MY HEART CRIES FOR JUSTICE

By Folashade Ajiboye

"My Heart Cries for Justice" is a book that dives into the tough reality of a young girl named Tife in Nigeria. Tife dreams of a future, but her world crumbles when she faces assault. The story unveils the struggles familiar to many girls globally, shedding light on a broken system and a society that ofte

• Language: English
• Publisher: Woodbridge Publishers
• Release date: Apr 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9781917184281

Book preview

MY HEART CRIES

FOR JUSTICE

A Novel

Folashade Ajiboye

Copyright © 2024 by Folashade Oyeladun Ajiboye

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023907767

ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-916849-97-6

ISBN (Hardcover): 978-1-916849-98-3

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, events, or locations is purely coincidental.

www.folashadeajiboye.com

DEDICATION

In Memory of Florence Olagbenke Ajiboye

(1950 – 1992)

My mother, Florence Olagbenke Ajiboye (nee Babawumi) was a woman who faced some challenges in her life, including a broken marriage that ultimately resulted in her untimely death. Despite the odds stacked against her and the abuse she endured, my mother never gave up on her rights and continued to fight for herself and her children. Now, I fight for those whose voices are often silenced, hoping to inspire change and empower women to stand up for their rights. This book is for a remarkable woman whose memory will never be forgotten.

Florence Olagbenke Ajiboye, your legacy lives on.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my father, Joseph Oloyede Ajiboye (1946-2014), a hard worker who retired as the Auditor General for the Federation (Nigeria). Glad your soul finally found rest with God. You left your mark.

For the pain you caused, it’s difficult, but I forgive you.

To my brother, Olawale Ajiboye. Thank you for all you do for Nigeria and for Africa through your work. God has favored you.

To my sister, Olufunke Ajiboye. You have overcome a great deal, but you are still here by God’s divine grace. May God reward the kindness of your heart.

To my brother, Oladotun Ajiboye and his beautiful lady. May you continue to prosper and be in good health.

To Olanrewaju Ajiboye and Ademola Ajiboye, my two younger brothers. The peace and the favor of God be upon you, you are the apples of God’s eyes.

To my sister-in-law, Olubunmi Ajiboye, a very excellent woman and leader. May you always rejoice and be glad.

To my nieces, Monjolaoluwa and Mondaranuoluwa, two talented jewels. The future ahead of you is full of love, joy, peace, happiness, and success. You are born to excel.

To my cousin, Ayowale Adebisi. I pray you abound in all things and be happy always.

To other family members, especially Uncle Adebowale Babawumi, Aunty Lydia, The Ogunsolas, blessings now and always. You are loved.

To my spiritual mother, Nancy Marie Wilson, who traveled as a missionary and an evangelist to seventy-seven countries, thank you for believing in me and my ministry. Keep resting with Jesus.

To my editors, Lola Opatayo, Myrna Riback, and Heather Camlot, who helped bring this work to life, I say a big thank you.

To those who gave me feedback, especially Tayo Keyede and Myne, thank you.

To the publishing team, thanks for your diligence.

And to my Lord Jesus Christ, in you I put my faith and hope.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I wrote this book to address some of the social issues that confront my country of birth, Nigeria. My hope is that, through works of fiction like this, meaningful conversations and solutions will continue to take place to move Nigeria toward a safer and more equitable and just society.

In my work with the marginalized and vulnerable, I have discovered that we must be our brother’s keeper. We must care about those who are unable to care for themselves, fight for those who are unable to fight for themselves, and speak for those who are unable to speak for themselves.

Together, we can build a society of our dreams: where love flows and binds us together, where peace and unity reign, and where prosperity abounds in our land. As we awake to the issues needing reform in our society and in the world, our real change will begin.

For those who have been marginalized, hurt, or broken, or whose lives have been cut off, your tears and sacrifices are a living memorial that will spark righteous justice and will bring transformational change for generations to come.

I hope that this word from the Scriptures will resonate with you as much as it does with me:

Righteousness exalts a nation, But sin is a reproach to any people.

Proverbs 14:34, New King James Version

TABLE OF CONTENTS

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

READER’S GUIDE

STAY UPDATED

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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PART I: INNOCENCE

CHAPTER

One

I Hunger

Chief Otitoju was my father. Most called him Chief Ola Rolls Royce, a nickname that reflected him perfectly. Ola in our Yoruba dialect means wealth, and Chief dreamt of being wealthy and owning a Rolls Royce. He loved parties. A month before I turned seven, our family of sixteen crammed into two cars and traveled to a party at the village where his elder brother would celebrate his birthday. Half of us were in Chief’s favorite car, an old Mercedes-Benz, which we had to push to start. The other half sat in Chief’s old Peugeot 406 that leaked oil. The jalopy was driven by Chief’s new driver, Papa Titus.

All of you sit together. Carry one another, Chief joyfully instructed in Yoruba.

At the party, Chief showcased us like national trophies to his family and friends. These are my five gallant boys who can wrestle the fiercest, my seven pretty girls with rhythmic legs, and my three wives, finer than the king’s wives, he smiled broadly. As if rehearsed, we all beamed in the new clothes and shoes he had purchased for us.  

The musicians sang Chief’s praises more than they did the birthday celebrant’s. Chief swirled his tall, large frame around, raining money on the musicians.

Ah, see how Chief is wasting Nigerian naira! Mama fretted as the twins and I ate and drank. I didn’t know what to say, so I simply stared at her, my mouth full of jollof rice. After exhausting all the money that he had brought to the party, Chief came to borrow some more from Mama.

Chief, remember we still have to eat when we get home, Mama said, wrinkling her face.

Let me enjoy my life! he snapped, returning to the dance floor where he continued to rain down money.

For a month after the party, we filled our empty stomachs with water and garri, granules of fermented cassava. It was so bad that our mothers feared we might have kwashiorkor, malnutrition from not enough protein.

Come, let me see your stomach, Mama would often say, prodding my stomach and examining me. Don’t worry, you will soon eat meat again, she would say more to herself than to me. I would nod as I hungered for food.

But food was not the only thing I hungered for. I also hungered for school. People always told Mama that I was smart and would do very well, but it wasn’t until I was seven years and three months old before I started.

Mama was at her shop when I first heard her and Chief speak about my education. He had come to borrow some money from her. She stopped sewing and pulled some money from her purse.

Chief, Tife is now five years old. Can she go to school?

I, the seventh of Chief’s twelve children, stared anxiously at my father from the floor where I was seated, waiting for an answer. But he was silent. Mama repeated herself before he hastily answered, She’s a girl. Let her wait till she’s six. As he walked out of the shop, he added, Don’t forget, I already have six children in school to provide for.

About a year later, Mama asked Chief again. We were in the dining room and he was eating his dinner of pounded yam and egusi, a delicious soup prepared with melon seeds.

Chief, Tife is now six years old. Can she go to school?

He continued to eat.

I will send her to a private school I can afford. It costs 10,000 naira per term, Mama said in a quiet voice.

She can’t go to a private school while my other children go to a public school! Chief barked without looking up from his food.

Mama promptly acquiesced. Chief, she . . . she can go to a public school.

He raised his head then and said, I will need you to give me the money you have. Duro needs to start school before her. He’s a boy.

But Chief—

That is my final decision! he said firmly, glaring at Mama and me. Then he rolled up a ball of pounded yam and dipped it into his soup. Tife can start school when she’s seven. She’s a girl.

I burst into tears and clung to Mama, who was also crying. Chief, you can’t use my money to send your other wife’s younger son to school while my daughter stays at home.

Ah! She’s a girl, she can go to school later.

But Chief—

Is she not my daughter too? he shouted and we shook. Mama said nothing more.

Chief, but I am taller than Duro, I grumbled to my father.

He ignored me, belched, and washed his hands in the small bowl of water before him. He’s a boy. You are a girl.

And with those few words, my fate was sealed.

I could hear my nine half-siblings playing in the parlor while my two stepmoms sat with them. Duro’s mother, who we called Mama Pujo, was knitting, and my other stepmom, Mama Odun, was plaiting Odun’s hair.

During the day, my stepmoms would usually be in their bedrooms, the compound, or the kitchen. But in the evening, when Chief was home, they made sure that they were in the parlor so they could talk with Chief as he ate his dinner. If Chief was too tired or not in the mood to talk, he would tell them to wait till the next morning to speak with him.

Most evenings, the mothers sat in the parlor just so they could hear Chief’s conversations with their rivals and their children. As Mama and I spoke with Chief, everyone could hear our conversation, but we didn’t care. We drew back as Chief rose from the dining table and began to walk toward to his bedroom. Then he stopped, turned around, and stretched out his right hand.

Give me the money! he yelled at Mama.

I felt a little resistance in Mama’s body as I clung to her. But Chief—

Go and bring me the money!

Okay, Chief.

When she’s seven, she can go to school, Chief muttered as he collected the money and put it in his pocket.

The first day I saw Duro dressed neatly in his school uniform with his schoolbag hanging on his small back, I cried inconsolably.

Boluwatife, if you were a boy, your father would have sent you to school too, Mama cried.

Mama, will I go to school next year?

She wiped my tears. Yes, my daughter, you will.

CHAPTER

Two

Seven

I counted the days until I turned seven. Mama promised to buy me my own schoolbag and I ran to tell all my friends.

Mama, who had named me Boluwatife, which means God’s will be done or As God wishes, said it was God’s will for me to have been born on May 29, 1999, the day Nigeria swore in a democratically elected president after years of military dictatorship. According to Mama, President Obasanjo was himself once a military head of state in the 1970s. She said the nation’s transition back to democracy had given many Nigerians joy and hope for the future. Thus, my birth on the same day signified that I was a child of hope—a child of destiny.

The week before I started school, I sat in Mama’s shop playing with my doll, Binta. Mama, I said to her. I will go to school to learn how to be a tailor.

She stopped sewing. Tife, you will go to school to be a medical doctor!

Mama—

Boluwatife, you will not become a tailor like me.

I said nothing for some seconds, then I clasped my hands. Mama, please teach me how to sew. I showed Binta’s rumpled dress to her. See, Mama, Binta needs a new dress. I want to make her one! 

Boluwatife, you are going to go to school, be a medical doctor, and make me proud, Mama said even more firmly, as though she wanted it to sink into my head.

I stared at her, a little confused.

Don’t you want to be a medical doctor like Dr. Alfred? she asked gently, staring into my confused eyes.

I held Binta to my chest. Yes Mama, I want to.

Then don’t ask me to teach you how to sew a dress! 

But Mama—

Tife, no tailor work. You will go to school like Duro and become a medical doctor like Dr. Alfred, do you understand? 

Mama, I said, suddenly sad. I should have started school before Duro. If not for Chief . . .  Binta fell from my hands as I ambled toward Mama. 

"Don’t worry, my daughter. No one can stop your destiny. You will go to school and be a big person like Dr. Alfred."

Okay, Mama.

Good, Mama said, resuming her sewing.

The twins were playing just outside of the shop as I sat back down with Binta. Mama got the idea of me being a medical doctor like Dr. Alfred two months ago when we met him. I had been having abdominal pain because of stomach worms, and the local chemist’s medications were not working. So we took a bus to the clinic nearest our house and were referred to Dr. Alfred’s clinic, which was much farther.

His clinic was smaller but newer and cleaner than the previous one. There were three other patients waiting to see the doctor, as Mama told the nurse in a low voice so the other patients would not overhear, why we were there.

Madam, how long has your daughter had worms? the nurse asked as we stood before her at the front desk, her voice loud enough to reach the other patients in the small space. I didn’t like that the other patients heard the reason why I was at the clinic. 

One week, Mama whispered, mortified.

The nurse looked at me and I looked away.

Madam, you are lucky you didn’t meet the doctor at that other clinic, the well-clad nurse said. Many people have been complaining that he misdiagnoses patients.

Ah, I thank my God for not letting us see a doctor who would have given my daughter the wrong treatment.

Dr. Alfred is the best, said one of the other patients. He is not like some doctors who tell you X is wrong with you when it is Y.

Mama and I joined the other waiting patients and began a conversation about the country’s health care. We all agreed that something had to be done about the situation. An hour later, we saw Dr. Alfred, but not before I used the toilet twice because the worms troubled me. 

As the bearded doctor examined me, I was awestruck by his dexterity, friendliness, and humor, so I was less nervous as I lay on the examination bed. I observed diagrams of the human body on the wall and the medical equipment in the room as Mama stood looking at me nervously. Dr. Alfred meticulously examined me and questioned Mama about my health, all while remaining jovial, and I paid close attention to everything he did and said.

After the examination, he left the office and returned before long. Give her this medicine for the next five days. It should remove all the worms, he said to Mama in Yoruba while I admired his long white lab coat and the tool that he had used to examine me. Dr. Alfred could see that I was fascinated. He took the tool off his neck and held it out. Boluwatife, it is called a ste . . . tho . . . scope.

Ste . . . tho . . . sc . . . , I paused, timid.

Come on, don’t stop. You are doing great. Now try it again. Ste . . . tho . . . scope.

His eyes encouraged me. Ste . . . tho . . . scope, I said, giggling. I could feel the worms running freely in my stomach, but I was too happy to be bothered.

Great! Stethoscope. You are a very smart girl. I think you are going to be a doctor when you grow up.

Amen! Mama clamped her hands together.

I stared at the stethoscope, wanting to touch it but afraid that Mama would scold me for being too forward.

Dr. Alfred saw my hesitation. Oh Boluwatife, don’t be scared.

I looked at Mama and she beamed at me, but I was still hesitant to touch the stethoscope. Before I could change my mind, Dr. Alfred placed it around my neck, just as it had been around his. The stethoscope reached my waist and I began to laugh loudly until my stomach hurt from so much laughing. Mama was smiling and so was Dr. Alfred.

CHAPTER

Three

My Family

Mama was the best tailor in our neighborhood. People called her Africa’s best tailor, even though she had never been outside of Nigeria. Her careful handiwork caused families to bring their clothes to her—even the families of women who knew how to thread a needle.  

My mama is Africa’s best tailor. My mama sews clothes better than your mama, I would often boast to the other kids.  

Only my friend Joy, who I always envied because her parents didn’t beat her, believed her mother was a better tailor than Mama. But of course this was not true because Joy’s mother always paid Mama to sew her expensive laces. Joy was a year older than me, but I ran faster than her.

As I watched Mama working hard, cutting my school uniform, I remembered how she ranted about Chief not giving her money but instead taking her money to cater to his other wives.

My tailor wife, lend me some money, he would say playfully.

Chief, you have not yet returned the last amount you borrowed, Mama would say grudgingly as she handed him more money.

When Chief was not in a good mood, he would force Mama to give him her money and she would oblige. She always excused his behavior, blaming the crumbling Nigerian economy for Chief’s failing general contracting business. However, I always wondered if this was really the reason why he kept taking Mama’s money.

When I asked Chief for money, he waved me away as if I were a fly. Go and ask your mother. She is a tailor, he would say. But Mama didn’t give free money. She loved to keep her earnings. She would often save it in her money purse or tie it in her ankara, her African wax print fabric. The only thing Mama loved to give me