GENRE :

COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES

WORKING TITLES:
ROUGHENED DIAMONDS
GENERAL THEME:
An highlight of the inner urges, pains, frustrations
and issues of concerns to everyday African women
especially at the domestic spaces.
STYLE OF NARRATION:
MONOLOGUE IN THOUGHTS
WHO IS THE WEAKER VESSEL?

Julia in sleep mode, but fully awake at the edge of the bed, a pillow settles
unbalanced on her chest. She looks with scorned pity at the big tall man, whose
frame fills the larger part of the bed and noisy snore fills the entire room with
musical disharmony.

“I do not wish to contest that he is my master and I am the slave. That he is born to
lead and I, destined to follow like a sheep behind the shepherd. For so my mama
taught me and so my father instructed.” Mama would say, ‘see your father is my
lord, and so are all men. So you must learn to respect men, especially your husband
so that it will be well with you in your marriage.’ I never understood, but I always
nodded to please her. And father would say, ‘a woman is a chattel of man. She is
bought with his money, so she must behave.’

So I do not contest. Yet, I never accept. The odds beat me, it seems everybody
around shares my parents’ views about woman’s place is always behind the man.

Imagine, when I go to church the priest reads from a big black book. He would
quote, ‘a woman should learn in quietness and full submission. I do not permit a
woman to teach or to have authority over a man. She must be silent’. Why? ‘for
Adam was formed first then Eve’ so quoted my reverend priest. Then I am silent.
But I ponder, why should I be silent? Is it because some men wants me to be quiet?
I find it difficult to accept the ‘Adam was formed first’ reason. What if Eve was
formed first, would men fall behind her ?

In school, my teachers call me tom-girl. They complained, ‘you behave too manly!’
you are too sharp and straight for a girl.’ Then I stopped being sharp and straight to
be a gentle dull girl. I left school mid-way into promising career. Reason? Girl’s
education, I was told, ends in her husband’s kitchen and bed. So, I concurred. Of
what use a is a law degree in a kitchen?

Then to the street I turn now after the death of my mother. To avoid father’s hard-
hitting nagging that I could not amount to anything good. ‘You are a failure, you
cant even attract a good man for a big dowry’. I left home and found refuge on the
street. Settled with help of the sisters on the streets.

My street life changed my perspectives about men. Wherever we are- the street
sister- men would find us like the ants seek sugar. Under the cover of the night,
men of might are not fulfilled without a daily those from us. Mindless of their
authority, status and stature, they would strip themselves off their superior garbs
and airs, and throw away their power and pride with shameless abandon.

They whimper and stammer like a child begging for coins money to buy candy,
squealing and squirmed like hungry snails feasting on worms. And before the count
of the fifth minute, they have far spent and gone. Their bodies lay still like a baby
enjoying its first after-birth sleep.

Time without number like that I have had men’s patronage- the mighty and the
highly placed men, doctors, lawyers, politicians, bankers and the list is endless.

And I wonder again- what makes this man lying helplessly at my feet greater and
better than I? why I should I keep quiet beside him in church? What makes me a
weaker vessel?

Well, I have decided challenge their opinions and limitations set for me. He may be
the leader, but I am not destined to follow sheepishly. He may be the master, I need
not be his slave. That’s my contention!
DOMESTIC NIGHT DUTY

Portia sitting with a glass of water in her hands and pills of Panadol painkiller. She is
peeping out into the corridor of her house frontage through the slightly drawn
window curtains. She is unable to swallow the pills.

“My husband has come undone again. And here he comes with his double trouble.
It ‘s 1 a.m. Hungry and drunk, he must have his dinner anyway, served in bed, cold
and bare. That’s why I cannot go to bed since in 9pm when I tucked the children
into bed. He hates to find me asleep. He says it upsets appetite. Heaven helps me
if he finds me sleeping. So, I steel myself and pray, ‘Lord may he not be too drunk
tonight’. Too drunk – that’s my best prayer for nothing can stop him from being
drunk.

He starts his office that’s our home, by midnight. I am the only worker on duty. My
duties are numerous. First, I must open the gate and door ensuring the neighbors
and their dogs are not woken. Then I must endure his alcohol-soaked breath and
steel my body to support his sagging mass. Sometime, I have to endure the stench
of his vomit which usually drop on my lap and if it drops on the floor it is my
business to clean the mess.

Next on my line of duty, on occasion and unprovoked, I may have to I sometime

have to receive his alcohol-induced bashing and battery, and I often take care
refuge in the children’s room. Then, he would call me from the dinning table where
he has made a mess of my painstaking dinner. Then off to the bedroom I go, for his
main course – his real dinner- to be taken on bed, my body, bare and cold with all
the horrid smell of his booze-perfumed body. To resist is to dare the devil’s anger.

By 4 a.m, he has no need for me- my duty is now completed. He slumps down and
steps contentedly while I try to gather my body and soul together and be ready for
the day almost breaking.

Yeeh! Here he comes! He is even singing. That’s a bad sign. Please wish me an
even encounter!
NOT TONIGHT HONEY, PLEASE, NOT TONIGHT!

Beatrice holds a big ladle in her hand. She leans heavily on the kitchen cabinet. She
looks long and lost in thoughts. Some teardrops fall off simultaneously from both
eyes. She could see her husband, Olu, from the kitchen window overlooking their
apartment spatial living room. His head is buried in a Business Day newspaper. He
sips French wine intermittently as he taps his feet to the slow tune of R. Kelly music
playing in the background.

“Oh! How I wish Olu would understand. If only he could accept for us to eat out
tonight or at least volunteer to wash the dishes. Anything he could help with to
lighten the burden tonight. ’Why not ask him?’ A part of mind suggests. Ask him?
That’s the beginning of trouble. The fear of Olu is the beginning of wisdom.”

This unfair and oppressive. Imagine, we leave home together in the morning. He
was chauffeur-driven to and from work everyday. But, I, his lovely wife have to drive
myself to and from work everyday; driving through the heavy and rough traffic of
the busy city, coping with difficulty selfish and inconsiderate male-chauvinist road
users. They would go : ‘ What are you doing on the road, when you cant drive like
men? Go and get a driver and get off the road! Ah, little wonder she is a woman!’

At work, I have a full eight-hour hectic work schedule, managing with deft passes
from male colleagues and avoiding virus of jealousy and gossips among female
colleagues.

On my way back in the evening, I would stop by the neighborhood grocery store to
shop for things particular interest to Olu. Eventually, I get home even before him. I
wonder where he has been. That’s not a question, but a thought. I am tired, torn
and worn out, and my head is pounding. And there he is doing exactly what I would
love most to do: sit relaxed, sip wine lazily while reading one of my favorite book
with a R&B music softly playing in the background.

I must confess. Sometime, I am filled with hatred for him over his insensitivity and
lack of care. Oh cares! He would tell me he is the most caring of men. His reasons?
‘I buy you expensive dresses, perfumes and jewelry. I take you to the best
restaurant in town. What does a woman want besides these?’ he would query. I
think a little care home care like dish-washing. A different night when my spouse
take up the kitchen from me when I coiled up in bed.’ ‘Abomination! Olu would
shout. ‘it is unheard of that African man should be found in the kitchen. Cursed be
the home where the cock coos, and the hen crows.’ He would philosophize.

Why wouldn’t a man help with chores in the house? Help? Is he helping or
contributing? What feminizes most house chores ? I mean what makes the
difference? Do women use their breasts or wombs to cook and care for their homes?
Come to think of it. Most hotels and restaurant Olu and I have visited have more
men as waiters and chefs than women, and their food and services were excellent.

Now. Dinner is set. I will get my first smile or kiss of the evening, for we only pecked
lightly when he arrived. Now, I assume my darling nomenclature as the food aroma
fills the entire living room. Thank goodness, he is a little patient tonight, other
nights, he would have long angrily walked out to the next eatery nearby.

Now, all said and done, yet there is one major unfinished business upstairs. I can
hear the spatter of water, he’s showering. That’s I must be upstairs in few
minutes… he makes him happy when I show such understanding and initiative
without being prodded.

I take time my time, pretending to be preoccupied with the dishes downstairs. He’s
calling me now, ‘B! B! B!, the dishes can wait till morning, come to bed and rest!’
He admonishes me. The call of rest and sleep is half-truth. He actually wants his
thing before sleep – my body. Oh, now, I really wish he understands. Not tonight. I
cant bear his ever-increasing pounds tonight. My whole body aches. God please, tell
him not tonight and please, make him sleep off before I get upstairs, please and
Amen!”
FOUR GIRLS; ONE CHILD

Maryann is grinding pepper on the lump stone sharpened for that purpose. Lily,
three, her eldest daughter is crying, ‘Mama, I don shit finish.’ No one seems to hear
or care, and her cry continues unabated. The second daughter, Emma, two, is
crawling near the edge of the well. Maryann rushes to pull her back to save her
from falling into the well. She washes Lily’s bom-bom with water as she adjusts her
cloth-wrapper to secure the third daughter on her back, and returns back to her
grinding.

Her, husband, Maxwell tries to calm down their last daughter, Gift, who is crying in
his arms. Frustrated by her persistent crying, he gets up in frustration and moves
towards his wife to hand over the crying girl to her. ‘ O ya, take your pikin (have
your child).’ He leaves the child on the floor near her mother. He announces as he
strolls out, ‘if anyone asks of me, let them find me at Mama Chisom’s bar near the
market-square.’

Maryann packs the ground pepper. She looks confused and tired. “how long will this
continue, Lord?” She asks loudly. “This is not the dream I had for myself. Four
children in four years, and I am only just 22. What would become of me when I am
30, if I continue with like this? Eeh? And the feeling I am having these past days
suggests nothing but pregnancy. Eeh! God!! Another baby in this condition. Unnh! I
hope it is not a girl again o. I know, it is because I have not produced a boy that is
why Maxwell wants pregnant every month. Eeh, God, may I not die looking for a boy
child o. Father, (she talks as if she was in the presence of her father), see what you
have caused me now. You said this man was good and that he would take care of
me because he paid good bride-price. Eeh! The doctor has warned against another
pregnancy in the next three year. But, how would baby boy come, if I am not
pregnant? This thing has filled my mouth with salt and foul smell; salt can not be
spit out, and foul smell cannot be swallowed.
Maxwell is threatening to marry another girl if I fail to give him a boy. God, what am
I supposed to do now?”
The baby on her back wakes up and begins to cry. She pulls her out and lays her on
her laps and begin to breastfeed. Lily is crying for attention she wants food. The
other two girls are fighting over a doll. Maryann sits still unmindful of her
environment, while the baby on her lap sucks. She breaks down and burst into
tears.

DEEPER THAN PAINS

Lizzy has been weeping all evening and all her friends’ efforts to console her were
abortive as she continued to weep uncontrollably. It was too dark in the room for
her friends to make out her disheveled hairs, torn blouse and bras, blood-stained
skirt, broken lips and the inner anguish that soaked her mind.

“I met Debo three months ago at a dinner organized by a family friend. He looked
good and sounded very godly. Everything about him was gentlemanly. It did not
take me long to accept to go out with him given the physical and emotional résumé
he displayed before me. Debo was a youth pastor in his church parish- a high
profile, 3rd generation Pentecostal church. He visits every Sunday after our first
meeting. He never invite me to his house nor did I ask for it until this evening when
he came as usual. After our Sunday rendezvous at my place (which I share with two
other girlfriends). He asked me casually to visit his place with him, he seemed not
to mean it. I agreed because I thought it was time I get to know him a little better.

We got to his place and everywhere was dark. I wondered why, but it did not raise
any suspicion in my mind. Still in the dark, he led me through the apartment with
the intention of wanting to surprise me. He finally switched on the light by this time
we were already in his bedroom, but I was not surprised. I stood looking round the
room. It was too neat and tidy for a busy man’s room and I commended his
neatness. ‘ What a nice room you’ve got here!’ He beamed with smile as he handed
me a glass of wine from bottle of wine on his study table. In pretext to leave room, I
asked him to show me round the apartment. ‘Debo, I would love to see the other
parts of your place, lets see if it is nice as your room.’ But he kept talking to me and
I had to show some respect, so I did not interrupt him. After the glass of wine, I
requested that we go to the living room. Debo made for the door as with my back
turned at him as I leaf through his photo album. It was the sound of a door closed
and click of metal on the floor that awakened me to the reality of the moment.

As I looked up, there he was, my youth pastor boyfriend in full nakedness of a man
and it dawned on me what the whole set-up was about. I was horror-stricken.
Debo’s gentlemanly demeanor was transformed in a twinkle of an eye. I begged and
pleaded. I invoked the names of his parents, God, angels and everybody, he would
not budge. He lunged at me with manly force and made straight for my neck. He
threatened, ‘if you shout!! if you shout!! You are gone! I begged again in my
muffled voice. Ok, please, ok, I wont shout, pleaseeeeeee! Pleaseeee! I wont shout
pleaseeee!!! Debo I beg you, pleaseee! Don’t shout, don’t shout, (he commanded
as he slap my face and forced my mouth closed) one more word from you, and I
would strangulate you.’

I fought back biting hard at his hands, defying his order I shouted at the top of my
voice with all the strength I could muster. I sprang up and made for the door, but it
was locked. I searched frantically for the key on the floor, while I made several
attempts to drag me back to bed. He pinned me to the ground and heaved his
whole body weight on me. He began to beat me, cursing and threatening me-
‘you’re mad, you bitch, make it easy for yourself, surrender! surrender or I’ll kill
you’. By now, I discovered my resistance was declining, I began to feel the effect of
the wine all over my body. Now I know that the wine was drugged, no wonder he did
not drink it. He tore madly at my breast and pulled hard at my skirt until he got me
naked. He heaved himself fully on me and penetrated very hard leaving my vaginal
wall with multiple tears. My whole body shivered in revulsion and total submission.
Conscious of what he was doing but too weak to raise a finger.

I must have laid down on the floor for over forty-five minutes before I regained
consciousness. Debo was nowhere to be found. I managed to gather and wear my
clothes and wobbled outside. My body ached and smelled. I headed straight for the
Police Station nearby to lodge rape complaint against Debo. ‘officer, I have just
been raped, and I want it the incident recorded. I want the man arrested.’ ‘Keep
quiet my friend!’, the officer ordered me. What are you doing in the man’s house?’

He invited me over, officer. Look at the bruises all over my body, I tried to explain.
‘Prostitute, that’s how all of you women are, you will agree to follow a man home, at
the end of the day you want to blackmail him to get more money. Raped? And your
mouth is sharp to talk like this? My friend, if you don’t leave here, I would be
tempted to have my own share of the booty’

I left the police in double rage- hating all men. I fumbled and wobbled to the main
road like an old woman who does not have good use of her legs anymore. My thighs
burned and ached from bruises sustained in the struggle with Debo. My body
shuddered with spasms of horror. I felt stupid, lone, sick and for the first time in my
life, I prefer death than living.

EIGHTH LABOUR FOR THE FIRST CHILD

Akunbi walked laboriously towards ‘Lore maternity home, a bag full of baby things
and maternity materials pulled down her hands and sagged half of her body. She
could barely walk straight. It was fourth visit in one week to the home. Akunbi is
heavy with her seventh pregnancy.
“oh, Lord! She prays, ‘may this one not be a girl again like others’. Let it come out a
boy, oh God!” her eyes well up with tears as she recollects her encounter with
parents-in-law the night before.

“Welcome papa, welcome mama!, Akunbi enthusiastically. She was answered with
cold silence. Shocked, Akunbi rose up on her feet after an embarrassing and
prolonged kneeling.

‘Unnh! Unnh! Em! Kunbi!!! Or what is that your name?’ Pa. Ben, Akunbi’s father-in-
law called out. ‘Yes papa, I hope nothing is wrong? Akunbi asked in her childish
innocence. Yes, something is wrong and that’s why we are here’ replied Mama Ben.
‘Anyway, by the pointing of your belly, you should go to labout before the next
market day. If by then, you bring to this family another shame of useless thing you
called child, you should be ready to leave this house for a real woman who will give
my son a real child, a boy’. Do you hear me? ‘Yes, mama, Akunbi answered, ‘but
mama, you should understand that it is not my fault that I do not have a male-child
yet. Besides, a girl-child is as good as a male-child. Afterall, you and I female and
our parents did not reject us because we are not male. ‘May Amadiora strike that
your mouth’, her father-in-law fumed with anger as he cursed her. Whose fault? Tell
me, you useless thing! Witch!

‘What kind of life is mine? Is it a crime to be a woman? If you are barren, they call
you man-woman, male paw-paw tree and useless thing. And if God blesses you with
beautiful baby girl, you have committed worst of abominations’.

Akunbi walked on her pace slow and measured. The weight and length of months of
pregnancy are taking its toll on her body. She stopped to rest for while by leaning
on the roadside sign-post stand. The pang of pains seized excruciatingly. She could
no longer stand neither could she walk. Rather, she sat on the ground fighting hard
to absorb the tearing pains that surged through her body. The pains disappeared as
it had come as some passers-by began to converge in curiosity. She rose slowly and
continued her walk into the maternity home.

Mero with her nine year old girl, Lucile in the daughter’s room. Mero was lost in
thoughts and could not hear the last question her daughter asked her.
Mum. Daddy came again last night. He cam into my room. He told me not to be
afraid that just wanted to check on me