Yet Another Independence Day

It’s the start of Nigeria’s 53rd year of independence from British colonial rule. As usual, I have seen many broadcasts, tweets and Facebook status updates wishing Nigeria and Nigerians a happy birthday / independence. As I strongly feel that there is nothing happy about the state of Nigeria, I have been tempted not to acknowledge it in anyway.

I have many times compared the Nigeria my grandparents tell me about to the one I grew up in and the one I visit occasionally these days and have been unable to think of a single reason for anyone to prefer this one. I frequently think back to the stories my parents sometimes share about the newly independent Nigeria and can’t help but wonder why we bothered getting rid of the British only to run the country into the ground.

Then I think to myself, that in my self-imposed exile from Nigeria, I am not actually trying to help the situation in anyway. In distancing myself from the essence of my country, I have not put myself in any position to understand what ails the nation or how my generation can right the wrongs of the generation before. By avoiding Nigerian news except when occasionally stumbling really bad (e.g. the Dana air crash) or really good news (e.g. D’Banj breaking into mainstream music with his UK top 10 hit, Oliver Twist) that transcends the “Africa” section of the BBC and Guardian websites, I cannot be informed or knowledgeable about the ways in which I could influence a better tomorrow.

I think about the good ambassadors we have these days such as acclaimed author Chimamanda Adichie and writer/artist Teju Cole. I think about the talented artists and artistes that make the news for more positive reasons than negative. I think about Fela Kuti's campaign to enlighten Nigerians and ginger our interest in political activism over apathy. I think about the paralympians who finished 22nd in the London 2012 medals table and give me hope that if we can field disabled athletes when traditionally the disabled have only had begging and family as their only source of welfare, then we could be making a change in other areas too.

Finally, I realise that if I had been unfortunate enough to have had a stupid father I would not begrudge him a congratulatory message on his birthday. So, fellow Nigerians, happy Independence day! Maybe next year, we might actually have something to celebrate.

GROW Diary - One Month In

There are two things that struck me early on in my attempt to eat less meat. Firstly, I felt like I was hungrier on vegetarian days. Secondly, I have been eating a lot of chips and beans. Neither of these two statements helps with my grand plan to be healthier and fitter but they are quite true.


The best thing about this mission of mine has been my friends’ reactions when I’ve declined meat, picked an uncharacteristic option off a menu or said to them that I’m a part-time vegetarian now. My friend NM laughed and said “You can’t be a part-time vegetarian. You either are one or you aren’t”. My friend ST said “Haha! I’ve never heard anything as hilarious as someone who doesn’t like vegetables trying to become vegetarian”. Another friend, FL, did a double-take when I told her the plan and the funniest was PG who exclaimed in incredulity “Why would you do that?!”

I’m obviously well aware of the reasons for the doubt in the minds of my friends. It hasn’t been a walk in the park. There have been some challenges, particularly with eating out. I went to a Thai restaurant and was assaulted by vegetarian meals with the detestable base of cooked vegetables so my initial plan for a meat-free day was thrown out the window. I eat lots of chips and beans in the office canteen because I like hot lunches and hot vegetarian options seem to involve lots of cooked vegetables. It also doesn’t help when I get home after a long day of eating vegetables and my sister has made a delicious chicken stew and left me a plate for dinner.

Overall, though, it’s been easier than I expected. I am trying out new things. In the last few weeks I’ve ticked tofu, coriander, butternut squash and cottage cheese off my hate list. I am trying things that would have previously been unimaginable – ‘pure vegetarian restaurants’ were on my hit list for years – and getting a lot more fibre and vegetables than I have eaten since I moved out of the family home.

This month I’ve had 4 vegetarian days out of 6 and hope to make it 5 of 7 today. I’m aiming for 15 vegetarian days and I think I might make it. I got a vegetarian cook-book and will attempt to make my first meatless meal this weekend ahead of a (hopefully) vegetarian dinner party that I will be hosting next week.

Food power

Anyone who knows me at all, even a teeny bit, will be surprised by this post. I have been such a fervent meat eater that I got the nickname “anti-vegetarian”. I spent most of 2011 trying to get my vegetarian friend Nika to eat some meat. Fortunately she had a far greater conviction than I did and has now become vegan. In my defence, my carnivorous tendencies are largely down to nurture. Growing up in Nigeria, our meals comprised carbs, vegetables and non-meat proteins in large quantities with a little piece of meat holding court as the cherry on the cake. Meat was the reward for good behaviour and special treats generally involved getting taken out for (or getting take away) suya (charcoal fired beef or chicken), nkwobi (cow hoof delicacy), isi ewu (goat head delicacy), grilled fish and other meat based delicacies. This is in addition to the fact that being a textures person, meat has a great texture and I can’t stand most vegetables/vegetarian food items in their cooked form. Or so I thought…

My challenge, from Sunday July 29th till Monday August was to eat vegetarian food because I visited a friend of mine who is vegetarian and has been for about 8 years. I thought the first half might be OK because there wouldn’t be any temptation but I had zero faith that I would get through 4 days at a festival without consuming any meat. I didn’t succeed. I had some tuna, a bacon & cheese quiche and some gravy but I have good reasons for those three incidents. I was offered the tuna melt and accepted without realising for a second until it was pointed out that it wasn’t vegetarian, I didn’t like any of the other quiches available because I can’t stand most cooked vegetables and I honestly didn’t realise that gravy is highly unlikely to be vegetarian.

So while I wasn’t 100% successful, I gave it 100% effort. The upside of this experiment has been that I have realised that I will not die without meat and some vegetarian food is tasty. I just have to pick right and make some clever substitutions. I do not feel at this point that I could go completely vegetarian but I’m inspired to cut down on my meat consumption as much as I can over the next few months. Much of my plans are never followed through but since I came into work with some meat free pasta today, I think it’s safe to say this is one campaign that will be staying alive.

Feminism outdated?

There is a reason for my general lack of passionate and emotional displays these days. I am one of those people who commits completely to something or not at all. I spent a lot of my childhood and adolescence filled with angst and frustration. I was rather violent and would fly into fits of rage that saw me convulse with the sheer force of emotion that I felt. Having experienced what I felt was a great injustice/disappointment when I was about 13, I decided never to get excited about anything and the seeds of pessimism were sown. The violence ended at 17 when I slapped my brother and he gave me a punch. He’d grown several inches that year and was either my height or slightly taller. I spluttered and agitated to be allowed to fight him while internally praying that my cousin would continue to hold me back.

I spent a lot of the years from 13-16 arguing about religion. 14/15 I spent engaged in futile conversations with various catholic students in my school about how terrible and foolish Catholicism was and 16 trying desperately to be born again and get other people to see the light. After a while, however, I realised that discourse of this nature is largely pointless as one will either be doggedly pro-religion or not and if they are pro-religion then they will be steadfast in their faith. There is no logical debate to be had against dogma. Thus I retired from the faith-based passion. I took the route of analytical and dispassionate dissection of most issues.

I don’t really care much for politics. In my opinion, one can have the best of intentions but ultimately has to compromise too much to remain in a position of power and influence. Similarly, while I am a supporter of several sporting teams and athletes I can detach myself rather easily because, ultimately, I picked the teams I support largely because they provide me with lots of ammunition in debates with the far more passionate people around me.

The one thing I however continue to remain wholly passionate about is feminism. Growing up in Nigeria in the 90s, I had a strong working mother who never came to school like the other mothers because she was very busy with her job working in the bank. I also had a very traditional mother who always ensured that we were well fed, clothed, spent quality time with us and essentially ensured that knew that she was the boss. This same mother also defers to my father as the man of the house.

When I was about 9 years old, my dad yelled out my name from the living room. I was busy doing something but I have forgotten what. I raced downstairs – all African kids know that one does not mosey along to a call by their parents – and was faced with the horror of my father asking me to pour some water from the pitcher on the stool next to him into a glass. I remember being aghast – not because my dad had asked me to do this task, but because my brother was right next to him watching TV. This was the birth of what I would realize, many years later, was a sense of injustice against being treated differently because I was a woman. I proceeded to spend the rest of my time living in my parent’s house frustrated at the blatant sexism that was going on. Entire Saturdays were spent in the market and/or kitchen purchasing, cooking and cleaning up after meals and snacks for my father, the boys and his friends who played table tennis and draughts. Various sneaky attempts by me to join them were met with looks from my mum that would stop me dead – if looks could kill. Thankfully they don’t.

I remember having disparaging thoughts towards my mother and other women in my extended family for the perceived injustices against them. These days I realise that, to a large extent, these women have chosen to live in this way and it works for them. They love to cook and clean and look after their men and their men also love to look after their women in return for these services rendered. As my little brother said, his utopia would be a world where his woman would cook for him THEN wash up afterwards. As a result, he tends to go for women who either love doing this or feel (read: can be convinced) that they should. He steers well clear of feminists. I admire his honesty and clear position on the matter.

Where am I going with this? I have just had a discussion of the ilk that I used to have all those years ago - the kind that ends with me wanting to shake some common sense into the other person. I should know better. I mentioned to a friend that my retirement plan is to adopt 5 boys and ensure they all become awesome athletes. She asked me if I wouldn’t want girls instead given that they are easier to raise. I said I would find girls more difficult because, quite frankly, I think life as a girl is tough. I’ve always been a boy’s girl. I climbed trees and played every sport available in my school. I remember my mother shaking her head at 15, when she forced me to select only one sport, wondering when I would realise I was a girl. Unfortunately, my gender has never been of huge concern to me – except in matters of pregnancy and periods but that’s a story for another day.

I digress. Following a declaration by me that I don’t want to have to worry about my girls getting pregnant and having their lives ruined by babies, my friend said it was men who ruin women’s lives. I then postulated that one way or the other, their lives could be ruined and I would prefer to have the opportunity to raise strong, sensitive, feminist men instead. Whoa! The deluge! I’m not sure if it was the initial “eeewwwww” response to the prospect of feminist men or silly statements like “wanting men to stop raping women on account of their “asking for it” if dressed in [what is perceived as] skimpy outfits is like wanting paedophiles to stop sleeping with children” that shocked me more.

Other gems of wisdom from her included “women should not be builders, they are not as strong and thus not effective” (maybe she missed industrialization); “feminism is about positive discrimination and getting things that are not deserved”; “the US is whack” and “I’m not talking about Nigeria” when I mention chauvinistic behaviour and anti-abortion campaigns in the US and “yet you work with Accenture. It doesn’t help your cause since it’s an equality company” (WTF!). I can’t remember it all and wouldn’t wish to anyway as I might get as exasperated as I was an hour ago. I had to end the conversation with a point that Caitlin Moran – my new favourite person – made. Women like this can only express such views because of feminism.

Her final opinion is that feminism is outdated and the opinion of a select few who wish to force this opinion onto others. I can’t think of a better example of why feminism is still relevant. If women like her, enjoying the salient benefits of feminism and blind (deliberately or otherwise) to the scope for further improvement, choose to call themselves anti-feminism then there is still a lot of work to do. I will have as many more of these impassioned arguments as I can to ensure that the message of feminism is not lost. We aren’t asking for anything special. We aren’t asking for positive discrimination. We’re just asking to be considered as equals.