed or message received.

Then the unexpected call came through. At first it was missed and since it was family I decided to return it as soon as it was convenient. It was then I heard the words I did not want to hear. The words that every time I had looked at him, I had dreaded the day I would hear them.

Yes I had thought of it earlier; not once but several times. Ever since we had struggled with his health seven years earlier, the thoughts had refused to go.

The first man in my life was awesome. That is how best I can describe him. He had the best fighting spirit I knew and made sure we inculcated that. I cannot be certain of the first time I met him but from the stories that revolved around me I knew it must have been soon after my entrance into the world. The bond we formed was instant. They used to say that if he traveled without tell us (my brother and I) his destination, we would fall sick and would not get better until we had heard from him.

In him I saw the picture of everything that was perfect.  I used to think that he was the handsomest man that ever was. Who would not? His set of teeth was white and neatly arranged, and he had a way with his smile.

He gave up himself to ensure that we had a lot more than the basic necessities to go through life as well as the best values any living soul could have. As I grew up, I began to see a few flaws in my all-perfect man. Because I loved him so I began to pray for him. I had found out that he had little spirituality in him so did not believe in going to church for weekly worship. Somehow I adored weekly worship and wanted this love to be caught by him too. He would hear no argument about it so I took it to the Lord in prayer. And the Lord gave answer some nine years ago; he made a full and total commitment to the ways of the Lord. Like everything he held dear, he clung to his new found faith like it was all that mattered. After surviving the test that was put before him, he was more than ready to put aside anything or anyone that would stand in the way of his faith.

But then the trials left him broken and very disillusioned. It was like the beauty of life was being snatched from him. But he stayed strong and faced life with all of the strength that was left in him.

I loved to sing his praises. It was easy for someone in love. I would tell my friends what he had survived and with every story I found strength and pride. If anyone dare to complain I would tell them that they did not know the real him. That did not mean that we did not have our fights, because we did as my ideal man was also stubborn. They were times the fights were even very frequent but beneath each I could see love. I always hoped he did. I did not talk to him about it because I did not want to either upset or weaken him.

Two days after I received the call, I was told an acquaintance that he was the one who got me my matriculation number at the university and he stared. Yes, the first man in my life was committed like that.

I stared at down at his lifeless remains and tried to be strong; for my mother, for my brother, for my sisters and for him. But as I went into the quiet of my bathroom I let the tears flow many times and many days afterward.

“He ought to have known that this would happen”, I told myself.

He knew that even if he could always count on me, I was not as strong as he was.

The tears have not stopped flowing and I know they will not just yet; but each time they flow I say to him, “My daddy, you deserve more than just a few tears”

My Prayer? That he rests in the Lord’s bosom.

Still Keeping Faith.

ANOTHER BORING CONVERSATION?

 I stared at him with ease.  I was no more the little girl growing up in the quiet Ughelli so it was easy. Besides I was sitting directly opposite him. I tried to put my feelings into words- Cockiness, Confidence, Victorious, Strong, Anger, and Pity. All these flowed through me as he spoke. 

“Hmmn! This Indian”, I thought to myself. “Just who did he think he was?”

Time truly has passed. We live in a country where anyone in white skin was glorified and treated with too much respect. I call it backward colonialism. I could not understand why someone would rather than settle for the old colonial rule where our roads were all tarred with sidewalks decide to glorify another mortal who would disrespect you and ill treat you for nothing. 

My thoughts were formed early. Maybe because I still topped my class in spite of the presence of white boy Richard or because I was used to seeing Kelvin, a mixed blood, hawking tomatoes when my family eventually moved to Warri, I simply did not see anything extra ordinary in being white that would allow for first class treatment especially on my Nigerian soil.

I do believe in respect. Anyone; white or black, deserved this. But when the Indian wanted to take me for a ride I had to bare my fangs.

It reminded me of the encounter I had with one of his kind in the penultimate month where I had, in the line of work, gone to demand money owed. The man, feeling superior, had refused to see me initially. Imagine the debtor; but I blame am? The manner of people who give them rights in the street gave him the audacity. When he saw I was having none of that, he came down and after all the talk he felt sorry that this small girl (my apologies to my stature) was talking to him like that. 

Now back to this one before me. He said my words sent him to his sick bed and that if he dies I will be held responsible for his death. At that point I had to control myself and not laugh out loud. My small size must really be deceiving them.

In case you are wondering what the bone of contention is, it was nothing out of a routine as it applies to landlord and tenants in this city. 

I decided to shift from the contentious angle that he was in. So I asked him to invest in Nigeria. He began to curse. He ended by saying he will never do that even if a gun was put on his head. With that word I decided it was time to hit the road and push this man out of my sight. I said my goodbyes and I was off. As I journeyed down the road I could not help but think that I would never even in neighbouring Benin Republic and act like I was a Don.

What effrontery does this man have to speak all my ears heard? 

My Conclusion, we need a shift of values we must move to begin appreciating our own even if it’s the man by the junction who owns little but makes an honest living!

Keep faith.