Bow You Must

By Ada Okere Agbasimalo

Its a factual text with a tinge of fictional flair, a penetrable literature punctuated with humor and sarcasm, an inspiring work designed to encourage and lift the spirit of those who feel dejected, an outpouring of genuine sentiments truly deserving of attention, a dependable companion for the family, the student, the youth, and especially the woman and the man, and an inspiration to the efforts of international organizations and nongovernmental organizations [NGOs]. I have gone through the manuscript, and it made good reading. I believe this will be another knockout. Good luck (Professor Ethel-Dorris Umeh, Enugu State University of Technology, ESUT).

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524676582

Ada Okere Agbasimalo

AdaOkere Agbasimalo has a first degree in French from the University of Nigeria, Nsukka and a Ph.D in International Relations from the same university. Her Master's degree from the university of Lagos was also on International Relations. She worked as a program officer for the John Hopkins University/Center for Communication programs (JHU/CCP) under the sponsorship of USAID; and Society for Family Health (SFH), as Gender Mainstreaming Specialist and Senior Advocacy Documentation Manager. She is also the author of: Bow You Must and Waves of Destiny The author is a recipient of • Award of Extraordinary Woman (Unsung) by Genevieve Magazine • Merit award for Excellence and Integrity by Nigeria Association of Women Journalists (NAWOJ) Enugu Chapter • UN Eminent Peace Ambassador Award • The Inspiration Women of Courage Award by Inspiration International

Book preview

AuthorHouse™ UK

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

© 2017 Ada Okere Agbasimalo. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/10/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7659-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7658-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Preface

1 The Quest

2 The Discernment

3 The Enigma… Of A City

4 The Armed Robbery Attack

5 The Impact

6 The Menace

7 The Elegant Thieves

8 The Big Deceit

9 The New Road Saga

10 The Painful Experience

11 The Winged Termite

12 The Ultimate

13 My Mother

14 The Compromise

15 The Lesson

16 The Decision

17 The Take-Off

18 Experiences

19 The Victims

20 The Reality

21 The Girl Child

22 The Clean-Shaven Scalp

23 The Boomerang

24 The Revelation

25 The Expectation

26 The Actualisation

27 The New Dawn

C:\Users\MRS. ADA AGBASIMALO\Desktop\letter.jpeg

DEDICATION

To the memory of B. U. N. Okere (1918-1998)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

No one ever does anything alone. Even when not assisted by mortals, the help of Almighty God is inevitable. I give glory to God for His incessant help, without which I could not have pulled through. Several individuals contributed to the successful completion of this book. Notable among them is Engineer Emmanuel Agbasimalo, ‘the husband to marry’. His support, encouragement and trust constituted my main thrust. Obiora, Ikenna, Chibueze and Chinazor were wonderful in their critique. Now there are also Eucharia, Ruth and two sweet grandchildren. Thanks to you all and to many others not mentioned here. Ultimately, thanks to God!

FOREWORD

AdaOkere Agbasimalo’s work is easy of demeanour but firm of purpose. This work mirrors the author’s spirit and her perceptions of her gender in a manner that brings forth her personality.

My knowledge of the author reveals a woman’s innate desire to affect what is sensed as highly concentrated pejorative perception of the woman by society. If according to the author, society lives with a demeaning notion about a large part of its citizenry, then any effort made to establish why this is so and seek possible solutions to the anomaly should be considered justified and deserving of support. Her book presents itself as one of such efforts. It is put across in the form of penetrable literature, punctuated with humour and sarcasm in such a way that knotty issues and serious matters are carefully highlighted, tackled and put on the line. This way, the author tasks the mind of the reader and puts to test the conscience of her audience, bringing them to the brink of taking a decision – for or against.

The concern raised in the book’s political North/South dichotomy that characterises the international system and constitutes the bane of the system, depicts a struggle between taking a scholarly approach to the enterprise of writing this book and using the genre of entertaining fiction to communicate a view of reality. Citing the origin of the basic problem in the North/South divide, and tracing the development of the imbalance arising from the geo-political cleavage, the author subtly calls to question the rationale behind the orchestrated idea of a one - world community.

The intrigue swiftly shifts from the international system to the developing countries of the world where the problems are acknowledged as similar. Even though the platform on which the story rests is the global arena, the intrigue careers across the African continent, settling within the socio-cultural milieu of the geo-political entity called Nigeria. The identity of the characters has been designed to broadly fall within the geographical context and probably, the developing countries of the world in general. Through this identity, several vivid pictures are painted of experiences that are imaginary but not far-fetched.

The author in this docudrama painstakingly chronicles the perceived ills, proffering solutions along the line and adopting approaches considered constructive, to fight the cause.

AdaOkere’s BOW YOU MUST is definitely an inspiring work put together and designed to encourage and lift the spirit of those who ensure that the chain is not broken. Surely, the book will generate some controversies. Nobody ever made omelettes without breaking eggs. The time for talking about those issues raised with such passion in this unusual medium of near fiction has indeed come.

PAT UTOMI

PREFACE

‘Bow You Must’ has just resurfaced as change remained annoyingly gradual, and scores of requests to republish for a fresh reading delight, pouring in. Here it is, still the same factual text with a tinge of fictional flair through which the author paints a familiar picture in a different way, effortlessly getting the arrow to pierce through the heart of the reader. The author finds herself in a position to expose unjust practices, which do not appear unjust anymore, because they have been taken for granted and accepted as a way of life. She searches in vain for defensible reasons for the obvious prejudicial disposition that is the woman’s in society, and why. As she searches further she falls deeper into a cul-de-sac, discovering that the cankerworm has eaten deep into the fabric of society. In a broad spectrum move, she draws the attention of the menfolk and the government; and solicits their support.

Advancing her cause, she discovers that there may be help around the corner.

Ada Agbasimalo Ph.D

1

The Quest

Lost in thought, the companion wandered, thinking over the intensity of the assignment. Hope was never lost, the belief was strong that the mighty One would provide guidance and show the way. Trudging along and never-wavering, dissenting views, ideas and beliefs crossed paths, threatening confusion. As a result, intensive, time-consuming and non-result-yielding discussions and arguments occurred. Amazingly, people clung to ideas, standing up to defend them with all their might, even when such ideas proved questionable.

This companion had always remained adamant. Original thoughts must not be corrupted. Some mistook the posture for stubbornness. But better remain stubborn than fall to the whims and caprices of gripping beliefs and unbelief. After all, with eyes and ears wide open, thoughts sharpened and mind discerning, one could strive, with divine help, to analyse situations.

This was the state of mind when a dusty book stand was sighted. A broad-brimmed straw hat, on which dust had settled, rested on the head of a bookseller, who was seated on a stool.

Merchandise hawkers and food vendors sat by open gutters, half-filled with dark, green sluice and cried out to pedestrians and commuters alike, announcing their wares and inviting potential buyers. An offensive odour oozed from the gutters but that did not seem to bother anyone.

Music blared from an over-used radio/CD set. It was uncoordinated. A music hawker was trying to get people to appreciate a piece of music and buy pirated compact discs. People clustered, listening. A short distance away, the loud music coming from a strategically located loudspeaker seemed to be in competition with the noise from the bus conductors, vendors, vehicles and commuters. From different corners, loud sounds from prayer houses blasted from loud-speakers. But the head-breaking noise seemed to make the environment tick. It also seemed to keep the people alive and kicking as brisk-walking passersby unconsciously nodded to the rhythm of the music while some with less care actually stopped to dance. The companion’s curiosity was stirred.

Close to the bookstand, a stale and humid stench coarsely surged into the companion’s nostrils, forcing a strong urge to spit. The sputum that swelled up in the mouth was swallowed, somehow. Spitting at will in public places was not a preferred habit of the companion. Breathing was now kept shallow. The bookseller did not notice that the fetid air disturbed the companion. The environment was normal and nothing so far made him feel otherwise. Almost opposite the bookstand, several flies hovered round a dead rat in a small heap of rubbish. That equally did not matter to the bookseller. Nor did it mean much to the passersby, one of who emptied a mouthful of brownish-yellow mucus on the heap. The fetid nature of the surroundings did not seem to bother anyone. It rather created the impression that, perhaps, that was the easiest way to survive, in that environment. That was Lagos.

The companion drew closer to the bookstand. The bookseller, now aware of the presence of a potential customer, focused his gaze on the companion, who cleared the throat and spoke.

What kind of books do you have here?

Plenty, he snapped back, eager to make a sale for the day.

I get Chinua Achebe, Sidney Sheldon, Wole Soyinka, Lobsang Rampa, Mamman Vatsa, Shakespeare, Frederick Forsythe. I even get…

Don’t you have anything written by a woman? the companion interrupted.

Hey, see this one now, picking up a small book and wiping off the dust from it, "Na Flora Nwapa write am. This one na Jane Austen and, this one na Joans Collins…"

Hmm, is that all? enquired the companion, interrupting the bookseller again.

"No - o, see this new book, no mind the dust", he said. The companion moved a step backward when the seller lifted up the dusty book. He quickly wiped the dust off its top and exposed a front cover with something that looked like a painting of those who bore us, the mothers of generations, looking resplendent in their familiar maternal demeanour and glamour.

The companion grabbed the book and tried to decode the picture and title. They had already made meaning and caused thoughts to race through the mind. The companion flipped through the pages and almost got lost on a discourse featuring a rather tortuous journey from the cradle to the grave. The bookseller moped, his lower lip drooping and exposing a set of ill-cared-for teeth. The companion’s eyes went back to the cover of the book and, recognising and acknowledging the author, paid for it and disappeared.

2

The Discernment

Meriye could not drop the book. It was already revealing a lot. She flipped through the eye - opening pages and felt the impact. Yes, her knowledge and awareness increased, she felt it. She also felt her appetite sharpen for more literature pertaining to the tortuous journey. Now, well positioned to find out more, especially as fables and tales had painted varying and confusing pictures, a story told by a certain writer came to her mind. This writer’s imagination claimed that ‘in the beginning, there were three worlds. The first was heaven, the second was the earth and the third was hell. God in his infinite mercy, after creating heaven had thought about humanity and had provided a haven for humankind and called it earth. He beautified this haven and adorned it with great and natural ornaments; and gave His guiding rules, which must be kept. Some occupants of this haven kept the rules while others did not. The good people who kept the rules eventually inherited the earth and it became their legacy. Those who flouted the rules were expelled from the earth and banished to hell where they were meant to suffer for life.’ She hissed and brushed aside this confusing story, always remaining thankful for her companion’s subtle guidance. She became more determined to make a headway, scanning the pages of various books and other literary materials, surfing the Internet, until suddenly, she stumbled on something quite different.

Wow, how amazing! Her eyes bulged as she began to read aloud.

A serious study of the Third World, can hardly be effected without due reference to the unfortunate divide that has created a deep gulf in the international system, resulting in an imaginary demarcation, signifying real economic disparities, with one side of the divide bearing the brunt of it all. This side of the divide is predominantly poor and underdeveloped, while the other apparently advantageous side is rich and developed. They are both referred to geographically as North and South, politically as developed and underdeveloped and economically as rich and poor

Truly confusing! Meriye muttered, ruminating over the earlier writer’s story again, trying to compare it with her new finding. According to that story, the heat from hellfire turned a great many black as everybody was originally of the same colour before the sojourn in the furnace. Several managed to wriggle out of the intense heat to a corner with relatively lower heat. They escaped the total darkening effect of the furnace but could not go completely unscathed as the experience consequently left them mid-way between black and their original colour, looking somewhat yellowish. They simply remained coloured but moved to a separate abode in the same hellish hemisphere. Meriye got convinced that that could only be one myth put across by the white man to confuse the naive.

Misleading! Very misleading! How can this be? The story even had it that the black and not-too-black remained doomed in hell, as if cursed; and have since remained there, struggling with the intense heat which was causing weeping and gnashing of teeth. Meriye scratched her head. This story is misleading alright, but it sounds true. She acknowledged grudgingly.

The full impact of the disturbing story overwhelmed Meriye. She was completely lost in thought. She had grown up to know it, feel it and believe it that the Almighty Omnipotent is ever so merciful and cannot possibly have a hand in this disturbing story. She therefore dismissed the story as a fable, a tale and a figment of the writer’s imagination.

But sight should nevertheless be lost of it as it has been said that there is no smoke without fire. But when fire is sighted on the mountain, people should run and try to put it out.

Meriye dropped the litreary materials and began to talk to no one in particular.

No one needs to be told which side of the divide is tagged Third World or underdeveloped or developing but why should one side of the divide bear the brunt of it all? She found solace in another account, which she also voiced:

Literature and studies on the political economy of the world, credited to renowned political economists, even of western origin, reveal that a long time ago in Europe, the European lords after exploiting their own peasants within their own feudal system, using peasants’ labour and property to create initial wealth referred to as primitive capital, embarked on a massive exploitation drive on the African, Asian and Latin American continents.

Massive exploitation drive? What could that mean? She asked herself but soon found out, as she read on:

The adventurers saw to the plunder and subsequent destabilisation of the countries of these continents while the proceeds from the pillage were repatriated home and converted to wealth, with which a good economic base was formed and their development base aided. The items carted away include rich minerals, precious stones, carvings, other artefacts and valuables. Meanwhile the original primitive economic base of the ravaged world had been overturned.

Hmm, at last here lies a realistic and straightforward account. She let out a sigh of relief. This is the root of the dichotomy between the rich and poor in the international system, she said to herself and, there and then, took her decision.

She also picked from this eye-opening account that, as the irksome business went on, the foreigners found in these poor countries a rich haven for political business, and began to settle in parts of these countries, setting up satellite governments and businesses run by appointed agents from their home countries - also referred to as the metropolis. Soon it was no longer a matter of coming to raid, loot or trade alone; it metamorphosed into coming to settle, rule and control the economies of these newfound lands. And that was colonialism.

Meriye had been taught about the slave trade, the scramble for Africa and colonialism during her school days, but such details as were discovered during her recent study were not within her reach then. Everything now became clear to her. She did not need to be reminded that the ravaged world was the world labelled third, the world to which she belonged. Further analysis revealed to her that this experience destabilised from the roots, the entire make-up of the so-called Third World. As a result, when the visitors eventually left, every other thing had already had a faulty take-off. The home economy took off on a zero base; political power was acquired without economic power, resulting in minimal infrastructural development. Next was an explosion in population growth. Then facilities and services could no longer go round, causing stampede and rush with only the fittest surviving and grabbing, to the detriment of the weak and powerless. The rich got richer and the poor, poorer but life still had to go on and this remained so for long. Meriye shuddered and began to talk to herself once more.

So this is why hunger, poverty, sickness, illiteracy, disease and injustice became companions of people of this world called third? Is this also why disillusionment, disappointments, wars and killings, sorrow and hardship have become an everyday affair? Any direction you look, you see citizens in confusion, leaders without direction, armies without forts; all trudging along and wallowing in gross underdevelopment. She stood with arms akimbo and soliloquised further.

Oh my God! I am part of it all. We all are. I just wonder why in spite of these woes, priorities are still misplaced and our advancement felt mostly in evil machinations. Suffering is the order of the day and there does not seem to be much hope. She lamented further. But this is a place where all hands should have been on deck to salvage the ugly situation, through selfless commitment. But it has instead become a place where people are virtually on their own, struggling to feed, to survive. It is a place where streets are adorned with beggars, and destitute citizens are left to their fate. She walked the length and breadth of the room.

Oh my God; this is a place where it is not strange to see one or two decomposing human corpses lying here and there, where people can brutally kill fellow citizens without qualms. It is a place where people live in fear as gunshots and bomb blasts are heard from around corners. Yes, we all live in fear - fear of both the known and the unknown, we live in a place where people thrive in filth and freely inhale fetid air, where it is fashionable for men to zip down and urinate into open gutters and on walls surrounding residential premises; and even on Do not urinate!" sign posts. As for faeces, this is dropped at random in nearby bushes, by roadsides and in gutters, with flies flirting between the droppings and open foodstuff displayed for sale. This is where contaminated foodstuffs are scrambled for and consumed daily by teeming slum dwellers, whose immediate care is ‘something for the tummy’. This is where public toilets are a rare commodity and diseases a common occurence.

Hmm! She sighed, dropping heavily on the sofa. Arms folded across her chest, she continued.

This is where brothers are at daggers drawn and absolute power lies in the barrel of the gun. It is where politics means killing to grab power and ethnic rivalry and fierce hatred are allowable. It is the place where prayer houses spring up in large numbers but people neither stop praying, nor sinning. Here, also, it is obvious that only God’s grace is the saving grace. This is the central place where rights are trodden upon under the guise of culture and religion. It is a place, where those declared weaker vessels have absolutely no defense and where tradition places them at the receiving end, forcing them to absorb received insult, wear the cloak of shame and sometimes, suffer death. This is where emphasis is placed on cultures, traditions and customs which the forefathers left behind, and which purportedly cannot be changed. This is where all the emphasis should be on healthcare, education, energy, water resources and other infrastructural and socio-economic development. But it is rather a place, where women and infants die during childbirth due to neglect, inadequate structures, misplaced priorities and; inherited ignorance which leads to undue attachment to unprofitable traditions. She paced up to the standing mirror and looked steadily into it, flicking her index finger at her image.

This is a place where the mothers of generations are made to bow or else they are on their own. Meriye was charged up.

The texts she read revealed to her that this place is vast, swarming over with human beings and spreading across continents. The roll-call of its members includes, among many others, Nigeria, Botswana, Peru, Cambodia, Costa Rica, Senegal, Kenya, Honduras, Jamaica, Ethiopia, Burkina Faso, Mauritania, Rwanda, India, Mali, Zimbabwe, Nicaragua, Uganda, Guinea Bissau, Guatemala, Gabon, Cameroun, Gambia, Belize, Togo, Sierra Leone, Ecuador, Pakistan, Niger, Ghana, Bangladesh, Thailand, Iran, Nepal, Lesotho, Iraq and Somalia, just to mention a few. The cultures and traditions of the inhabitants of this world are as varied as the nations that make it up. They may not be exactly the same but they have close similarities, the most disturbing of which is repression. Repression targeted at the feminine gender. This is where, she found out, over two-thirds of the world’s population lives.

Her search accomplished, she resolved to weave her finding into a story. The lop-sidedness, she observed, had cascaded down to everyday living and this gave her grave concerns. The insensitivity, nonchalance and impunity that greeted certain matters, wherever she went, especially matters concerning the vulnerable ones, baffled her. After a critical appraisal of the social equations, she became set to lay it bare, powered by facts from the materials she read and by her own personal experiences.

*    *    *

Meriye sat reclined in the sofa, eyes closed and chin in palm. She reminisced, thinking to herself, ‘there just has to be a new dawn’. When she opened her eyes, she felt a familiar heaviness in her head, which was overflowing with a cross-breed of thoughts and ideas, earnestly needing to be disgorged.

3

The Enigma… of a City

The ride along the tarred, heavily pot-holed narrow street in Oshodi was quite rough. Ochunga steered the car in and out the pot holes, Meriye sitting by his right hand side and Manie behind him. The Lehmas were glad to have the company of their friend and neighbour. It was past sunset and getting a little dark. They were on their way back from an important visit. The flickers from candles, kerosene and oil lamps on the tables, stools and discarded objects gave out a semi-bright glow. The fungal patches on the tables, inflicted by rain and dew, looked like vegetal corner maps. Women and girls displayed various edible take-away items on the tables. Fried spiced fish and seasoned beef and chicken lay appetizingly on trays. Roast maize with ube, the native pear, had buyers surrounding their seller, waiting for their turn. Grilled yam and plantain sat on iron grills over fire-stoked coal, with special peppered oil by the side, irresistible as passersby stopped briefly to pick an oiled pack. Fruits and various foodstuffs, sweets, biscuits and bread loaves equally took their positions on the stands. The majority of the sellers might, over the years, have become unannounced pillars of their homes, consistently providing subtle financial and moral support, which oftentimes is not acknowledged.

They called out to famished passersby coming back from work or just taking a walk, urging them to exchange their cash for displayed items. They trooped past in opposite directions. Women scurried home to catch up with the preparation of supper. Good lads ran and hopped home to avoid parents’ wrath for coming back late. Bachelors stopped by to pick a few snacks and beverages, which would take the place of a well-prepared dinner. People around usually concluded that good food normally eluded them because they had not yet settled down with a wife.

Ladies maintained a steady haste, taking their time to pace along; their high-heeled shoes no doubt causing them some discomfort, aided by the not-too-smooth road. The more prudent girls wrapped up a pair of flat slippers, which they found a way of carrying about until needed, to replace the high-heeled shoes. They had their handbags firmly clutched in an attempt to beat the bag snatchers to their game. But as the Lehmas’ car moved down the road, a pretty girl screamed just nearby, pointing in a direction.

"Yeeh! Ole! Ole! Thief! Thief - o! He has snatched my bag, eeh!"

Across the road, there was commotion. A ruffian had snatched a lady’s handbag. She screamed further, still pointing at the direction of the fleeing thief.

My bag, my keys, my money! Hey, please help me-o!

Others joined her in screaming.

Hey onye oshi! barawo! Thief!

Meriye saw the miscreant disappear into the crowd as some people pursued him while the girl stood stranded. The young thief seemed to have vanished in the moving crowd, leaving the girl to make do with sympathy from fast-moving, home-bound people. Meriye shook her head. They rode on. Everybody seemed to have something on their mind but did not voice it. They simply looked on, familiarly.

One of the most boisterous cities in the world, Lagos had become a city of the good, the bad and the ugly, with people loving and hating it at the same time. It had also become a fast-paced city which grew daily in crime, filth and destitution, alongside infrastructural, technological and human development, albeit not at the same pace. Efforts made by the authorities to rebuild Lagos were becoming glaringly like drops of water in an ocean. The problems were myriad.