Why Must I Submit to my Husband?

My husband and I wrote this post. This is his first and probably last feature here. Dude loves his privacy. But you must know that I did all the writing. He talked, mostly and shared pointers. Parts of it have been edited. So if you’re a wife or a husband or you want to get married soon, you might be interested in this post.

When oga and I were discussing this topic, I prompted the following conversation.

ME: Luv, are you stronger than me?

OGA: Of course.

ME: Are you smarter?

OGA: No.

I wasn’t shocked. He firmly believes in equality of the sexes. Still I piqued his mind.

ME: Are you wiser?

OGA: No. That’s one of the places I feel we’re equal. But if you ever beat me physically till it hurts, I should be taken to Kikirkiri to face a firing squad for being a disgrace to men.

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Na We Dey Do Oursef

This one’s for my Nigerian sisters. There’s more to life that Telemondo, witches and wizards chasing you, Africamagic, shopping and looking good and generally being superstitious without being smart. If you’re reading this, it means you are probably not in the category I am going to talk about. If you are, well, na you sabi. If you’re not, you definitely know someone who is. Talk to her. There’s a larger world out there. Let’s help our female folk.

I was at the salon the day before yesterday to have a terrible hair redone. The woman was my regular hairdresser but she had not been around for almost a week and I had to do my hair at some place on Friday. It did not turn out well. I was looking like this:

Photo from beautyeditor.ca

Okay, so when I got to the salon, I asked my hairdresser where she had been and she explained to me that she lost her stepmother. After I offered my condolences, I ventured further to ask what had happened to the woman.

“Hmmm… my sister,” my hairdresser began, “she just go shop o! Before anybody go say go come na so she fall for ground. Before dem go carry her reach hospital, she don die.”

“Awww….so sorry. she dey sick abi na wetin?”

“Sick keh. My sister, no be sickness o. Na wicked people do am dat tin.”

And there my inner head rolled her eyes. Like, seriously? Someone slumps and dies and another person gets blamed for it?

“You sure say no be sickness?”

“No. You know the woman na. The last time you come, she dey play with your pikin. Dat fat woman like dat. Very fat. Full of energy. Wetin wan kill her like dat?”

I couldn’t recall the person she was talking about. That day there had been many fat women in the salon.

“Almost six months ago, dem give am stroke, she survive dat one. The tin no do dem. Dem come back come finish am with death. Chai! Human being wicked sha o. And I warn am. I warn am say dat place where she open shop no good. Evil people full there. And see, dem don kill am. That’s why me I no take my life joke. I carry my whole family for camp on Friday make we go pray. No be me dem go see. lailai! No be me.”

I was silent. Obviously, my views differed from hers. Obesity to her indicated healthy living. How was I to explain that the woman, having already had a stroke was clearly on the path to having another or even something worse? Where do I start to break it down to her that many of the misfortunes we suffer are results of our own mistakes and ignorance and not the work of some witch or wizard somewhere? This same woman inspired a story I wrote about a mother whose baby died in her arms. The circumstances leading to the child’s death all pointed to an illness—incessant crying, refusal to breastfeed, mood swings, insomnia—but the mother would have no other explanation. Someone in her village was behind her son’s death.

I maintained my silence and we talked about other things. Not long after, a customer came in for her scheduled appointment and I had to sit aside and wait. Another lady walked in and one of the girls in the salon began to retouch her hair and the gist about evil people was reignited. You can imagine how I felt at that moment. All of them believed in the power of black magic and about people ‘doing’ people. They went on and on and on but I kept mute and stayed on Twitter. Just when I thought I was going insane, a woman after my own heart walked in and she changed the course of the gist.

Someone had brought up the story of some pastor’s wife in Benin who had ‘died’ and ‘gone to heaven’ and seen God and all that. She claimed weaves, wigs, nail polish, attachments and everything that made women looked good came from hell.

“Na lie!” the woman after my heart exclaimed and I smiled. But I remained mute. An argument broke out immediately and I could see they were drowning my woman and that was when I stepped in. You know that moment when you have been so silent when everyone has been talking, then you decide to speak and everyone believes you have a word of wisdom? Yes, that was my moment and they were all listening to me speak. I made my point and went back to my BB. The argument still went on and when they got tired, they ventured off to child marriage. Now, here’s the surprise. They knew nothing about the topic. It was my woman that was giving them the full gist about Yerima and the petition signing et al. When the gist was not favoring them, they switched to Telemondo. Of all things!

Pardon me to say this to y’all who watch that channel. I have no issues with Telemondo but when a woman sits down all day watching it and Africamagic and cannot stand five minutes of a movie like Burn After Reading, then there’s a serious issue with her intellect. Yep! I said it. Of course, different strokes for different folks. We all have what we like but hello! what on earth are Telemondo and redundant Nigerian movies teaching us? If anyone can come up with an answer apart from the obvious that we watch on Nollywood (which include juju, wicked stepmother, infertile woman, evil mother-in-law, friends stealing husbands) then give me that movie and I will watch it.

Back to the salon. I was done with my hair and was doing my nails by now when the husband of my hairdresser walked in.

Pause.

Dude was hawt. Hawt in a chubby way and he was well put together, not as much as my hubby though. In his hand was a Samsung Galaxy Core or something like that and his shoes were designers. Before I forget, the other women in the salon were married to made men, so I’m not talking about village chicks hooked to local men. These were women who could afford to drive classy cars and carry expensive phones but had heads that were lost in a primitive era.

Now, they were still on the Telemondo gist and I was surprised to find out that my hairdresser’s husband knew more about Aurora, Precious Rose and the rest than I did. But he didn’t know much; he stopped halfway and like me stuck to his phone, browsing the net. Gratefully someone switched to a different topic and we the phone users joined in. We were back to the child marriage issue, then we jumped to the new law on sachet and bottled water, moved to Fashola and his governing style and finally ended with cartoons.

You can be sure it was just myself and the man talking at this point. His wife who was now giving me the bad eye and was leaving hints that she was tired and wanted to go home. At that moment a thought crossed my mind and I asked myself: what if I was single and looking for some already made man to become my maga? Won’t this woman’s husband be a perfect catch? He was smiling more at me than when he came in, he had totally ignored his wife’s presence and I could see his eyes light up each time I made a point and he was no doubt, enjoying himself. Don’t misread me. He was not lusting after me; he was just intrigued to be speaking to a female who could reason on the same level with him. This was a man who didn’t enjoy Telemondo but went out of his way to watch it because of his wife, yet the woman couldn’t bother to be interested in anything he was interested in.  She came across as the perfect wife who does her own bit in the home front well. She cooks, she cleans, she has a business to support her and she is all most men would want in a wife but that is all there is to her. Permit me this disclaimer: I was just on the outside looking in. There’s no way I could tell for sure because I had just one glance into their marriage. But I saw enough to push me into writing this post.

And there, I just gave you the secret into how I pick my characters.

But I digress. And getting back to the point! I am making no excuse for men who keep late nights and spend time with their friends with the claims that their wives are troublesome or boring. All I am saying is that a lot of women are just basic, observing the normal definition of what the world thinks women ought to be. They make no attempt at challenging themselves to do and become more than their environments offer. They believe all a man wants is sex, food and babies. For them to even center their lives and existence around what men want and not what they ought to be in life is another problem entirely and I’ll keep it for another day’s gist.

Men’s interests do not always rotate around female body parts and sex. They have brains too and they use them more than we are made to believe. From my own experience, a man with a good head on his neck, would easily choose engaging conversation over sex and he gets pissed when you put him on the same level with guys that let their penises think for them. He would not deny that sex is always on his mind more than you but he is more turned on when brains come with beauty. For that woman who makes it her life’s calling to satisfy a man without finding ways to better herself so that the man and society at large can benefit from her, I have just this one thing to tell her: Please, satisfy him with all your head then. The heart and duty are just the first stop. When combined with brains, the mix is dangerous. No man has been known to resist such a female with that type of combo.

And lastly, to the mystical… There is that other world out there which we call the supernatural. There are custodians of that world and they live amongst us and believe in the power of their craft. We have been taught ways to stay away from them and how to deal with them through spiritual means but we have not been taught to be brainless and narrow-minded while going about it. If you did not see with your koko-koro eyes where a man turned into a goat, please do not believe it, even if the man came to you himself and told you he turned into a goat. It’s funny how all the people who have told me that they believe humans shape-shift have not witnessed it firsthand. If ever they saw what the human had changed into, they got there only after they changed and did not stay long enough to see the transformation back to human nature before they went to spread the strange tidings. I always ask such people what happened to the clothes the person was wearing after the change and they look at me like I have some brain issues. I find it weird that in this age where people film everything they see with their phones, they’re yet to catch one witch turning into a cockroach on camera.

Ladies, let us expand our horizons, study beyond our scope and be open-minded. Here’s something some of you don’t know about me. I hated romance stories once. Hated. I used to think it was cheesy and I told myself that I would never write about it. I had written a few love bits in different genres but not a full account. It was never my thing until someone asked why I didn’t have one short story on romance and I felt ashamed and became challenged. I wrote a very short piece which I never published and found out that I did not only love it, I was quite good. And since then, I have not rejected any genre in my writing. As long as I am inspired, I don’t say no to the muses, I just write. And it would be nice if ladies applied that principle in their lives.

As women, we should expand our scope and break free from the mentality that our type are bird-brained. Try watching a horror movie or a football match just for fun and don’t do it to please any man. Do it for yourself; do it with your girls. For those of us who are religious, lets use the head God has given us. From my Bible, I know Jesus spoke in parables and left so many things unanswered for the multitude that liked to follow him. But it was only those who asked him later that got the full gist. The secret is to seek and you will find. Knowledge does not come to those who wait for it and wisdom is not found in the hearts of the foolish. Read proverbs 31 and learn about the virtuous (and if I may add) smart woman. She was not your regular housewife. She went beyond her range of mother and wife and did more. It wasn’t mentioned that her only objective was just to please her man and the society. No, she was doing what she loved to do and doing it with all her heart and head. She didn’t wait for oga to care for her. He was not her maga. She was her own maga but even after she worked with her hands and became wealthy, her clothing was ‘strength and honor’. Her words were of wisdom and kindness.

I think we can all take a cue from her.

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HE ALSO ASKED ME TO SIT ON HIS LAPS – WHAT PEOPLE DON’T WANT TO HEAR OR SAY ABOUT THEIR PASTORS

I didn’t want to write this story. Never ever! It’s one of those things as they say, one should cover up, especially when one considers the human beings involved. But I thank God that someone like Ese Walter came out and shared her story. I am not God, so I can’t disprove her and say she’s lying, nor can I say she’s telling the truth. I’m only here to share my own story because something has been stirred in me.

Mine is a little different from hers but it runs along the same lines and I will combine it with a similar story because I want to expose a few things today. It is not easy to come out and share this. I stand to be judged for sharing it, especially by those who share the same faith as me and who have known me from home. But I make no apologies. I am a grown woman, a mother, a wife. And my husband approves. Nobody’s judgmental opinions matter.

Before I go to the main, story, read this intro. I hoped to hide this too through some random blog post about child abuse. I wrote this a long time ago and tried so many times to post it but my guts failed me. Today I share it. Here’s my story:

She was only six years old when her father’s friend visited their home. She didn’t know much about the visitor but she called him Uncle Cameroun because that was where she was told he lived. His name began with a C too but now she doesn’t remember. He could have been very fair or very dark. After all these years his face still chooses to be a mystery to her.

The first time she enters the guest room to see him, her whole family is in the parlor watching Another Life. A curious child she is, she wants to know what is in his bag. Earlier, he had promised her some goodies. But she finds nothing. The bag is full of books. Her eyes stroll to the dressing table and she sees a sachet of red pills. They look inviting and she picks the sachet.

“Uncle, what is this?”

“Blood medicine.”

“Blood medicine? What are they doing with it?”

“Bring it here.”

She takes the pills to him and he pops one into his hand. He puts it in her mouth and she instantly likes it.

“Iz sweet!”

“Yes. And it gives you blood.”

“Why?”

“Because you need blood to be strong.”

She keeps licking the pill and when the sugar-coated part of the blood supplement is over, she spits it out.

“Iz not sweet again.”

He takes her hand and draws her towards him.

“There is another thing that can give you blood.”

“What?”

“Let me show you. Turn around.”

She turns away from his face but she’s very curious and tries to look back.

“Face your front,” his voice is a little gruff and she obeys it.

Next thing she knows, his hands lift her dress and runs over her sides.

She is innocent. She doesn’t know what he is doing. There is no danger alert device installed in her system. Her brain has no explanation for what is going on. She stands there and takes his abuse, oblivious. After he is done, he tells her she’s a good girl.

“Don’t tell anybody. When you come back from school tomorrow, come back here and collect more blood so that you can be strong. Don’t wear any pant. Don’t tell anybody o!”

She is happy to leave the room but she can’t wait for more blood tomorrow. As he has instructed her, she tells no one.

The next day, after school, she runs into his room in her school uniform. He does as he pleases with her; gives ten kobo afterwards. She uses it to buy local sweets and shares with her sister and cousins. She looks forward to the following day.

This continues for the entire week—she collects ‘blood’ everyday and he buys her sweets. Finally, his visit is over and he must return to Cameroun.

The little girl is sad.

“Uncle, you will come again?”

“Of course, he will,” her dad says, oblivious of what his daughter has gone through.

He never comes back. She grows up, forgets him.

Years later, in her friend’s room on campus, she gets into a conversation with a bunch of girls. All of them have a secret to share; they have all been sexually molested as children. Every one of them.

It is then she remembers… A scene from a girl’s story sparks something in her and she remembers everything Uncle Cameroun did to her. Somehow, her mind had blanked him out all these years but now she sees everything in detail. It should not be in her memory if it has been quiet all these years but strangely, it is there—the picture of a six year old girl who was the object of a man’s dark sexual fantasies. He had pleasured himself while looking at her naked body for one full week.

She cannot handle the recollections as she leaves her friend’s room and goes home. Tears are her food for days. For weeks, she goes through the horror of her past over and over. Time makes her forget because she commands it to. She pushes it all into that blank place it came from and she moves on with life, unhealed, scarred, broken.

Uncle Cameroun was a pastor.

In 2004, while in school in my second semester, I fell really ill. I had the dreaded combo of typhoid, malaria and brokeness, so I did what every normal student would do. I went home. I had one other reason for going home: my ‘uncle’ was in the country. Not, Uncle Cameroun. Another one. And I needed to tax him for house rent which he promised me. Now, this uncle is not a blood relative. He is that uncle that one grew up knowing as one’s parents’ friend. He lived outside the shores of Nigeria and visited the country at least twice a year and spent both times at our home. We were very close. Now, this uncle, because of his oyinbo orientation, was very open with us and we were the same way with him. In short, I shared with him my relationship issues at some point and he gave me good advice on what to do. I trusted him that much.

Now, my dad’s a gentleman of the cloth (pastor) and so is this uncle. Let’s call him Z. Now, Z was a bishop. A well-respected bishop overseas; a doctor, a theologian, a learned man and member of the Jewish community. Whenever he came into the country, he was always so booked that it was hard to see him except for the little time he spent at ours. Therefore I was lucky to meet him at home. I arrived home on a Sunday really, really ill. By Monday, I wasn’t any better. My dad left the house early to the church for a preaching engagement. My mom left to work, my aunt to some place, my sister to some place and everyone just vanished and I was left alone with Bishop Z.

He called me out to the sitting room and asked how I was doing. I told him I was getting better as per the normal answer na. Next, he asked me to sit on his laps. I did. Without hesitation. It wasn’t anything new. My sis and I had been innocently sitting on that man’s laps for as long as I can remember. He was like a father to us. So I sat and he started asking me about the house rent issue and I told him how much I wanted. He told me he was going to give it to me before he travelled. I thanked him and he asked why I was thanking him, that he would do anything for me, that after all I was getting married to his son. I laughed and while I was laughing innocently, I felt his hand on my breast. Now, I was a girl and I had been in situations when a guy wants to start getting fresh with you and he makes a move that you think is a mistake, that maybe his hand just mistakenly brushes against your body.

That was how I felt. It had to be a mistake. But I felt it a second time and I froze. I was shocked. I couldn’t move because I couldn’t believe it was happening to me. When he saw that he got me immobile, he became bolder and started groping. That was when I found the strength to move away. I asked what he was doing and he laughed and said, ‘why are you acting like you don’t know what’s happening? Are you a virgin?’

I couldn’t reply. I got up to move away but he pulled me back and became very forceful. Guys, I was scared for my life. I was very weak; if you know what typhoid can do to you, you’ll know how frail I was. I could hardly move and it seemed my struggles were useless but this man just kept on touching me all over, oblivious of my begging and tears and he was in the process of lifting my dress when God sent an angel to the front door.

My dad had sent someone to come pick him up. Mind you, he was to be speaking in the church in less than an hour at a pastor’s conference. I ran to the door, opened it for the driver and ran back inside crying. My heart was beating faster than a racecar. I was scared to death. I could hardly breathe. Minutes later, he left with the guy and I called my boyfriend and told him everything. Naturally, he was mad and told me to report it but I couldn’t.

And here’s why.

I told you my dad is a pastor. Before this, I have heard of stories like this and have gotten in-depth gist of such situations and always, the blame fell on the girls or women that were involved either in a rape situation or a consensual sexual affair with a man of God. Thus, I knew, nothing would be done to him if I reported and I knew I would be blamed for seducing him or something of the likes. So I kept it all in; I didn’t even tell my sister immediately. That man stayed in our house for a whole week and even on Wednesday, I went for midweek service and watched him preach. As usual, the church was slain in the spirit by his theatrics and I sat in one corner and asked myself what in God’s world was going on. This was the man that almost raped me on Monday, now here he was talking about living a holy life? Nothing made sense.

I kept that story to myself and told my sister when I noticed he was getting close to her. She wasted no time in telling my mom who got mad at his behavior. Things went awry after that and I will not expose family issues here. But later on, I was told by a close friend who travelled around the country on his preaching engagements with Bishop Z, that my case was small. There were more vulnerable women out there that fell into his trap – wives, daughters, including orphaned twins who had come to him for help. But like I said, he was just another randy MOG amongst so many others I knew.

Unless you have been a victim to the wiles of these fake pastors or have witnessed firsthand what the disgusting things they do in the name of God, you will not understand where Ese Walter is coming from. Her case was not like mine. She had consensual sex with the pastor in question and she has no right to play the victim. But was she a victim? Yes, she was. To what extent? To the extent that these men, if they have the oratory power to make their members believe anything they tell them, they also have that same power to make spiritually weak women fall into sin with them.

I visited a church earlier this year and the senior pastor towards the end of the service, picked me out of the crowd and shamelessly told me I was beautiful and when I got embarrassed, he told me not to be, that God had a calling for my life and that I should see him after church. I obeyed and waited after the service. He came to me and continued the whole you’re beautiful speech and then asked to be my ‘personal’ pastor. No, scratch that. He begged. Not once, not twice; three times and when he saw the shock I carried, he went on to ask why I was shocked, that hasn’t anyone ever been that bold towards me? He continued, saying that there’s a calling of God for me, blah-blah-blah, he will publish my books and give me a job with a publishing company that has offices in London and South Africa. I should just let him bring out God’s gift in me. Nobody told me twice to leave that church with speed. He even had the guts to call me the next day by 10pm and my husband tore my ear with warning about him. Now, is that a man of God? But if I told his members? What do you think they would say?

On the top of the list of women’s problems are infertility, lack of husband, spousal abuse and financial issues. Such women are vulnerable and the closest spiritual figures they have next to God are their pastors. They will believe anything they’re told and might even do anything and these evil men prey on them and use them and when these women come out to speak, we open our mouths and tell them to shut up.

So, just because he carries the title of MOG, he is automatically sinless and untouchable by human scrutiny and investigation?

Of course, I have seen a case where a lady had consensual sex with her pastor and came out and told the world he raped her. There will always be lies by crazy people but this should only push us to make our spiritual leaders more accountable.

Cases like Ese Walter’s happen every damn day and people know about it and do nothing! I have seen a church where a man was caught in adultery and instead of having the backseat to shame him, he was given the seat in front with the leaders because he was a pastor while his cohorts in sin sat behind because they were members. Reason: I quote “one has to be careful when dealing with a man of God. He’s not to be handled the same way a normal Christian is handled.” But (excuse my language here) he has a dick abi? Or is it a spiritual dick? And he has sex the normal way or is there a biblical kind of sex that we don’t know about which makes it okay for these men to commit blatant adultery and God does not look?

Oh, okay, my bad. There is a different level of grace on them, abi?

Well, for those of you who believe this, I ask: what if this MOG is screwing your wife, daughter or sister or mother? Do your lyrics remain the same or do you scream bloody murder?

We Nigerians are so quick to jump into the “Touch not my anointed and do my prophet no harm” verse when it concerns our pastors. But have we read that passage to find out who God was referring to? Please go read 1st Chronicles 16.

More quick questions here: if my pastor tries to have sex with me and I report him to someone who can bring him to order, am I harming him? If I try to speak out against what he’s doing and nobody is listening and I am getting threats instead, am I harming a prophet? It’s bad enough that we live in a society where women are often blamed for rape and consensual extramarital affairs while the men are left free. The church is supposed to be the place where none of that is allowed, where hypocrisy is unveiled and truth abounds. Why then do we carry that same spirit into our places of worship?

I am one of the strong proponents of us not judging each other, though I too, still fall into this sin many times. But what gives us the right to damn politicians and everyday people to hell and even in our prayers but when we see the wrong in our pastors, we keep quiet about it and venerate them to a pedestal that is sometimes shockingly higher than Christ’s?

Let us face the truth: These are mere men. Sadder is the fact that people seem to believe that the super apostles (with private jets and huge churches and massive followings) are void of sin. If a small pastor in a mushroom church is caught in adultery, he should be persecuted but if a super apostle is caught, the whistle blower should be persecuted, silenced and delivered of her evils. Bet why?! Strip one of these super apostles of their wealth and his congregation would be the first to cast their stones and blogs will not be enough to post their sins on.

I repeat: They are mere men. As a Christian, you should know that we (not just one man) are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, a holy nation. Not one man. Not some men. Me and you as long as we believe, God will use us. He spoke through a donkey. Jesus sat and ate with people that even in our church today, we would turn our noses against. From some of such sinners came the gospel which we preach today because it was God who chose the vessels.

What criteria then do we use to know true men of God today? Sadly, there is none. At least, doctors spend eight years in school and every other profession has some form of accreditation. Yet there is none for pastors. Even theological seminary is not enough because we have atheists who have studied Christianity better than Christians themselves and can quote the Bible word for word, yet do not believe in God.

So what criterion do we use? We have only one standard and that is the word of God. If you’re a true Christian, you will not judge Peter and let Paul go free if both of them committed the same crime. You will judge neither but will bring their sins under the light of truth to weigh and see if they are on the right path or not, also being mindful that one day, you could be in their shoes as well. And when you see the wrong, you ask for mercy on their behalf and do not claim one is righteous over the other.

What then should be done to men in position who abuse their office? We demand from them to lead by example or else what they feed on, they feed back to their followers. If they refuse to lead a godly life, they should not lead us at all! The principle when last I checked is ‘follow me as I follow Christ’. If a man is following the lusts of his flesh, and we want to keep to rules and principles for order in God’s house, let us expel such a person as the Bible says in 1st Corinthians 5 because a little yeast works through a whole batch of dough. Makes me wonder why there is so much immoral lifestyle in the church. It is because predators, victims, partakers, spectators, contributors, judges, people on the fence, all of them keep quiet and it spreads from the head to the least person. Just because we don’t want to expose our sins and seek for mercy.

I don’t claim to be a saint. And I feel bad that I kept quiet and watched a man whom I should have exposed for what he did, continue doing it because I was afraid. Today, I keep his identity a secret because he is no longer in that position and has fallen from grace. Am I happy about it? Yes, I’m happy that he is not manipulating any more vulnerable and weak women. But at the same time, I am sad because that was a man God had deposited his word into and given the occasion to speak the truth but because he hid his sin and others like me helped him lock it with a huge padlock, he imploded on the inside and took many down with him.

Ladies, stop seducing your pastor. God has given you the strength to flee if he is too weak to flee. Go to church, face your God. Stop disturbing pastor for special prayers biko; that’s why women leaders are there. Leave those pastors! They are just men and last I checked, can still be affected by your boobs and bom-bom.

Let us be the donkey and not be afraid to speak the truth when we see things go wrong in the pulpit but let us also do so in love, remembering that it could be us in the shoes of our neighbor tomorrow.

Thanks to @OD_lifecoach, @larriepeniel and @ameh_arome

They gave me the strength to write this.

©Sally @moskedapages

Special Announcement

So, To Tame a Virgin will come to an end next weekend. Please keep a date with your favorite characters here. For those of you who are BB users and would want to get the post before everyone else and also other write-ups you won’t see on this blog, here’s what you should do:

Visit your BB application world and download the Wattpad application or do it directly from here

Once downloaded, type in To Tame a Virgin and you will see the final episode and you can download it. But you can only get it on Friday o!

 

Now to the real reason why I put this announcement. I hardly ever toot my horn but I want to make a special exception here. Please guys, read The Immortals’ Code and you will come back to kiss me because the drama is just about to begin. Another reason I need you to read it is because I really need your feedback. It’s a novel in the making. I want to test its marketability. Y’all know me. I won’t recommend rubbish to you. Lai-lai! For those of you who followed the Fish Brain series, you will meet some of your favorite characters there. A couple of people requested that I reblog it and that is what I will start doing from tomorrow and it will run for two weeks. For those of you already following, please bear with me while I do the reblogging.

 

And finally to the Fish Brain series. I am so sorry but don’t blame me so much. My artist has gone AWOL. Imagine. And he’s in Malaysia for that matter. He’s a very good friend and I know he won’t disappear like that when the last conversation we had ended on a very good and positive note with laughter. I am very worried about him but I know he’s okay. I hope all is well. But I have waited too long na and the book is ready. So I will just go ahead and publish. *sobs* not how I want it. But it’s okay. Keep watching out for the announcement soon and it comes with a HUGE surprise.

Thanks!

Only A Flame #ChildNotBride

I sat crouched at a corner of the room… With my arms circled around my folded knees.

Another stream of tears rolled effortlessly down my cheeks as I relived the experience.

I could still feel his fingers like the gentle slithery movements of a snake as he caressed my body.

I closed my eyes….If only I could shut out the images…

But No…. They were there… Refusing to leave…They came with such vivid clarity!

Images of flailing arms … Fighting to keep away the evil that loomed above me.

I remembered trying to scream… But I couldn’t hear the sound of my own voice.

Randomly the images came, in no defined order. I recalled a struggle to retain my underwear as groping hands determined to take them off…

The sound of a dress being torn…

Then I remembered the slap! Like a thunderbolt, the impact had gone through my whole body shutting down every remaining resistance I had.

I had lain there passive… Like one in a daze… And watched in horror as my young and innocent body was brutally ravaged!

I could still hear the wicked but ecstatic grunts of pleasure as he forcefully entered me again and again. Beads of sweat dropped from his forehead as saliva flowed in tiny streaks from the corner of his mouth. The stench of alcohol literally exuded from the pores on his skin.

For a moment my eyes had locked with his and I cringed in disgust!

“Who is this animal?!” I remembered thinking. There was a deadness in his eyes which were filled with fiery desire and burning lust! As I looked into those eyes, I realised I was staring at a beast… For I couldn’t bring myself to call him a man.

A surge of bitter tasting bile rose in my throat as I retched under a strong wave of nausea.

But nothing came out! My stomach was probably empty… But I did not care!

There was only one word that could explain how I felt…….

VIOLATED!

That was thirteen years ago, when I was just twelve years old… and now it is happening again!

Still crouched in one corner of the room, my hands still folded around my knees, I know what is about to come as he nears me. I feel like screaming, like getting up and charging at him but I know it would be useless. He would pick me up as if I am a piece of paper and throw me hard on the bed and I would not be able to escape his grip. So I sit there, shivering, tears stinging my eyes, my heart beating wildly. I know what to expect. After all, it has happened a million times before. From that first encounter thirteen years ago, I had somehow become a vessel for him to express his depravity. It isn’t something new, yet I am still terrified as hell.

I close my eyes as he grabs my hand and yanks me off the floor and throws me to the bed.

“So you think you can leave me and follow another man abi?!” he growls, landing me a resounding slap on my arm, careful not to touch my face. I scream and try to kick him away but I know it only ignites him. He is blaming me for following another man but I am guiltless. I only visited my aunt who just came into town and she kept me fifteen minutes longer than my curfew time. Now I am being punished and called a whore in my husband’s house. The other people in the house are listening but they will do nothing, they will say nothing. I will walk out with a limp and bruises and they will greet me with a smile as if nothing happened. They will ignore the cry for help in my eyes as my own family has ignored them for thirteen years. My life will continue with no hope because the world around me has no place for me to run.

“How many times will I tell you that you belong to me?! No man will ever have you as long as I’m alive! You are mine, forever!”

“Please, don’t…” I cry but he slaps me again. He puts his hand around my neck and holds me in a choke. There is darkness in his eyes as a cackle erupts from his throat.

“Open your legs!”

“Don’t do this. Please…” I beg. Maybe today is the day he will look at me with those eyes and have mercy. Maybe, just maybe he will not force himself in today and will love me the way a man should love a woman. But why should I hope for such things? It is not my place to enjoy them. I am only a woman and have no soul, as I was told. And it seemed like just yesterday, when I was but a little girl and was told my body belonged to a man old enough to be my father. Sadly, I don’t think I have grown from that time. As a girl I have come into this pain and it has lived my life for me.

So, I lie there, unresponsive to his touch, dead at every thrust he makes, numb to my own self. I keep my eyes up at the ceiling and look at the light bulb until it fades into memories of a wonderful past I have kept secure in my heart.

I see my brother teaching me to throw stones at lizards on the fence of our house. I see my sisters and I playing suwe and fighting over whose turn it is to wash the plates. I hear my father’s hearty laughter from the parlor as he watches something on TV. I listen to the cries of my baby brother while my mother bathes him in the backyard. The air is breezy and smells of rain but the sun shines brightly, refusing to go away though the clouds enshroud it. I look up and try to take in all its brilliance but grandma says I could get blind from doing that. So I lift my hand and shield my eyes while I hear my mother calling me. But the sun breaks through stubbornly, aiming to blind me…

I blink and I am back to hell, the light bulb stinging my eyes while his sweat pours over me. How many times have I been in that position, looking at that same bulb, at the ceiling it is hanging from? How many times have I taken the pain and yet emerged and kept a happy smile when I am outside with my children?

He gives one final grunt and pulls out of me. “Go and get ready for our in-laws,” he says with an evil grin and walks into the bathroom. I pull my legs together and try to cry but I can’t. There are no more tears here. I have to do as he says.

I secure my wrapper tight and hurry out, carrying around my familiar limp, trying to hide the pain in my arms. The compound is already buzzing with activities as the maids prepare for my husband’s new wife. I have never met her but I pray she is someone I can relate with, a friend that can finally keep me company. I go about preparing the meal and making sure the maids clean her room properly. It is my former room and now that I am a senior wife, I have been moved to a different room.

I finish what I am supposed to do and ensure that everything and everyone is set. Then I retreat to my side of the house and sit silently as the wedding ceremony progresses. There is music and dancing and food and drinks. Everyone is happy and cheerful and for a while, from my prison, I forget my pain and smile. Hours pass and finally the last drum is beat and there is a cold hush in the large compound. The generator goes off and I light a candle in my new room. My bladder alerts me that I must use the toilet and I grumble. How many times must I go in an hour? The maids call me ‘Aunty Piss’ behind my back but they do not know my weak bladder is a souvenir from my battle with VVF. I am glad to be alive even though my bladder embarrasses me every so often.

I stop in my tracks as I hear the sound of someone crying in the dark. I look around me, flashing my candle in the shadowy corridor but I see nothing. The crying continues and takes me only a few more steps for me to know it is coming from my old room. I go cold. But I strain my ear to listen some more if I can hear my husband’s voice. I hear nothing.

I move forward, each step with a churning stomach and I finally come to the door. I clasped the handle tight and slowly push the door in. The crying doesn’t stop; instead it is turned up a notch as I walk in. I put the candle before me and I freeze. Lying on my bed, hugging my old pillow with eyes sketched in fear is someone’s little girl. I feel a shiver in my bones as I look at her. She can’t be older than eleven and yet her future is going to be destroyed in one night.

I cannot move. I can hardly breathe. I feel like I am looking at myself. It is happening all over again. The girl sees something in my face that beckons to her. She leaves the pillow and runs to me, falls at my feet and hugs me. She is crying, pleading, begging me to take her home.

Home? I don’t know where home is right now. Maybe it never existed; it could be all in my head, for I do not understand how a parent can give their child away to be raped and abused. They call it marriage but it is no marriage. It is rape, it is abuse, it is evil, it is death.

I look at the girl and pull her up to me, holding her tight in my embrace, telling her it will be alright as the candle burns away. But nothing will be alright. Nothing will be fine from the moment he touches her. In one night he will take her from childhood, past her youth, past her womanhood and dump her right in a dark grave. And every night after that, he will pummel her to death.

Is this what I want for her? Should she suffer as I still do?

I pull away from her but she holds me tight. She won’t let go. Together we walk to one of the windows and I peep out. I can see him emerging from his side of the compound. How many times have I looked out this window and watched with dread as he approaches me.

Something sparks in me. I look at the candle. It is just a flame but I know what power it holds.

I set the flame to the thin curtain at the window and watch as the cloth fights the heat. But it is no rival for the fire. It whorls backwards and gives in to the flame, embracing it. I do the same to the second curtain and both of us watch as they both burn. I lift the bed sheet and set the mattress ablaze also.

The girl’s eyes are wide and she moves back from the rising inferno. I see the question in her eyes. I have an answer in mine.

I will buy you another night, maybe a second night but that is all I can do.

I have wilder ideas of running away but I have children. Where will we all go? I look at the flames leaking up everything and though I know this is temporary, it gives me pleasure. It also gives me strength and courage. And I feel a tingling, a tiny tingling in me to fight for my freedom, for her freedom.

Maybe I will fight…someday soon. Maybe today.

Written by yours truly and Valentine Oje Ikenna who blogs at Valentineoje.wordpress.com. He is a doctor, a pastor and a passionate writer.

Both of us SAY NO to #childmarriage. The Nigerian Literati say no to #childmarriage

 

Please stand up against these sick senators who are pushing for child marriage. It is not enough to sit and say it is never going to happen. We should raise up our voices against it and insist that strict measures be taken to have it completely abolished in places where it is being practiced. How can a lawmaker marry a thirteen year old and we think it’s his prerogative? How many more girls will go through pain and horror in the hands of sick men who abandon them in shacks to die and still roam around the community with no one punishing them? How can we all sit and have this injustice being done to innocent children and yet expect God to come down and save us? If we keep quiet, what then is the hope for our children? Don’t think because you’re a Southerner, it has nothing to do with you. What affects one, affects all.

The Nigerian community is speaking up against this. It’s just a flame but you can help the fire spread by sharing this message, irrespective of your religion and beliefs. It may not be enough to stop these men who are comfortably playing god with the bodies and souls of little girls. But it is enough to stir something in you. We should not be known as a nation that sits down and does nothing. Stop saying our efforts can’t go anywhere. These girls have to know there is another way to live. They have to know that marriage is a contract between two consenting adults and they have nothing to do with it. They have to know that there are people who hear their cries and are fighting for them.

If you are in Abuja, the venue is: Unity Fountain, by Transcorp Hilton. Also the Park. Time is: 9am-12noon.

For those in Lagos, the venues are:

1. Ojeez Restaurant, National Stadium Surulere.

2. Alausa Park, Opposite Lagos State Governor’s Office, Ikeja.

3. The Palms Shopping Mall, Lekki

4. New African Shrine, Agidingbi, Ikeja.

5. Arrangements are still on-going for those in Festac Town and it’s environs.

Time is 9am-12noon.

And in your little corner, let your candle burn.

Related Posts:

Will You Give Us Your Daughters?

Let Us Marry Your Daughters

Don’t Call Me Bride

She Is Just A Child

For Halima’s Sake

I said i’m on a break but…

I was discussing with the fabulous Toyinfab via BBM just over an hour ago and we were on the topic of plagiarism and how we writers suffer from it. I remember last year when I posted something on this blog that I thought was written by a friend but it turned out he reblogged it from a popular Nigerian newspaper and the reblogging options did not leave room for acknowledging the rightful author of the work. In the end, we both got hounded by the author and I was so ashamed of myself that I had to put the work down immediately. I felt bad and dirty like I had committed a mortal sin and since then, I have taken this copyright something very personal.

So you’re wondering why I’m putting up this post. Here’s why: After I was through chatting with Toyin, I decided to copy and paste part of To Tame A Virgin on Google and see what comes up. And you won’t believe that I found someone who stole my work from 360nobs, gave me no acknowledgments and even changed the title. See, I’m a nice person and that is why I will not call out her name or her blog here but feel free to Google How To Tame A Virgin…Course 101

Pissed is not a word that can be used to describe what I felt. Straightaway I took the right measures and brought it to her notice and to other related third parties.

Now, please, I want to beg those of you wannabe writers and bloggers, stop stealing people’s hard work and sweat. PLEASE! It takes a lot for writers to put their work down and leave it out there for free. If you want to put it on your blog or site, simply ask. I don’t think any writer is averse to getting their work out there. It is absolutely wrong to do this. Please stop it and please don’t do it to me again. Be warned: I’m going to hound you like a dog if you try.

And madam that stole my work and changed the name, I will not let you rest. If by the end of this week you do not put down that post (don’t even put my name, I don’t want again) I will destroy your image on the web and bug your host until they take down your blog.  Rubbish! Shey it was me and you writing it?! Let me not just abuse you here.

 

And on a happier note, have a nice day peeps!

To Tame A Virgin/ The Immortals’ Code New Schedules

Hi guys,

I’m happy to announce to you that I’m now being featured on Manswersonline, 360nobs and fictionboardnigeria! Now, here’s the not so good part: I would not be posting To Tame A Virgin here for the next two weeks, but I will be featuring old episodes on 360, so if you have not read the first four, you can catch them there. But I’ll be back here in two weeks to sync up with them and we’ll be running as usual.

As for Immortals’ Code, you can get it here and also on Fictionboardnigeria every Saturday but you can hook up with old episodes on fictionboard.

Please remember to share and leave comments!

Gracias!