The weather was decisive on Saturday afternoon. Though the initial plan was to take leave once it was 4 pm that the harshness of the sun would have been calmed. But sometime around 2 pm, the severe sun was hidden behind a small portion of dark clouds. “It would last for a while or there would be a light rain,” this was my thought.
Then the profundity of taking an umbrella would not stop visiting my head until I took one alongside my shoulder bag like a Jehovah’s Witness. The bag contained five objects: A customized jotter (given to me as a souvenir in a wedding party) full of the relative vocabularies I had come across so far in my read literature, The current read literature; We All Should Be Feminists, a book written by the famous African (woman) writer, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Another jotter that I would write therein every strange thing I would come across in my wanderings, A pen, and my credit card.
My first stop was at the ATM station of Access Bank. I wanted to withdraw some amount that I would need for personal and unforeseen upkeep. The severe sun had boldly come out from the cloudy hide and the eyebrows would not dare to be raised by the owners to behold the sun in its unmatched might. I was approximately the fifteenth person in the long queue in front of the automated teller machine. In front of me was a guy and behind me was a lady. The sun was still unkind and I put up my umbrella.
“Guy, give the lady behind you the umbrella. You know she's a lady and the sun might be too much for her,” said the guy in front. The guy was deathly pale like a skeleton. Sweat was gushing out from his pallid face and hairy hands. The whole of his body had turned into a tropical swamp. I didn't respond to him. Then I looked back at the lady he was talking about. She seemed healthier than him and I whispered to myself, “who needs the umbrella the most?”
It was my turn to use the ATM and as I was stepping towards the machine, a lady who was not in the queue earlier rushed in. She begged me to allow her to use the machine before me and ahead of every other person in the long queue. I examined her with my unappealing eyes from her hair to the toes. Perhaps she was heavily pregnant. Maybe she was sick. None of my assumptions were right. “What happened to 'what a man can do, a woman can do better?” I asked her rhetorically. “According to the feminist quote, if a man can que, a woman should be able to que too. Don't you agree?” I added.
I withdrew one thousand naira and peacefully left the ATM station. I bought some snacks and a chilled soft drink and sat under a mango tree to cool the hot temperature that was severely burning me inside. Then I opened my bag and brought out my pen and jotter. “The next topic I would write about on my blog is The Irony of Women First in the Feminist World”.
It was 4 pm. The sun was still wintry but bearable. Very soon, the sun would set and my umbrella would become useless like the stick of a licked lollipop. I began another wander.
There would be a Premier League Match between Chelsea FC and Manchester United by 4:30 pm. I had to find a viewing center before the time because it was a big match and the fans of each club would fill any viewing center there could be.
I walked for a few minutes and I saw a big building painted with pink color by the roadside. MUNIMOSH HOTEL & CLUBHOUSE was written in gold on the apex of the building and a banner was hung on its low fence had the following pictorial contents: The full picture of a clothed performing disc jockey (DJ HAY BEE), another full picture of two seductive young ladies; one showed her tempting G-string with the tiny string separating her two big buttocks, the other one showed her front; her nipples were covered by a skarlett bra but the remaining parts of her big boobs were flaunting in the eyes of the viewers, and her dry and hairless private part was covered by the front side of the G-string. Then, the written content has this:
3 NIGHTS OF JAMZ OF JAMISIPATA WITH DJ HAY BEE @ MUNIMOSH HOTEL & CLUBHOUSE
From Dec 31st, 2021 to Jan 2nd, 2022
Guys 10k
Ladies 5k
No lele if u no carry ọmọ ẹlẹ́lẹ̀ come, u go carry one go
Come one… come all… you don't want to miss out!
I shook my head pitifully. I imagined why some ladies who were relatively breastfed by some innocent mothers would stoop so low to sell their bodies all in the name of 'I'm entitled to and responsible for whatever I do with my body'. I started giving them series of excuses in my head, “there must be a story behind their chosen path”, “maybe life was unfair to them”, “maybe that was the only means of survival”, and maybe this, maybe that, assumptions were all over me. Then I wondered why the fee paid for the same party enjoyed by all genders would be gender-specific. I brought out my jotter and wrote:
Subsequently, on my blog, I would write about gender discrimination in clubhouses. How men are sexually cheated. How women are lured with chicken feed in order to be used in clubhouses. How women are strategically used and striped for a business boom.
I finally found a football viewing center after a quite long walk. The place was fully crowded but I entered and sat on the remaining empty white plastic chair. The match was already on. I was sitting between a black guy and a fair lady. I could tell from her fingers that she had once bleached her natural skin.
When it was time to pay for the match, I discovered that the lady didn't pay. I attempted to pay for her thinking that she was cashless, so I called the man collecting the money.
“Bro, I wan pay for this lady,” I said.
“Ah oga never mind. Ladies no dey pay,” he responded.
“Really! Amazing! Dem they watch different match from the one we dey watch so?,” my mouth was agape.
“Oga you fit bring the money if you really wan dash am out. I go kuku collect am,” the lady said to me.
Before I knew it, the sun had finally set. My umbrella, in its inevitable uselessness, had become a burden for me. That was not even a big deal. The biggest issue was where would I tell my wife that I was coming from if I should meet her at home. She had gone to a meeting with her friends when I left home and she instructed me to not step out till she'd come back. She would definitely slap my face again. And should I tell anyone about it again, no one would still believe me that my wife was the husband and I was the wife.
I started counting my unpardonable offenses: I left home without her permission, I used the ATM card without her prior knowledge, I came back home late and I had no genuine reason for leaving the house.
I was trembling when I got to the door. The door was still locked and I thanked God for saving me from another slap that could have catapulted me to the memory of how I got married to my once-upon-a-time gentle wife. And I would have closed my wandering diary for the day with a story that'd have a beginning as thus:
I'm Femi and my wife is Nisinmi. You can call us Feminisimi. On our wedding day, the hall was decorated with radiant ornaments of every kind, sparkling baubles at the four cardinal points, and a rotating Beam of Light that produces different lasers of many colors.
My wedding outfit described the occasion as the typical example of a Yoruba traditional wedding. The agbada was made from aṣọ òkè. The hat was abeti ajá style. I wore a long Yoruba necklace called ileke and one bangle of the same product on each wrist. I prostrated myself to my in-laws upon my arrival at the hall. My friends too did the same gesture in uniform as the master of ceremonies known as alaga ìdúró welcomed us with various Yoruba songs.
I remembered the admonitory sermon delivered by Pastor Popoola on our wedding day, “Thou shall not raise your hands to beat your wife.” So, many times I would want to retaliate whenever my wife slapped me, the memory of how my father beat my mother to death would strike my head and I'd become helpless in front of my matriarchal wife.
By P-Seven.
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