THE FACE OF SHAME

As I walked home late last Tuesday exhausted from a long day at work, I saw them. Beautiful creatures decked out in cheap and revealing silk and lace, overly done makeup and sky high shoes. As I stood in the corner admiring them, she called out to me. Shocked and embarrassed I quickly turned away and doubled my step. What was I thinking starring at them in full view of everyone? I shuddered to think that someone from my church, office or neighborhood may have seen me and had erroneous ideas about my life style.   

Still I couldn’t help thinking about them. There was none without a personal touch of beauty and I was curious to discover how they became this way. 

It’s another Tuesday and as with every other day after work I am tired, hungry and edgy. As I walk past them today this time accompanied by a colleague, I try hard not to stare but she calls out to me yet again… The one with the gold tinted hair, purple lipstick and low cut blouse. …. ‘oya come now’ she called. ‘I always see you looking, I am not expensive Ooohhh’ and you will enjoy yourself she added with a hint of laughter in her voice.

Yeeeey! My colleague screamed as she turned on the caller with eyes wild with rage. Look at this dog ‘tufia’- she spat as she raised her hand over her head and snapped her thumb and middle finger together in the characteristic Nigerian way of rebuke. Do you think every woman is like you people who do not have any shame, conscience or dignity?

Looking at the caller while my colleague rained more abuses on her, I saw in her eyes the answer to my never ending question. It lasted only a fraction of a second but I saw it… pain, embarrassment, anger and guilt. It disappeared just as quickly as it appeared and her face assumed a hard look of mockery and nonchalance. ‘See this one O’ she crooned lifting up her hands and waving them up and down towards my colleague as she did a poor imitation of laughter. You think you are holy, *another laugh*, listen whether it’s one man or two, we are all the same. At this her fellow cronies joined in the laughter.

I still don’t know why I did it, after all Chioma was right to call her shameless but as I reminded myself, I did see for a split second a look of shame and guilt on her face. I walked up to her, smiled and said I am sorry for the things my friend just said, I am sure she didn’t mean it. She looked up at me mockingly and said ‘my dear if you think you can have me for free’ forget it, ‘pay before service’. At this the whole lot of them screamed ‘pay before service’ and reeled off in laughter. I mumbled more apologies as I ran off after Chioma who had stomped off in anger. 

Stella! Chioma said under her breathe obviously embarrassed to even be having such a conversation, why did you apologize to her for? In fact if I didn’t have to rush home to cook for my husband I would have insulted her more. And then pouting and emitting a hiss from her lips, she said RUBBISH!

As I lay in bed that night, I was unable to sleep and kept wondering to myself: what hardship makes a woman become a prostitute? At what point in her life does her body become a market for the highest bidder or just any bidder? I sigh as I make a personal choice that I will be different from the others, I will treat them like treasures, a diamond in the rough but none the less treasures.

Thursday was a good day, by 5pm I was done but I decided to stay back at work until it got dark so I would see them as they came out to work.

As I strolled slowly past them that evening I looked out for her but she wasn’t there. Had she already been picked up I wondered, should I go ask for her, I didn’t even know her name. Hmmm, maybe I just wasn’t meant to hear her story I decided. As I was about to cross the road I heard the sharp hiss of a cat call and even before turning I knew it was her. As I turned in the direction of the call I saw her huddled in a corner seated on a bench by the local ‘roasted meat’ seller. She seemed different today I thought as I walked towards her and on reaching her realized what was different. She wasn’t decked out in her usual glamour of inappropriate clothing and make up. All she had on was a worn T-shirt, knee length cut-off jeans and bathroom slippers.

She looked up suspiciously and then said ‘na me you de find’ (are you looking for me?) I nodded even as she quickly added, why?

I took a deep breath and answered, I don’t know!

She looked up at me again this time with more suspicion and then reluctantly moved to create space on the bench for me to sit. I hesitated for a moment thinking of what people would say if they saw me here and then just as quickly sat down as I noticed the hardness returning to her face.

So, she asked in broken English. I always see you look me as you pass from office, she narrowed her eyes and peered closely into my face and then continued…. Why you always look my face.

I took in a deep breath as I tried to think up a suitable answer that would not offend but rather show concern. Here it goes, I told myself as I slowly opened my mouth to speak the first words that came to my head. I want to be your friend! At this, she threw her head back and laughed out loud this time with real humor unlike the one from the first time I heard her laugh. When she was done she looked back at me and asked, why you want to be my friend? Looking her straight in the eye, I decided to be as honest as possible and so replied ‘I don’t know’.

She looked at me some more, gave a deep sigh and put her head down for a long time. Oh gosh I thought ‘now she’s angry’.

When she looked up again she had tears in her eyes and she said to me: ‘this no be the life I want to live, but I have old mother, wicked father and plenty brother and sister’. She continued in broken english ‘when I small, my father use to carry me go bed and do plenty thins that father not suppose to do to his child. When I big finish I tell myself is better for other man to do this things to me in bed than my wicked father, so I run away to this town where I am making money to be sending to my mother for food and school for my brothers and sisters. Me I no want them to come and do what I am doing so I prefer to rubbish my life for them own life to be better. She put her head down again and this time when she raised up her head the hard look was back on her face and she looked at me with anger and said ‘I no even know why I am telling you all this things’. Unsure of what to do I looked away from her face frantically thinking, do I show pity, give her a hug, a smile or some money, at this point I didn’t want her to be offended by whatever gesture I may show so I kept my head down. Realizing this might also seem offensive I lifted up my head, sighed, smiled and asked; will you come and visit me in my office tomorrow? She gasped in shock and I gasped in shock at the audacity of my request. What if someone recognized her from the street I began to wonder, how would she dress to come over, would she wear her usual night make up? I realized as I looked at the excited look on her face it was too late to take back my invitation. I spent some more time speaking with Helen as she told me her name was. Lie or truth I knew not. We talked about our mothers, our siblings and about men. I laughed as she told me some of her exploits. As I got up to leave I looked her squarely in the eye and said, Helen, I do not like this your work, I want you to stop and also go back to your  village and expose your father for the wickedness he has done in order to protect other young women around him including your sisters. She looked up at me smiled and said ‘ aunty maybe now as you are my friend, I will want to change but for now I must go back to work’ and giving me another smile she turned her back and walked back to the dingy compound where she had a small room to herself.

Helen is the face of thousands of women on the street; we see them, insult them, wish them dead and treat them as trash. While no one should condone their lifestyle it’s time to ask ourselves about what led them to such dehumanizing conditions and make efforts to cause a change, one treasure at a time.

Jubemi Omabuwa

My Father’s wife

Oh how I hated her, the witch. Who does she think she is coming to take my mother’s place? I who had taken care of the house for 5 years, cooking, scrubbing and washing. Trying my best to be a woman so papa would not feel the urge to stray away every night and bring back home another child with the words: ‘Suubi, this is your new brother, take care of him like your mama would have’. Like mama would have let him bring home a bastard child from one of his concubines. But this was different, much worse because this time, it was not a child who was coming home but a wife.

I wondered what she would be like. Would she be beautiful or ugly, fat or skinny, mean like the step mothers in my school books or warm hearted like…. Oh there was nothing to compare her warm heartedness to. No home breaker could be kind, yes I nodded to myself as I smiled in satisfaction at my analysis of the witch, no doubt she was ugly and mean. On a second thought, I hoped she wouldn’t be that wicked. Wicked step mothers were horrible creatures who were mean to children and I did not want that for my siblings. Hmm... I sighed thinking back to papa’s evening speech from yesterday. How could he say we were becoming unbearable to handle and that we needed another mama. A slap to my face! How could papa say that? I who had cooked, scrubbed, washed and taken care of the offspring of his wandering manhood while their so called mamas’, only showed up to spend a few nights with him before going off again, not thinking about their children whom I had adopted as my own. They came into the house like they owned the place,  played mother for a few days only to wave at me on their way out with that annoying smile and those maddening words ‘well-done Suubi, hmm with all this responsibility, you will be able to handle your husband’s home when the time comes’.                      Shaking my head in disgust I wonder what these women know about having a husband or being a mother.

Finally, the day we get to meet her. Papa instructed that we looked our best as he did not want his new wife to be greeted by eight dirty looking children. I shake my head in bitterness, now he calls me a child.

The house was a hive of activity, neighbors, uncles and even aunty Elizabeth who I thought was on our side was there looking like she just won the lottery. I feel helpless and alone, hating the strangers who are walking around our house, my house like they owned it. A house I had taken care of for 5 years since mama died, now they sing, dance and pour rice and drink on the ground I painstakingly scrubbed clean. I hold close little Mumbia, the newest addition to our family from papas late night roaming.  It’s okay baby I tell him as I looked around for the others and see them playing with some other children. Seething in anger, I wonder whose side they were on anyway. I sit up straight as I hear Aunty Elizabeth calling me, Suubi, Suubi come here your father wants you. I rise up slowly from the bench, holding little Mumbia, who wouldn’t have released my hand even if I wanted him to. Come quick Aunty Elizabeth says as she sees me walking towards her.  

As I approach the crowd, I see her. She was sitting close to papa; head bowed looking nothing like a happy bride. I frown as I get closer trying to figure out her face. Was she ugly, old, hideous?  Papa smiled at me as he gestured proudly Suubi, you missed the celebration, come now and meet your new mama. Forcing a smile on my face, I looked up at the witch as I wait for her to lift up her head. Ever so slowly and almost reluctantly it seemed, she lifted up her face and what I see astounds me.

She was young, not much older than 14. I gasp in shock as I see her, tears swelling in her eyes, how could papa have done this. She was young enough to be his daughter, certainly young enough to be my younger sister, I was 16! Filled with pain and grief, all the animosity I had felt toward her turned to pity. I look up at papas smiling face as I hear Aunty Elizabeth’s voice behind me, saying: Suubi, embrace your new mother, she has come to take care of your papa and all your brothers and sisters. Now you can begin to enjoy life the way a child should.  Show her all you do in the house so that she can relieve you from your responsibility. I looked up at my aunty, wondering how I had ever thought she was kind. She had a daughter this age that was still in school, aunty wouldn’t even let her smile at boys in her class, but yet she would sacrifice the daughter of another to a tired old man like papa. SUCH HYPOCRISY! I held out my hand to the new addition to the family as I forced a smile on my face, thinking to myself the irony of the situation. For 5 years I had catered for papas offspring form other women; nothing much had changed after all, I was still in charge of the house, this time not just of 7 energetic children but also of a lone teenager who would need all the love she could get from a big sister.

Casting papa a nasty glance, I held on tightly to my new ward and walked with her into her new home. Praying God grant her strength to endure the life ahead.

 By Jubemi Omabuwa

Who says you are beautiful

I look around me and sigh: Hair cream, face cream, body cream, make up, tweezers, nail polish, jewelry, human hair extensions and loads of clothes. I sigh again. I love being a woman, no doubt! But with all the pressures of fitting in, I wonder ‘is it really worth it’?

Isn’t beauty supposed to be natural? Shouldn’t it come from within? Shouldn’t it be effortless? Then why does it cost so much? And: Why does it hurt so much?  Sadly I know I am not alone in this run, but no one will admit to the cost of trying to fit in.

Black skin, brown eyes, kinky hair, flat nose, heavy set buttocks, robust and heavily endowed, flat chest, skinny legs and deep set eyes! The list is endless- you are perfect, but the world dares to ask: Who says you are beautiful? Put on the TV; look at the stars- perfectly angular without any trace of fat, smooth skin without a trace of a wrinkle, no spots no blemish, that’s beauty! But I ask myself, is it really?

So tutor me! Who defines beauty? Who says fat is ugly, by what standards do they judge, who says freckles are disgusting? ‘Last I checked I was created by a supreme being who loves perfection’, who says my big legs, are hideous? Who died and made them God?                              

This I think with relish as I admire my lovely features in front of a mirror, but then I pick up the magazine on my bed and I am hit with a wave of anguish, I feel beautiful in the confines of my room but when it’s time to face the world and its outlandish standards of beauty, I am transformed again into an ugly duckling without the chance of ever becoming a swan. At least, not without draining my bank account for the rest of my life.

It’s difficult in today’s society to truly feel beautiful. Women are constantly attacked with every turn, by images and voices telling us we are imperfect creatures. Tons of cash are made by various companies and advertisers telling us WE can achieve perfection via the purchase of some “beauty” product; eating or NOT eating certain foods, exercising with this piece of equipment or that one, camouflaging or uncovering certain body parts…..  Goodness gracious! Does it ever end?

I prefer to shave my legs, wear nail polish and lipstick, smell nice and look good, but I’d like to think that when I wake up without an ounce of make up on my face, I weigh 10 times more and I am hairy all over, I would still be considered beautiful.

So with determination, will power and turning a blind eye to the world’s shallow standards of perfection, I look in a mirror smile and say to myself ‘I am the true reflection of beauty’.

Jubemi Omabuwa

HIDDEN CRIME - a victimized victim

It was a cold Thursday night after a heavy rain storm, and I was returning back from an after lecture reading to the private hostel where I lived just outside the university campus. I had never gone home this late without company before but didn’t think it was a big deal; after all it wasn’t even 10pm. I should have known better.                                

I was so close to my hostel when I heard the voice ‘hey stop there’…. I should have run, but before I had a chance to put a foot forward in flight, I felt a gun on my head and the words ‘if you move I’ll blow your head off’.

I felt the nuzzle of a gun on my nose and the even more terrifying words as I was pushed into a bushy path ‘smell it, its metal and its real’. I was thrown onto the ground, slapped, and beaten and there my body was mutilated and the virginity I had planned to save for my husband ripped from me.

Stricken with fear and frozen with shock, the cold reality hit me, I had been raped.

I was soiled, defiled and had become an outcast.

Shaking all over, I ran all the way to my hostel and banged hard on the door until my roommate, eyes heavy with sleep opened the door.  She saw me and immediately knew something was wrong. What’s wrong girl she asked, my first reaction was to lie and say nothing but it was so damn obvious I was a wreck. I was too ashamed and scared to tell her the truth as I didn’t want to risk being ostracized, after all where I come from being the victim of rape was shameful and unpardonable because in their myopic minds, getting raped is always the girls fault. It’s her fault she wore a short dress, a see through blouse or walked home late at night. It’s always HER fault!

But the pain was too much to bear, I needed to speak to someone and she was all I had at that moment, so I told her the horrible tale. Fear and shame gripped me as she stared at me in what I thought was disgust; but then she reached out to me, held me, wept with me and told me it would be alright. How far from the truth she was.

Next day, we decided I go to the hospital for whatever help and support they could render.  I saw a physician who performed the relevant tests and prescribed drugs and a counselor who advised me to go home to my parents.

Home: I got home and with tears streaming down my face opened up and told my mother what had happened expecting her to hold me and say it’ll be alright. How wrong I was, mummy beat me up, cursed me and called me all sort of names and then warned me that if I ever wanted to get married, I should make sure I tell no one what had happened. Typical right? It’s was my entire fault.

The social stigma associated with rape cases has made it increasingly difficult for female victims to report cases or talk about their hurt. This has constantly forced them to suffer in silence, and sometimes live the rest of their lives in emotional pain.

Ironic though isn’t it, that in a world so constantly developing and chanting women’s rights, our daughters’ still struggle with the primitive mindsets passed on by our ancestors – it’s a man’s world and a woman’s place to be abused… Sad!

Changing a society deeply imbued with these perceptions of male superiority to one that extols the virtues of gender equality is attainable, but first we as mothers, auntie’s and I dare say fathers and uncles, we need to say no to this embarrassing menace of blaming the girl child for her beauty rather that the man for his lack of self control.

The fight to stop rape and sexual assault may be ongoing for a long time to come but it’s about time the abused women were given a voice and a chance to speak up and tell their stories however morbid it may sound as an inspiration and lesson to the rest of our race.

Jubemi Omabuwa