I ordered lamb curry while he ordered steak. We talked about how dating in Lagos is the ghetto, carefully implying that almost everybody in the dating pool was a mess except for us. We were the exception, and it’s a miracle we found each other.

I order a passion fruit sunrise breeze, and he orders a Chapman. I ask him if he doesn’t drink, and he says a few years ago he almost made a costly mistake because of alcohol, so now he has cut alcohol out completely. He asks why I don’t indulge, and I tell him I am a muslim and it’s forbidden. It also helps that I do not like the smell of alcohol. We joke that we are perfect for each other. I laugh.

The waiter asks me if I’d like dessert, and I say I’d like the ice cream and brownie. He says he’ll share mine. We joke about eating from the same plate and find out our parents do the same. He says maybe this is the beginning of a lifetime of sharing desserts. I laugh and agree.

He notices the ice cream and brownie is the cheapest dessert on the menu and asks if that’s why I picked it. I chuckle and shake my head. I tell him I chose it because I like it and that’s all there is to it. I don’t order food based on the price. I find what I like and then check if it is something I can afford.

“So you’re not materialistic then?” he smiles at me proudly as the waiter sets down his Chapman.

“Huh?”

He twirls his drink with his straw and repeats the question. Just then, the waiter sets my drink in front of me. I whisper a thank you and laugh at the question.

“Because I didn’t order an expensive dessert?” I take a sip of my drink. It’s so good. I love it when restaurants do a passion fruit mocktail well.

“Yes, many girls would have just ordered the most expensive thing on the menu because they are not paying.”

“Should that bother you?”

“Yes, if they are choosing it for the price and also because they are not paying.”

“That’s the sort of thing you’d never know, isn’t it? What if the most expensive thing is genuinely their favourite thing to eat? Should they pretend because they are out on a date?”

“You’re deflecting”, he laughs. I laugh too.

“What are you asking me, then, Tunde?”

“Are you materialistic?”

“I’ll answer, but first, what is your definition of materialistic?”

“Someone who cares too much about material things.”

I stay silent for a few seconds and then say yes.

“I like money. I like having money. I like spending it. I like it when someone spends on me too.”

He cocks his head and looks at me.

“So you’re not looking for love?”

“What does love have to do with liking nice, expensive things?”

“Most women partner up with men because of the nice things they can get. Not because of how they feel about the man”

“That’s an assumption you came to.”

“If I were to give you a DIY bracelet for your birthday, would you prefer that to a Swarovski bracelet?”

“Of course not.”

“So you value material things over the love I might have for you”

“Look at my wrists. Am I wearing a DIY bracelet?”

“I don’t see Swarovski either.”

“Because I can’t afford it yet, but when I can, you will see it. The problem is you’re trying to weigh my love for my partner with the things I like. Why can’t I be a woman who is in love and also likes nice things?”

“You’re shrinking your dating pool.”

“I only need one man.” I sip my drink again.

“You’re saying you won’t date a broke man.”

“Probably.”

“But you would want a rich man to date you, who is below his income level.”

“Again, no. A rich man is allowed to have his standards. If I check his boxes and he checks mine, we will date; if not, we won’t.”

“And money is one of those boxes.”

“Financial security, yes.”

“Why?”

“I can afford myself certain things in life because I have worked for them. It’s not wrong to want a man who can match that for himself. Economic factors are part of love, whether you admit it or not. Why did you bring me to this restaurant?”

“Because it’s nice. It doesn’t mean we will not eat at Amoke Oge tomorrow. I know you like their amala”

“Exactly. I like Amoke Oge, but I don’t want to come to Amoke for my 1st wedding anniversary. I’d rather celebrate at a fancy restaurant, and I want a partner who wouldn’t tell me that it is asking for too much. Now, is money the first box on my list? No. I wouldn’t date an abuser just for his money.”

“But you want a rich man.”

“Are you rich?”

“Not like that.”

“Yet, I am on a date with you.”

“But we may not marry.”

“And it won’t be because you’re not rich, but because you don’t like materialistic women, and I am one.”

“I think women are too concerned with money.”

I laugh.

I do not believe that money should be the reason you date a person, but I think women are heavily shamed for putting money on their list when it is, in fact, survival.

When you’re pregnant, you may not be able to work, but the home still needs to be run. For that, you need money.

If you need to have surgery to have the baby, you need to know your partner can foot the bills.

When you’re taking a break from work to be home with the kids, you need money.

In some of these cases, the woman may be able to foot some of these bills, but she also needs a partner who can handle it. So can we stop pretending money does not matter and love is all you need?

Are we forgetting that marriage was originally an economic arrangement used to secure property and build political alliances?

So yes, by all means, love the person you want to marry, but don’t be delusional.

Lastly, there is absolutely nothing wrong with being a woman who likes expensive things as long as you can buy them yourself. And there is nothing wrong with wanting a man who can buy you expensive gifts as well.

Isn’t it nice to book an all-expenses-paid trip with your man to Ibiza, and he surprises you the next year with the car you’ve always wanted?

Don’t you want to spoil each other?

It’s only wrong when all you want to do is use a man - who is sincere with his feelings - for his money.

“Aren’t you shy to say you’re materialistic?” Tunde asks me.

“And therein lies your problem. You want a woman to lie to you. You want her to tell you she’s with you solely for who you are and not what you can provide, which is a lie. If I lied and we ended up marrying each other, wouldn’t you find out in the marriage when my face falls at the DIY bracelet you made for me?”

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll never find someone?”

“Better that than living a lie, no?

Tunde laughs.

The waiter brings our meal, and we banter for the rest of the night, knowing we will not see each other again.

The song of the week is Water, Salt and Fire by Tega Ethan.

“Women these days don’t want to cook for their husbands”

“Women want to share the chores, but they don’t want to share the bills”

“These women just want soft lives”

Every Eke Market Day, these topics are discussed on Twitter, with men saying that if women want equality so much, they ought to start paying rent in their marital homes, while women retorted, saying they already do too much and will never contribute to rent.

A while ago, Comedian, KieKie came out to say she split rent with her husband. The clip went viral, and she was booed and called a fool for paying rent.

Why did she receive so much backlash? We will tackle the topic in three stages.

The first stage - Women do not want to work.

My verdict - Hot, steaming trash.

Go into the streets. Into the market. In the informal sector, women make up the majority of the workforce. On my street, three of the four kiosks present are operated by women. Women sell peppers on the street with children strapped to their backs. Even in informal male-dominated jobs like transport, women are present. The reason you don’t see more women in that role is because of the intimidation that could likely arise from street thugs, and still, some women brave it.

Historically, who were fabric weavers? Women. Basket weavers? Women. The only known woman on the Nigerian note is Ladi Kwali, and what was she doing on the note? Working.

Although I can only speak for Western Nigeria, because I grew up here, but out of 10 women in Western Nigeria, 7 work. Nigerian women have high overall labor force participation, but over 80% work in the informal sector.

How many men make enough to have their women quit their jobs? Not a lot; I’ll tell you that for free because we do not operate within an economy that rewards single-income households.

A lot of us saw our mothers make breakfast before they left for work and rush back home to make dinner. So not only do women work outside of the home, they work inside of the home too.

As a result, women started to seek domestic help because working full-time and being a home manager became too much.

Now, to the second part of this topic - Women work but they do not contribute financially to the home.

My verdict - Another load of rubbish.

Just because you did not see your mother secretly helping your father financially does not mean she didn’t contribute.

A lot of Nigerian homes are two-income households, but the money is seen to only come from daddy because Nigerian women have been taught not only to see their husbands as providers but also to make sure everybody sees their husbands as the main providers.

It’s why KieKie faced a lot of backlash when she said she contributes to rent. What she should have done, according to the laws of our society, was contribute silently but never say anything publicly.

It’s why women start to reveal that they paid their own bride price and funded most of the ‘gifts’ that the whole world believed were bought by their male partners - when their ‘perfect’ relationship falls apart. We live in a society where a woman’s value has been tied directly to her beauty and how much a man is willing to spend on her. (A topic for later).

Now, yes, in many cases men pay rent.

This tracks because formal employment is more dominated by men than by women. 17.2% of Nigerian men were employed in wage jobs, compared to only 9.2% of women.

However, what about the feeding of the household? In many homes, women bear the financial load of feeding the family, and this eclipses rent costs completely.

Some women do not wait for their husbands before they make certain payments. They take care of little things around the house. Some buy books, stationery, bags, shoes, and school uniforms every term.

These things may seem little, but eventually, they add up.

Even before marriage, women give their boyfriends money all the time. Wasn’t Lola helping PSquare financially before she even joined the family?

Saying women do not contribute financially is a lie.

Not even with the way Nigerian women love the idea of love and marriage.

Now to the third part of this essay - Women these days don’t want to do chores, and they still don’t want to contribute financially to the home.

Verdict? Still out on this one because it is an opinion.

I don’t believe women are perfect just because they are women. In fact, I think there are a lot of wicked women out there, but there are also good women, so why have you decided to partner up with a wicked woman? This one is solely on you.

Marriage is a partnership.

If my husband does not have money and I have money - WE HAVE MONEY.

If I don’t like doing chores and my husband likes doing chores - OUR HOME WILL BE NEAT.

If my husband does not like taking out the trash but I do - THE TRASH WILL BE OUT WHEN IT NEEDS TO BE OUT.

If I am not great at parenting but my husband is - WE WILL RAISE GOOD CHILDREN.

If we both do not like doing certain things and we have the money - WE WILL OUTSOURCE IT.

I clocked a while back that these conversations tend to arise because people are not marrying people they like.

If you like your wife, you will not watch her walk into the house after an exhausting day and ask her to pound yam for you because a woman is supposed to cook.

You’d have either made or ordered something before she gets back so she can put her feet up and eat.

If you like your husband, you will not have N200,000 stashed away while he runs around begging people for N5,000.

You will be comfortable enough to share what you have with him.

And for women who will never help their husbands financially because they believe he’d end up spending the money on sidechicks, do you not think the smarter thing to do is to leave him on the streets?

A lot of the time, people stay in marriages they hate, and with people they detest, just to avoid divorce. And that is usually the beginning of the end.

Anyway, that is not my business. The message I came to pass with this newsletter is: Nigerian women work, have always worked and contributed financially.

The song of the week is this remix of Olufumi by StylPlus and Ladipoe.

I was kneeling in the centre of the living room. My head was bent and my eyes filled with tears falling directly onto the concrete floor. I didn’t have to look up to know that the order came from my husband’s eldest brother, Brother Gbolahan. He brought the same suggestion every time a meeting was called.

“They won’t listen to us”, my husband's uncle’s voice came next.

That was true. After my marriage, my parents completely refused to have any meeting with my husband’s family or me.

The first time they tried to get through to my family was when Brother Gbolahan decided he wanted to start living with us. It started with taking a small weekend break from his apartment in Jos. Soon enough, he moved in fully, feeling like he had a right to the house because he paid my husband’s SS2 3rd Term school fees over 20 years ago. We’d come to find out that he was unable to make his rent in Jos and was kicked out.

In the five months that he lived with us, I had to do everything for him. I made breakfast as early as 6 am, washed his clothes, ironed them, and ran his errands.

As if that was not enough, when he was sure I was the only one at home, Brother Gbolahan would stroll around naked. The first time I saw his penis in full view, I screamed, but he shut me down, saying it was how he relaxed. For some reason, he never relaxed like that when my husband was home.

One day, I had had enough. Before ironing his clothes, I glued little pockets on the insides of his trousers because I knew he loved to wear them tight and would not notice them. I filled those pockets with soldier ants, and within the hour, he was in the hospital with a swollen penis for the world to see.

Since he wanted to give me a show so bad, let’s all be in it.

He couldn’t prove it, but he knew I did it.

He moved out in anger, and since then, every time I got in trouble, he was quick to ask that I be sent back to my parents.

The problem is that they won’t have me back.

“Look at Daddy!” It was Brother Gbolahan again.

My father-in-law groaned on the couch; his eyes were swollen shut. His lips were bloated and busted. He was lying face down on the couch, beaten to a pulp. His back was filled with whippings. Those whips were not my doing, but boy, they looked good. His legs were swollen and dusty; scratch that, his entire body was dusty.

“They would have killed him”

Well, I would not have let that happen.

“Does he deserve this?”

100%

“We should hand her over to the police!”

If they did that, the police would have to arrest Daddy too. And everyone knew that.

My knees hurt; this stupid meeting had been going on for too long. I shifted my weight from one knee to the other as tears continued to drop. I hated that nobody had pointed out the fact that I was crying. I knew they were crocodile tears, but nobody else knew that.

I sniffed loudly and threw myself on the ground, wailing.

“Oh, stop those stupid tears”

Alright. They knew.

I went back to my kneeling position.

From the corner of my eye, I looked at my husband. He was seated on a chair, exhausted and looking at no one in particular. He came back from work to this. I felt a little sorry for him. He was the only one who had not spoken, and he typically didn’t during these meetings. Everyone says I have jazzed him, and on some days, I almost believe them, but I don’t remember visiting any native doctors for him.

For some of his family members, yes.

Like his sister who was always rude to me, so I asked my native doctor to compel her to be rude to everyone she came across, including her bosses, which cost her every job she managed to get.

And his entitled uncle whom I gave elephantiasis. For 6 weeks.

And his father, whom I turned into a thief.

Oh wait, that one was not me. It was an actual problem.

Which brings us to why I am on my knees.

My father-in-law is a thief.

His children say it is kleptomania, but how does one suddenly develop that in old age? I don’t know, but here is what I do know.

One afternoon, my father-in-law called us screaming that his wife - my mother-in-law - had run away with her lover. He said he had nobody to take care of him now. We didn’t believe him, so we called her to ask what happened. She confirmed that she had indeed run away with a younger man.

The reason? She did all the chores, took care of my father-in-law, got no rest, put up with his lovers who strolled in and out of the house and would still get hit by him every time she did something wrong. She said with her lover, she did nothing but have sex all day.

Too much information but okay.

We begged her to return, but she refused.

My husband and I took him in, and my father-in-law immediately expected me to replace his wife. He changed his clothes twice a day, and I was left doing laundry after laundry. He would ask for pounded yam in the morning, and just as I finished pounding, he would ask for starch and banga. I ironed all night and cooked all day.

I wasn’t the only one suffering. My husband was as well because every time his father went out into the neighbourhood, he stole from shops, and because he was so stupid with his theft, they would catch him.

Why would one put 4 cans of baked beans in their pant?

Each time they caught him, they brought him home disgraced. My husband had to open an account in every shop in the neighbourhood so that every time he stole, they let him go.

One day, I was tired of everything.

I lied to my father-in-law that I had a doctor’s appointment on the other side of town and I needed a companion since my husband was not home. He grumbled for almost an hour before he agreed. I took him far away from where anyone knew my husband or me and let him loose in a random supermarket.

It took all of 7 minutes for my father-in-law to steal something and for the beatings to start. I quickly threw on the niqab I had borrowed from my neighbour, Fatima, concealed my face and joined in the beating.

I first slapped his stupid mouth for draining my husband financially.

I didn’t plan to do more, but he yelped, and it annoyed me. How dare he yelp? Does he know this was nothing compared to the stress and pain he had put us through these past few months? I snatched a tree branch from the person next to me and whipped him.

Oh yeah, the whips on his back were definitely from me

I reached out again from the midst of the crowd and slapped his head, knocking him multiple times. I was pulling his lips and squeezing them when the niqab fell from my face. I had not tied it very well. Honestly, I wasn’t really listening when Fatimah was teaching me how to tie it.

He looked at my face in horror while I froze with his lips tightly squeezed in my hands.

I hated myself for not being patient enough with Fatimah.

So that’s how I ended up on my knees, being chastised by my husband’s family.

I apologised and promised to take care of Daddy, but my father-in-law shouted that he was not staying a second longer with the witch - me.

Which was great for us, really.

He went with Brother Gbolahan, who I am sure hated it, but couldn’t reject his father in that state.

That night, my husband and I lay in bed silent. He didn’t touch me. I didn’t touch him either.

After 5 minutes of silence, I thought he was asleep when his voice pierced the air.

Did you get to slap him well?

Yes

Good. What else?

Whipped him too.

Excellent. Now, he knows how mum felt every time he beat her.

I turned and faced my husband, trailing his full eyebrows with my finger.

You know this is why they said I’ve jazzed you.

My husband scooched closer and wrapped me in his arms.

Could you do my uncle next? I found out he’s planning to sell the family land behind our back.

I smiled a small smile against my husband’s lips.

Maybe it’s you who jazzed me into helping you get revenge on the family members you hate.

Do you want out of the jazz?

I took my husband’s lips in mine, thinking of how best to deal with his uncle.

The song of the week is Lover by Taylor Swift because I would do anything for my lover.

“What is that!?” Alfa screamed again, adjusting his large white jalamia and looking around the small, shabby room that served as a living room and a bedroom. My youngest son, Abdullah, giggled as Alfa looked around in horror.

“Ustaz, is just rat”, he said mockingly.

“Shh!”, I scolded him. The smile immediately disappeared from his face and was replaced with a pout at my curt tone. I apologised to the cleric and made a show of shaking the old basket of clothes in the corner of the room to assure him that the rat was no longer there.

“It has gone out, Alfa”, I said with my eyes turned to the floor. I knew it had not. It was somewhere hiding in the room, but I silently prayed to Allah that it would stay hidden until he left because the last thing I needed was for the Alfa to relate the story of the rat to some of the members of our congregation and have a narrative spun out of it. I already had a lot to deal with.

I would not be shocked if I started hearing that my predicament was because the house was overrun with rats or that I wasn’t a good wife anyway. How was a man supposed to live with someone like me if I couldn’t even keep my house clean enough to keep rats out? Of course, the illness that took him was a result of my environment.

The opinions would go on and on, with such force and conviction as though they also didn’t have rats in their own houses.

But at the end of the day, their husbands were not dead. Mine was. Janazah was not prayed in their houses this morning. It was at mine.

“You should buy some rat poison!” Alfa hissed at me, clearly still flustered.

I was nodding with my eyes still on the ground when Abdullah shouted, “She has buy! Daddy buy for her that time but she no use!”

I reached out from under my hijab and gave Abdullah a knock on his head. He was just 6 and already too much of a handful.

At the mention of ‘daddy’, Alfa took a deep breath and focused on me. It was as if he forgot all about the rat, momentarily. The rat was really the least of my worries. I knew that. He knew that.

“You have to be strong now. For Abdullah. And Aishah”

I nodded and used the edge of my hijab to wipe my tears. Alfa looked outside, to the grave they just put my husband in this morning.

“He was a good man”

I nodded again, agreeing. He was a good man.

Those were the five words my father said to me the day Hassan came to the house.

That afternoon, I didn’t know I’d be leaving our small village for Lagos.

A big woman arrived at our school in a large car and handed us free Common Entrance forms. The headmaster announced that the oldest kids would be taken by bus to Lagos to write the exams, and the students who passed the exams would be awarded scholarships by the big woman.

I had skipped home that day with joy, imagining that one day I, too, would be a big woman who would ride in a big car and hand out forms to young children.

I got home, eager to hand the forms over to my mother to sign, when my father instructed me to go in, change out of my school uniform and into something more appropriate to greet Hassan.

Inside our small room, my mother dressed me in her hijab, which pooled at my feet, and sent me back out.

He is a good man.

And that sealed my fate. I was going to Lagos, not to write the exams, but to start a new life with Hassan. Over the years, I convinced myself that I was never going to pass the exams anyway. I was never smart. I was 14, the oldest person in Primary 6, after repeating several classes. I wasn’t good enough. I was only good enough for Hassan, and he was a good man.

I was 15 when I had Aishah. She tore through my birth canal, leaving me bedridden and Hassan’s punching bag for two weeks.

Hassan, mad that I could not get up to make his meals, beat me even more. I was good for nothing, except one thing. The one thing that led to Mustapha the next year. This time, I could not deliver vaginally and had to be cut open.

Mustapha was taken out of my body, dead. He was not breathing. That day, Hassan beat me again for killing his first son.

A week after, I shakily and timidly walked into a health care centre where a woman with kind eyes told me I could keep coming for birth control if I didn’t want more kids with my husband.

It worked. And I was happy.

I kept it up for five years before Hassan found the pills one night. He dragged me outside, naked, to the large drum where we collect rainwater and dunked my head in many times until I couldn’t breathe anymore.

My six-year-old Aishah pulled on his shirt, screaming at both of us. I doubt she knew what was happening, but she cried still. When I recovered after a few minutes, he dragged me into the room, locking Aishah out while he raped me. My baby banged on the door outside, scared, cold and alone.

It continued for a month, and soon, Abdullah came along.

Still, I convinced myself he was a good man. I was a bad wife. He did his duty. He made a home for me. He went out to work. He only beat me when I was being stubborn. I should not have taken the medications. I should not have prevented him from having more kids. I should not have killed his son. I should have been a good wife. I should have made sure the house was rid of rats.

He was a good man.

“And he shall be admitted to Jannah”, Alfa said, and we chorused an ameeeennn.

Just then, Aishah walked into the house. She greeted Alfa before making a beeline for Abdullah, whose attention was now on the stick figures he called Superman 1 and Superman 2. She reached for a cloth and cleaned the mucus running down his nose.

She was always such a doer. I looked at her with so much pride. I was her age when I was married off, and I knew if she were in my situation, she’d have never left with Hassan. She would have gone with the big woman in the big car to write the exam. She would have passed the exam. She would have been working in a hospital, or maybe a bank or maybe she’d have become an activist, with that mouth of hers.

Sometimes, I wonder if I was the one who raised this fireball.

Aishah left Abdullah after cleaning his nose and started folding the clothes in the basket, expressionless. Her face gave nothing to show that her father just died. It was almost like any other day.

After Alfa and I prayed for Hassan’s soul, I started walking him to the door, and as if he just remembered, he turned to look at Aishah.

“Make sure you use the rat poison your father bought for all this nonsense rats”

Aishah looked straight at him and said she used it all.

Alfa was taken aback by a woman looking him straight in the eye, but quickly recovered and responded.

“Well, it clearly didn’t work!”

“It worked”, Aisha said stoically and went back to work.

“You should watch out for that one and her character. She lies too much”

But she wasn’t lying. It did work. The person who had consumed it was buried six feet below, and I knew all about it.

Aishah was always stronger than me.

I looked at her with tears in my eyes. Tears Alfa mistook for tears for my husband, but were for the daughter I had but didn’t know I needed.

Aisha smiled a small smile and continued folding.

The rats may be a bother, but they didn’t rape and beat us.

We were okay with the rats.

Alfa - an Islamic Cleric

Janazah - an Islamic funeral prayer performed for the deceased.

The song of the week is Walk Of Life by Dire Straits.

We had all come home for Eid. Rams were being slaughtered, my uncle was saying something about the cases of Malta Guinness he had brought, children were running around, women with scarves tied around their waists were bent over bowls filled with raw meat, squinting as their eyes watered from the smoke coming from burning the hair off freshly slaughtered rams.

It was our yearly scheduled family reunion because we never saw each other unless there was a family wedding or burial, which rarely ever happened, seeing as all of us younger cousins have refused to marry or die. Alhamdulilah, right? So, Eid it was.

In the middle of the activities of the day, my 9-year-old younger cousin hung onto my hand. She followed me everywhere and told me stories I didn’t ask for but listened to anyway, because for some reason, it was very important to her that I knew the names of all her best friends and the order in which she loved them, before the day was over. So as I performed my tasks for the day, she yapped, and I laughed and nodded where appropriate.

It was while doing so that we heard the comment.

“You people kuku look alike, blackies.”

Those five words triggered so many memories. I grew up with dark skin in a time when it wasn’t cool to be dark, and words like “melanin goddess” weren’t popularised. You were simply a blackie, required to navigate a world that preferred lighter skin.

It was not only the bullying but the gaslighting because whenever I’d try to fight back with tears in my eyes, shouting, “I am not a blackie”, they’d laugh and say “, Are you angry at me for saying the truth?”

They were right; I was very dark, but I also knew an insult when I heard one. They told me to learn to love my skin so I would not get angry every time someone called me what I was, but how was I supposed to love the skin society deemed ugly?

My 8/9 year old brain could not make sense of the situation, so I just cried all the time.

Hearing those words as an adult angered me. My little cousin stiffened for a bit, but in an instant, it was gone. It was like she was used to this comment, this bullying. I was used to it too. The aunt who said those words used to be dark but was now fair because she had “toned” her skin a little bit.

“Toned” was the word they used to justify bleaching. They say it’s your real skin colour, and you’re just “maintaining” it, but we all know that’s a lie because it’s always 4-5 shades lighter.

As an adult, I understand it a lot better. You hate your skin, and to feel better about yourself, you had to strip off the natural colour, but the problem with that is that while that may “fix” the appearance, it does nothing for you mentally. So you look at people who stuck with that very thing you detest and punish them for the choices they made.

Their sadness makes you feel better as you lather on your bleaching cream, convincing yourself dark-skinned people are sad and you are happy.

But the problem is - you’re not.

Bullies are never happy. They derive their joy from seeing other people sad, and that’s why they do it over and over again, because take that from them and their world turns grey.

I turned to my 9-year-old cousin and told her she was so beautiful.

She brushed it off and went right back to the stories about her best friends. I wanted to shake her and tell her I was serious. Tell her it was important that she knew. Tell her that she didn’t have to act like it didn’t hurt her when it clearly did. Tell her that anyone who thought her skin was ugly is an utter fool. Tell her she didn’t have to buy foundation a little lighter than her skin colour and lie to herself that it was her shade. Tell her her skin glows best in the sun because it literally absorbs light. Tell her that dark plum blush will make her look like a goddess, and red lipstick was created for her. Tell her she was the most beautiful thing at today’s gathering. Because I know she may be dismissive of the words our aunt spoke, but words like that fester until you become an adult who hates looking in the mirror.

I wanted to direct my anger at our aunt and tell her that just because she hates herself so much that she bleached doesn’t mean we have to hate ourselves too.

But I am a coward. I do not shake my cousin to tell her that, and I do not shout at that aunty because I was a suppressed child who went through the bullying for years with no one to speak up for me. I am an adult who is going through therapy to undo years of damage. Therapy I can’t even afford to pay for, so my therapist has like 3 more sessions to fix me or all hope is lost, unfortunately.

My only option to let my rage out is to start campaigning for Tinubu so that people can pour their anger on me and I can shout back.

But I hate APC with everything in me, so it’s therapy.

I am a coward, but I have to get better. I have to get braver because one day, I may have a dark-skinned daughter and I don’t want her even understanding the concept of self-hate.

I hope to start a small page on the internet where I can talk to women who have faced bullying and fill them up with love and constant reassurance, but that takes a great level of courage I don’t know if I have yet. So for now, it’s here.

If you dealt with bullies growing up, I am so sorry, and if you didn’t, I couldn’t be happier for you.

I’ll see you next week with another newsletter.

Until next time,

Take care.

This week’s song is Too Much To Ask by Niall Horan.

I was born in Mushin, and unlike many kids who were raised in gated, middle-high class areas in the country, I was raised in a place where it was so easy to stray.

It was not unusual to see people smoking substances next to children who would ultimately try it and go off on a bender. Or to see little girls sexually harassed, only to end up pregnant and thrown out of their house.

So when my mother had me that Monday night, and the doctor placed me in my father’s arms, I am so sure the first thing he thought was - Nobody must ever be able to finesse this one.

My father’s biggest fear was some random boy getting me pregnant, so he raised me to believe men had to work very hard to get my attention. Unfortunately, he did the job so well that I am now refusing to sleep with anybody, get pregnant, or bring a man home. Now, he’s sending me multiple voice notes begging me.

Lmao. Sorry o, I’ve closed my legs forever. Nothing can be done at this point.

Also, can’t he see how they are sharing HIV in Lagos like party pack? Abeg Abeg.

My parents taught me to be so self-sufficient that when I became old enough to date, my standards were very high. And if I didn’t find what I wanted, I simply refused to date.

I broke off my relationships at the slightest red flag. Money did nothing to entice me if the person offering it was an asshole. I would stay single for years, unbothered. When I’d hear of women who stayed with men who abused them, I simply couldn’t understand it. My parents made sure I knew love was beautiful, but a man’s love was only an addition to the love I already had.

I navigated the world with this confidence.

A man could either come correct or not at all.

In my romantic relationships, I organised occasional fire drills.

You know when you just start a fight to be sure the other person remembers who they are dealing with.

Yes, that. I kept everyone on a straight line. I am extremely strict with my love. Yes, when I love, I love hard, but I also believe it has to be earned.

Do not get me wrong; I could very well still end up with an idiot whose mission in life is to humble me, but if that ever happens, you can be sure I will be leaving that relationship or marriage, whether I have 10 children or none at all.

I hate being at the mercy of anyone, much less a man.

Will I cry? Yes

But will I get my bags and go? Yep.

Unfortunately, this grand belief in myself was not transferred to my professional life. My parents were salary earners who were grateful to have the jobs they had. My mother aspired to academic excellence, but in her professional life, there was a cap to how high she or my father could fly. And that’s how they raised me.

They raised me to be humble and meek, professionally and so, tooting my own horn is not something I know how to do. I was taught to be grateful for what I got professionally and keep it moving.

A few weeks ago, someone asked me what I did professionally, and I downplayed my work so much that some other person, who knew who I was, was so visibly disgusted at how unsure I was of myself.

I was discussing this dynamic with someone a few days ago, and they said it’s the reverse in many case. For some women, they are fierce at work but meek in their personal lives. It’s like the story of Zikora in Chimamanda’s Dream Count.

Zikora was a lawyer who was extremely great at her job, but the minute she found a man who was willing to offer her a crumb of love, the tiger in her immediately became a kitten.

You see a corporate baddie controlling things at work, only to be chopping slap at home from a man who could never stand toe to toe with her.

I have been thinking of this situation in which I have found myself as an adult woman, and I’ve decided to bring the attitude I have in my personal life to my professional life. I have decided to toot my horn, believe in myself and stay ready to confidently tell people about the work I do.

So here is a reintroduction.

My name is Hauwa Lawal. I am a screenwriter, creative director, social media creator, author and executive producer of a new mini series called MORAL OF THE STORY.

You can find it here.

Now, it’s your turn to introduce yourself and brag about your professional accomplishments.

In the middle of this heated debate, what was so funny to watch was that most of the people engaging in the conversation immediately decided they were not the olodo, and it was, in fact, the rest of the internet.

They were the exception.

I saw a funny video where a young man, who looked like a street thug, was being interviewed in English. He struggled with speaking English until he decided to switch to his native tongue, Yoruba. Just beneath that video, there was a tweet saying - this was part of the olodo uprising.

The person who tweeted that believed he was smarter and better simply because he could communicate in the language of the coloniser, the people who made slaves of his ancestors. Meanwhile, this street thug, who has seemingly kept knowledge of his native language without caring for the language of the coloniser, was the dumb one.

So who was the olodo?

Was the street thug able to pass his message across in his native language? Yes.

Did the interviewer understand him? Yes.

Would we feel the same way if a German struggled with English, even though the English Language is part of their school curriculum? I don’t think so.

Anyway, I digress.

As the internet went on and on about the olodo uprising, I had to ask myself the difficult question. Am I part of the olodos? The answer, unfortunately, is yes.

I haven’t wanted to admit it, but my attention span is shit. I open Instagram every morning before Al Jazeera, even though I get notifications from the latter and not the former. I struggle to finish a book. I love watching reels. I scroll for hours. I can’t get through a research paper without groaning in pain- yes, literal pain.

And this is especially an issue because if you looked at my track record, you’d see that I am not meant to be an olodo.

I grew up in a family where my parents did not joke about education. My mum made sure we went to the best schools that she and my father could afford. She would sit outside with us every evening, going over our homework. My first JAMB score was 225, and she nearly killed me. My second was 276. Not that she liked it, but it was something she could work with.

I graduated from university with a First Class. I had forgotten until someone reminded me a few days ago. I was one of the six people in my year who was awarded a scholarship to study in another country. I completed my Masters Degree on a scholarship. I researched and wrote my thesis before AI became a thing. I loved reading. I loved writing even more. My favourite website, at some point, was an Igbo cultural website where they described life in Igboland in times past. I’d see women with ivory bracelets, standing in courtyards. I loved reading about the Yoruba Kingdoms before the arrival of the colonialists. Where did all my curiosity go? Why has it been replaced with Instagram Reels and TikToks?

Don’t get me wrong, watching Instagram and TikTok isn’t a bad thing. I literally get paid for doing those things, but instead of them being a part of my life, they have overtaken my entire attention.

I know that I am not supposed to be an olodo, but the reality is - I have become one.

And that is dangerous because if my parents were olodos, I wouldn’t have been able to achieve half of what I achieved academically.

And so, for the sake of any children I may have in the future and to actually stop my brain from constant rot, I have to be more intentional about knowledge. I need to painfully suffer through reading materials that can sharpen my brain.

Also because I cannot imagine paying 1M per term, and my child is telling me his favourite colour is 17. I will commit atrocities.

So I am going back to my roots.

I am going back to reading.

And writing.

And knowing more about the world.

I hope you do the same.

And if you’re not an olodo or suffering from the uprising, you don’t know what God has done for you.

Speaking of olodos, I wrote a short web series about me being an olodo as a child and my parents nearly killing me.

Watch it here -

Until next time,

Hauwa.

The song of the week is - Again by Dwin The Stoic

Not unhappy. Not ungrateful. Just exhausted.

I’ve been exhausted for about a month now. Some say it’s the birthday blues while others say it’s just a phase that’ll pass. I’ve been pretending like I don’t know the reason, but the truth is that I do; I’ve just not been able to admit it to myself.

A little over a month ago, I took a trip to Canada. This vacation was unlike any other vacation I’ve taken. This time, I didn’t have to pay for a hotel, buy food outside or learn a new city on my own. I stayed in a house with someone who lives there, they cooked, cleaned and took me wherever I wanted to go. Community members in Canada even sent me free food and wine. I was just sleeping, waking up and eating.

And then, before I knew it, the vacation was over, and I came back to this crazy country. Suddenly, nobody to cook for me. Nobody to ask me if I want boba tea or sushi. Cars are not waiting on the road for me to cross. Danfo drivers are shouting on my head everyday, generator is affecting my mental health, and did I mention nobody is cooking for me?

Chai, depression hold my neck.

And I can’t vex and go back because do you know how much a ticket is to that Canada? Many many millions.

If I even say I want to vex and relocate, which work will I be doing in Canada? Will I be working at McDonald’s? And you know I have anger issue so if one whitey should enter the McDonald’s and start speaking with his nose, I can knock him. And before I know it, deportation straight.

I thought a birthday party would make me feel better, but then I asked about the cost to throw party for 50 people. They said many many many millions.

Where do they want me to see the money? Should I go and pluck Daddy Seyi’s teeth and give them? Also, what’s that one even worth?

So when my friends open that their katakata mouths and ask me why I am not smiling, I just tell them I don’t know because if I tell them I want to go to Canada so someone can be cooking for me, they will punch me in the middle of my chest.

So I lie.

But outside of the Canada-Nigeria depression, I realise that I am grateful.

It’s not coming through, and there’s not much excitement in me, but that’s because of the state of the country. You can’t be happy for too long. There’s always bad news lurking in the corner.

However, today, I choose gratitude.

I may be a citizen of a country of particular concern, but I have made a life here. There have been days when I didn’t know what I’d amount to, but God said, Hold on and let me cook.

And boyyyy, did He cook.

My life has been nothing short of God’s grace and favour. He has shown me that I am worthy even on days when I doubt myself and, worse, doubt His existence.

I’ve never known what I wanted to do with my life, as a child or an adult, but today, random people walk up to me and say they like what I do. They applaud my creativity.

Ya Allah, I am thankful.

So I am pushing my lethargy out of the way and deciding to enjoy my life.

I enjoy asking the guy that sells bags outside my gym how the university is going, I enjoy him asking me for money like I am his big sister, I enjoy buying amala with one ogunfe and five meat, I enjoy laughing with my friends over the silliest things, I weirdly enjoy cussing danfo drivers out and I will continue to enjoy living in my body until the owner of the life takes it back.

God, I am grateful and will continue to be.

Okay guys, off to have a good day.

Byeeee.

Voices start to disrupt my concentration. I shut my eyes tighter. If I focus hard enough, I’ll escape the sounds in my shabby hut, but it only gets louder. I sigh and abandon the activity, opening my eyes. The room is barely lit by a small candle in the corner. A few women are sitting in groups, filling the room, and whispering to themselves. Between their whispers, they throw me pitying glances, and I can almost tell what they are saying.

“Such a young girl.”

“How can such a fate befall her?”

“They were just married.”

“Imagine seeing your husband in that state.”

I close my eyes again to shut them out. I knew I was a pitiable sight. Sitting on the floor with my back resting against the worn-out mattress. My hair is a mess and my body has been unwashed for a week. I can feel the cold floor biting into my legs, but I am too fatigued to move. I notice the rain has slowed again, making the voices in the room louder.

“Wafa, please eat something”

I open my eyes. It’s my best friend, Kuku. Only I call her Kuku. When we were younger, I couldn’t pronounce her name, Kulifa, so I ended up calling her Kuku. She smiles at me, the smile is hard. The type of smile that feels like a burden, almost like her face has not consented to the smile, but she forces it anyway.

I couldn’t tell if the hard smile was because of my situation or because of the disfigured right side of her face. When Kuku and I were 8, I remember not seeing her for a year. I heard Mama whisper to her friends that Kuku had a demon living inside her, so she had to be shipped from native doctor to native doctor. I heard in whispers that Kuku was cursed. They had to whisper because Kuku’s father was known to unleash hell on anyone who spoke ill of his ailing daughter. We all knew the rumours, but no one dared to speak them out loud.

When Kuku came back, she looked nothing like I knew. The right side of her face was slurred and stiff. This only added to the rumour that the devil took over her body, but to me, she was Kuku. My kuku. Her laugh was still the same, her soft eyes, Kuku would do anything for me, and I, her. She was always by my side, just like today.

Kuku pointed at the floor with her eyes. There was a bowl of porridge in front of me, between my outstretched legs. I had to eat. But why?

I looked up at Kuku without saying the words.

“For the baby”, Kuku whispered, answering my unspoken question.

She pointed to my stomach with her eyes. It had started to protrude, but not enough to be visible. I could easily pass for a well-fed woman. Kuku was the only person who knew about the baby. Well… and Josiah.

I had to eat to raise a baby? A baby, whose father…

Kuku stepped into my thoughts again.

“Wafa, please don’t do this to yourself. The baby needs you”, she said quietly, making sure the women all sitting in my little living room could not hear us.

I looked up at my friend. I knew her heart was breaking for me. But I also knew this visit was routine. We all did it in the village. She had to leave at some point. There were others to visit.

Others whose family members had suffered the same fate at the hands of the herdsmen.

Three months ago, when the herdsmen came to the village, we ran into the bush like we always did, but Kuku’s father was caught. He screamed at us to keep going. He was shot dead that night along with many others. I lay on the bed with Kuku for 5 days. I was the one begging her to eat. Josiah came to see us, but knew not to ask me to come back home. We lay like that until Kuku got up one day, and sent me back to my husband.

But now, that husband…

Eight nights ago, the herdsmen struck the village. We knew the procedure. We were to run into the bush when the ruckus started. I wrapped myself up in my clothes, Josiah took my hand, and we started running for the bush. We didn’t look back. We had nearly made it when Josiah and I bumped into a figure with a gun.

He smiled in our faces- a rotten smile. A scar ran from his left ear to his mouth, and his brown teeth, sharpened at the edges, were the star of a sinister smile. His eyes were red and soulless.

We both fell to our knees, begging him to spare us. I knew he was high on something, and our pleas were most likely going to fall on deaf ears. He was going to drag us back to the village, and Josiah would be shot first. I’d be raped and then shot. But I begged anyway. I lay on the ground, still pleading, when I heard a blow. I looked up to find that Josiah had punched the man in the face. It was a death wish.

“WAFA RUN!”

I hesitated a bit, but I heard him again.

“RUN! NOW!”

I took off, not looking back. That’s the last time I saw my husband, at least in his original form.

I heard the scuffling but kept running until I heard the shot. I stopped in my tracks and looked back. I saw nothing. I waited. Maybe Josiah was the one who pulled the trigger. Maybe he was about to tear into the forest and find me. My eyes wide, expectant, searching, waiting, darting in every direction, hoping to see my husband’s dark skin, full head of hair and reassuring smile.

Instead, I heard grunts, leaves trashing and “SWINE, I WILL FIND YOU”

I turned and ran deeper into the forest.

I came back into the village when the sun came up. They had left.

In the middle of the square, I saw burnt people. This time, they didn’t leave the bodies for us to bury; they burnt them. I stared, cursing myself for not knowing which of them was my husband. How could I not tell? How could I not tell which one was the body of the man I’ve slept next to for the one year that we had been married? How could I not tell which body belonged to the man I breathed next to every night? The man who taught me how to make little bows from palm fronds? Who brought me nunu every evening when coming back from work? Who sang to the baby in my belly every night? The man who died for me.

None of those things mattered now. I didn’t know who he was. I could not tell who my husband was.

Women, children, and men wailed at the scene while I turned away with dry eyes and walked back to the house I shared with Josiah, now empty. I sat there, on the floor, and stayed there.

The women leave; they have to make condolence rounds. I was not the only one who lost someone. Everyone was grieving. But Kuku stayed.

I knew the routine. We dig a hole for all the bodies. We wail. We scream. And then people come in from out of town with their cameras and little phones. They shove it in our faces and ask us to recount the trauma of losing our family members for the viewers. They tell us that it is better to cry so the government can see our pain. And even though our eyes are sunken from crying, we cry. They nod and say that’s good. They say they will be back with help, but we never see them until the next attack, when they come back with their cameras.

They came to my living room, and as usual, they shoved the camera in my face. It’s my turn this time to recount my trauma. The story of a young widow. They stared at me with wide expectant eyes, leaning in and almost drooling, waiting for the story - no, my story - to be trapped in their little device. But instead, I stared at them, silent and unresponsive, refusing to give them any part of Josiah until they got tired of waiting and left.

As they turned away and started to leave my little hut, I had an idea. I instantly got up from the floor and chased after them, but before I spoke, I heard one of them saying;

“This one is not so good, but at least we will get 100k views”

I cleared my throat, and they turned to me.

“Please help me. I don’t have money. But I will cry for you on that thing”, I pointed to the camera.

They seemed to hesitate, so I pulled up my blouse, revealing my protruding stomach.

“I am pregnant. I can cry well well.”

They smiled. A young pregnant widow’s tears after an attack on a village in rural Nigeria were bound to get them all the views they wanted. Even though I didn’t understand what views were, I knew they really liked it.

We struck a deal.

They were going to get me what I wanted if I cried, and I had a lot of tears for Josiah.

Josiah,

It has been over a month since you were taken from me, and I knew it was going to happen anytime now. When I started to hear the sounds of people running and gunshots in the air, I knew they were back.

I clean the revolver with a cloth, like I have done every day.

For the past month, I have taken more care of the revolver than I have of myself. Or our baby. I am sorry, I know you’re disappointed, but this is the most important thing now. I need to come back to you, Josiah. You say I am strong, but my strength has always been in you. And yours in me. One does not function without the other.

The gunshots are getting louder, and I know they are nearing our house. I should do it now, but first, I am waiting for that one. The one with the scar that went from his lips to his ear. The one that killed you.

I don’t care what they do to my body when they catch me. Our baby would never know the pain of death because she hasn’t tasted life. And I will make sure she doesn’t taste death at their hands. It will be in my hands. I will carry her gently in death. I will carry her to you.

But right now, I sit in the dark. And I wait.

Our door bursts open. My eyes went hard, but softened immediately when I saw that it was Kuku.

Kuku misses you. She misses me too. She says it’s like I died with you.

“Wafa, let’s go!”

I shake my head. I wasn’t going anywhere.

Kuku stared at me. She knew I wasn’t leaving. She shut the door quietly and came to sit next to me. She was tired of running, too. She looked at the revolver.

“Enough for three?

Sorry that this story was bleak. Nigeria is currently bleak. But here is a song to cheer you up?

The first emotion I feel is fear.

I was not in an unsafe or a strange place. Everything was alright, but fear, nonetheless, bubbled to the surface.

After a few seconds, my brain figured out why.

I drank this tea for four years. Straight.

I drank it while I was hanging out with friends. I drank it when I was depressed. I drank it when I thought I was failing my Master’s Degree. I drank it while I waited for a job interviewer to decide whether I would get a job, or not. I drank it on a date with a Syrian man who turned out to be a stalker. I drank it in my apartment, alone with terrible thoughts. I drank it at the cafe under my apartment. I drank it to stay warm. I drank it as my Ukrainian friend told me about her husband’s domestic abuse. I drank it as I worked on my thesis in the university library. I drank if after surviving an earthquake. But the last time I drank Turkish tea was four years ago, at the very place I am right now.

The Istanbul Airport.

Four years ago, I was making my way back home. For Nigeria. Unsure and scared.

You see, I had come to Turkey to complete my Master’s Degree. I finished the degree in two years, but when my parents asked me to come home, I delayed it. I lied to them that I liked the country and I wanted to explore for a year. Then I lied that I had some issues with my degree, and to solve it, I had to remain in the country. And then I lied that I needed to meet up with an interviewer for a job.

I said everything but the truth, which was - I was scared to go back to Nigeria.

My parents were not well-connected enough to have a job waiting for me at home, and I did not want to come back to unemployment. So, I stayed.

A few people in Turkey encouraged me to stay and find a job, but I didn’t speak the language, and the most common job for people who didn’t speak Turkish was English teaching, but anyone who knew me knew I hated teaching anybody anything.

It’s why, to date, people want me to do a course in storytelling and as much as I love storytelling, especially brand storytelling, I do not like teaching, so I do not try.

I didn’t get a job as an English teacher in Turkey but I didn’t go to Nigeria either because I didn’t have anything.

However, one day, I woke up and booked my trip home. I knew it was the end. I couldn’t come back even if I wanted to. I was throwing myself into the unknown. I wasn’t bold enough to book the trip for the next week or even the next month, so I booked it for August. Four months away.

A month before I got back, I got a job at a tech company. This eased my mind as I prepared for my trip back home. At least I wasn’t unemployed, right?

I got back home, and not even two months into the job, it had begun to show me the kind of shege I had never seen in my life. I had started to regret coming home.

During that time, I was in a relationship (or situationship) with a man who was what I’d describe as a madman. He did tell me he was a psychopath (in his own words), and in my foolishness, I said, I’d love him through it.

When he showed me part 1 of the psychopathy he was talking about, I carried my bags and ran for my life.

See, when men tell you what or who they are, believe them. This boy was warning me against himself and I was doing, but I love you. When he showed me the real werey, I started talking to myself at 1:55am every day. Serious conversations. Sometimes, I will shout. I started considering checking into psychiatric hospital. My daddy retired from there, so I knew they might give me family and friends discount.

Anyway, back to my story.

In March of the next year, I quit my job, a little because I hated it but more because I, truly, was confused at the job. I would wake up, and things would have changed completely. Every day, it felt like we had a new goal. I couldn’t keep up. Also, I couldn’t handle the sheer lack of work-life balance. I dealt with anxiety the whole time because there was a particular girl there who was the devil’s incarnate. It was at that job that I decided I didn’t know how to play office politics, nor was I interested in it.

Would it have given me a leg up? Yes

Would it have probably put me in a better place than I am today? Maybe

Would I have left it if I had to do it all over again? Heck Yes

I ended up leaving the job.

It was the best decision I could have made. Afterwards, I just kept doing the hard things. I kept putting myself out there. I have suffered backlash. But the universe has also rewarded me in ways I couldn’t imagine.

So today, four years from now, I’m on a work trip, sitting in an Airport Lounge in Istanbul, eating a bowl of buttered rice, white bean stew and some deliciously grilled kofte, and it hit me. Things worked out.

The feeling of fear is quickly replaced by relief.

Relief that the fear was simply PTSD.

Today, I am flying business class, fully expensed to the Airline. I’m sitting in a lounge, having lunch. I just showered, and I am working on something for a client. The client? Apple. If you had told Hauwa four years ago that this would be her life, she’d have laughed it off, not because she didn’t believe it would happen, but because all that was on her mind was survival.

I just wanted to survive and be okay. Anything after that would have been the cherry on top.

Now, four years down the line, I don’t just want to survive. I want to succeed. I have seen what getting out of your comfort zone can get you, and I want to pull an Oliver Twist on the Universe.

So this newsletter is for you. You may be in a much better position than I currently am, or a worse one, but the advice remains the same regardless. If there is a plunge you are hoping to take, but you’re scared. Close your eyes and fall in.

When you fall, survival instincts take over. You will not let yourself go, I promise.

You can rest for a bit. Even stop to breathe. But you must get back and fight.

Because everything you want is on the other side of fear.

A popular quote by Dan Sullivan goes - The definition of hell is, on your last day of earth, the person you became meets the person you could have become.

Don’t let that be your hell.

Get up today and say fuck it. Life is meant to be lived, so LIVE AND FAIL IF NECESSARY.

So you can get back up faster and do what you have to do.

Because in the end, we all die, but make sure you have lived first.

The song of the week is Like You by Tatiana Manaois because you have to stand up. TODAY.

Yes, yes, I know you want to throw tomatoes at me for disappearing for this long, but before you do, let me just say, I come bearing… ✨amebo✨.

Yes, I have gist.

Hot gist even.

Allow me to set the scene.

It’s 5 pm on a random weekday. My mother breezes into my home. I am not shocked. My mother is notorious for casually showing up at my house. Even her sleeping over isn’t unusual or peculiar, but my father walking in 5 minutes after her? Now, that is worrisome.

My dad usually steers clear of my place because he understands the concept of personal space. Something my mum is grossly unfamiliar with. Or maybe she understands and just doesn’t care. I have to add that it isn’t something I hold against her because, at the end of the day, she’s just a girl who wants to see her child.

My dad, on the other hand, stays in his house and when he leaves, it is to hang out with his friends. If he needs to talk to me, he simply sends me a message on WhatsApp. And when I don’t respond because I hardly respond to my messages, he calls me.

So when they walk into my house, only 5 minutes apart, I know it is definitely one of two things: they want to come and report each other to me. Or they want to gang up on me. And from the way they were kiki-ing with each other, I knew it was the latter. Which really pissed me off.

The reason for my anger was because I knew I was automatically responsible for Iftar and Iftar for my parents had to be a serious meal. My brother (who lives with me) and I could eat bread and eggs and call it a day, but I knew my parents weren’t going to have that, so I dragged myself into the kitchen and started angrily scraping fish.

After almost 2 hours in the kitchen, the food came out, we ate, we prayed, and then my father cleared his throat. I knew it was time for ‘the talk’.

Every woman my age understands what I mean by ‘the talk’, so I braced myself for the inevitable ‘when will you bring a man home’ questions. I was already planning my response in my head when my father said,

“We think you should consider having a child through artificial insemination”, my father said as he stared ahead, avoiding my eyes.

I BEG EVERYBODY’S FUCKING PARDON???

Child? Insemination? What the fuck? With which money?

I had no comeback.

Because how does one come back from that? Also, I found it so rude that they had practically given up hope on my attracting a man for marital purposes. How is it my fault that all the men outside are mad?

Dearest gentle reader, I am not even old enough to be shoved aside, but I guess my father considers me an old spinster with no foreseeable prospects.

It does not help that my brother, who is three years younger than I am, is married with a child and worse, our last born (who is too young to be getting married anyway) has been whispering about an introduction.

Also, does my father truly believe that if I wanted to have a child, I’d go through the prim and proper way of looking for a sperm donor, paying for the service and having a professional inseminate me, rather than just, I don’t know, having hot steamy, nasty fok?

And this is ultimately my problem with African parents. They are grandly delusional.

I had been warned - since before I was even old enough to understand adult relationships, against boys and pregnancy - by my father and now that I have blossomed into a woman who does not have the energy or frankly the patience to be wooed, he wants me to bring a child to him?

Not even a husband, a child? In a society that vilifies single mothers?

This reminds me of a friend who said his very muslim father, who had warned him against pre-marital sex all his life, upon seeing his (my friend's) disinterest in women, started begging him to have pre-marital sex to prove he isn’t gay.

This was exactly what my father wants.

A child out of wedlock, which was a great sin, in my teens and early 20s, had suddenly become acceptable. Of course, only by artificial insemination. Nothing like hot, steamy fok.

The Godly way. The right way. The halal way. Be a single mother, but sex must not enter inside.

Anyway, with those 11 words;

“We think you should consider having a child through artificial insemination”

My father rested his case and waited for me to respond. I looked to my mum, and she nodded? This woman is owing me 100k, by the way. At least pay your gbese before you start asking me for a child. Do you think that if I had one now, you would be seeing money to borrow from me?

And my mother is one of the most creatively lazy people I have ever met. She’d spend all day on her farm breaking her back, but ask her to do some housework, she will do half and run away.

My brother brought her to do omugwo for him when he had his son, and my mother went there to be sleeping. Her grandson was crying in the middle of the night, and my mother used pillow to cover her own head. They had to chase her away in the end.

So, let’s assume I got pregnant the halal way, without a man. So you’re telling me that the only person available for omugwo would be the woman who put a pillow over her own head to drown out her grandson’s cries?

That woman?

The woman who will run out of my house if my halal baby starts shouting?

That woman?

And where, pray tell, will my dad be at that time? Hanging out with the boys as he explains the halal situation surrounding the birth of my child? Boasting about how I am a virgin mother?

LMAOOOO please, this has to be a skit.

I told them I will not be having their halal grandbaby for them. They already have a halal grandchild from my brother. Let them focus on that.

After they finished eating, I sent them to their house and went to bed.

Anyway, that’s what has been going on with me.

Now, that I have given you the gist, do you forgive me for staying away for too long?

You’re still vexing?

No vex now, no vex for me oyinbo mi, I was working on my halal baby.

The song of the week is one I’ve been obsessed with for weeks because it sounds like Labi Siffre’s 'Bless The Telephone.

I’ve Seen It by Olivia Deen.

Allow me to set the scene.

The sun is going down over a small area in the slums of Bariga. There are canopies set up along a narrow, rugged street. White plastic chairs are haphazardly arranged next to tables with drinks on them, and hundreds of people shout over the sound of Yoruba music blasting from worn-out speakers.

A woman had just given birth to twins, and in the traditional custom of the Yoruba people of West Africa, a party was thrown to name the children. The street was brimming with people, not because the new parents knew these many people but because this was the kind of area that ditched modern-day invites and seating charts. In this part of Lagos, people simply woke up one morning, set up chairs, called a DJ and a party was formed.

It’s not officially spoken, but everyone knows that a party like this is free to all and sundry.

Food and drinks keep rolling out until there’s nothing left. And even then, the party does not stop. People will simply bring in their own drinks and party till dawn. In many cases, 90% of the people at the party don’t even know the names of the children for whom the party is thrown.

‘Don’t you think so?’, the woman says to me again, bringing me back to the conversation.

‘I don’t know, really’, I offered my tepid response, and the woman shook her head.

‘It is!’

I nodded to agree with her, but in truth, I really didn’t know.

The woman and I were talking about one of my closest friends. Let’s call her B.

B was the one who invited us to the party. Her younger sister just had twin girls. It was a joyous occasion, but also one that makes you reflect. Similar to how you look forward to your wedding when you attend a wedding, or your graduation when you see someone graduate. The woman speaking to me was B’s boss, who had, over time, gotten close to B. They interacted like friends and shared details of their lives. B’s boss was married with kids, but every time she talked to B, B maintained that while marriage was in the cards, kids simply weren’t.

She was not on the fence or anything of the sort. She was firmly rooted in her decision not to have kids.

To the average Nigerian woman in her 30s, that was unheard of. What do you mean you don’t want kids? Which woman in her right senses does not want kids? That’s what oyinbo people did, not Nigerians.

As we discussed this, B appeared with grilled fish in hand. I took it from her and joked, ‘So when are we coming for your own kids’ naming ceremony?’

B rolled her eyes.

‘You see! Trauma response!’, that was B’s boss again.

I could not completely disagree with B’s boss. B had told me frightening stories about her childhood. While discussing her decision to be childfree, she mentioned that one of the reasons she didn’t want kids was that she could not imagine bringing a child into the world to live as she had to live as a child.

However, I’d seen people with terrible childhoods give their children better lives, so was B’s boss right? Was her choice to be childfree a trauma response?

But B was also not maternal.

Was this also trauma?

The first time I heard that people could choose to be child-free was in 2022. It was ironic that even though people said it was a Western concept, I was first introduced to it in Nigeria.

I met a guy, let’s call him D. D was so sure he didn’t want kids in his life, and I just didn’t get it.

D and B were similar but different. They both came from dysfunctional families, but their trauma was different. D endured a lot of physical violence as a child, so maybe that was why he never wanted to have kids? (This is purely speculative, though)

I had always wanted kids. I was raised in a five-member household. Dad and Mum worked to give us a good life. Dad paid for our education. Mum made sure we ate and dressed well. I wanted to grow up, have a career, get married and have 3 kids. That was that. So when I met D, I was perplexed.

But I’d slowly come to understand.

People have said that men want kids the way children want dogs. A lot of men are not interested in parenting; they simply want children. But for a woman, it is different. Pregnancy and childbirth wreak havoc on a woman’s body and mind. Having a child is beautiful - some say your heart expands beyond human comprehension - but it also comes with its risks.

Life does not go back to normal again. Sometimes, your career takes a hit. You have to care for this human being 24/7. If you have a supportive partner, that is amazing, but if you end up being the sole caregiver, it is quite a task.

So I get it.

It’s a huge sacrifice.

That’s the issue I have with childbirth. In many cases, even with partners, a number of women single-handedly take on the task of parenting.

But above all, I love that it is becoming a choice. I grew up on Yoruba movies that made being barren look like the worst thing that could happen to a woman. I was so deep in the conditioning that at 11 years of age, I was already praying for children.

I am glad that more people are seeing it as an option rather than an obligation.

By all means, have kids. However, if that is not your thing, your life is not any less valuable.

So where do I stand?

I think I look at having kids the same way I see marriage. My single life is fun, full and well-suited to me. If I am going to marry, it must be because marriage will elevate my life emotionally, financially, socially, spiritually and physically.

If it doesn’t, I have no business marrying anyone.

I view kids the same way. Do I want kids because I want to collect them or because I think they’ll make my life even more beautiful?

I don’t have an answer yet, but if you see me with a belly bump, then there’s your answer.

Alright Folks, that’s all for today.

This week’s song is by Tems, and I am obsessed!

There’s nothing I may be able to do about my landlord or my gluttonous brother, but oh, there is a lot I can do about love. I absolutely intend on finding love this year.

Before I go on, I must clarify that my insistence on finding love this year doesn’t mean I want to get married.

No, please, let’s get this story straight. I am not remotely interested in getting married - sorry to my mummy and the grandkids she wants.

I know you’re confused, but I’ll clarify.

I want to find love. So I can beat it up.

I want to beat the living daylights out of that stupid, idiot-faced baby they call Cupid. The one in charge of shooting people with arrows? The Roman God of Love? Yes, that one.

Hauwa, you want to beat a baby?

First of all, I’m not above fighting a baby. Anybody can get it. But in this case, that ‘kiniun’ is technically not a baby. He has been around since around 700BC. Don’t let its appearance deceive you. That’s a grown ass man cosplaying as a child. So technically, I am beating a lying ass old man.

The next question out of your mouth might be -

Why do you have it out for love this much?

Thank you so much for that question.

The first time I found love, I fell from one guy’s okada. I was 18, a fresher in university, and I was dating this boy. That night, we were hanging out in his apartment and gisting. After dinner, I wanted to start going home, and instead of this stupid boy to jejeli allow me enter keke to my hostel, he said he’d use his roommate’s okada to drop me.

So he told me to climb his stupid okada, and me too, the fool, I hopped on his okada.

If he knew he could not ride the okada, why did he go and borrow it? And why did he invite me to partake in his foolishness? And why did I, too, agree to be part of the rubbish? Anyway, he had not finished driving out of the street when both of us tumbled.

At the end of the day, it is still that keke I went to enter.

I walked to the junction, holding my head and regretting my life.

And what’s worse? He didn’t even give me money for transport. He just watched me limp to the keke junction. AT FUCKING NIGHT.

I broke up with him.

The second time love showed me shege was in 2021.

I met this foolish boy who explicitly told me he was a psychopath. But I thought he was joking. Also, I thought our love could banish the demonic spirit from his body.

The more I write this newsletter, the more foolish I realise I was. But I’ve already started, might as well finish.

Anyway, back to this guy. He was all I thought I wanted, so what was a little bit of psychopathy? Is it not just small? Also, I loved the idea of being the only one who could calm my man down (yes, I was foolish). And is it not cute that he was being honest with me? Also, are we not all a little mad at the end of the day?

We dated during lockdown, so of course, we couldn’t see each other, but the minute lockdown was lifted, guess where I first went?

To meet him? WRONG.

I went to the mosque to tell Alfa to prepare because I am finally bringing my husband home, and I want my Nikkah to be sharp sharp. Not that nonsense Nikkah that they will be using 15 hours to do. I want to do Nikkah and quickly go home with my husband.

Alfa said he understands.

Then I went to meet my psychopath… sorry, my man.

After the okada incident, I decided I was not going to date anybody unless they had a car, so imagine my joy when this boy picked me up in a really manly SUV. We went to dinner where he started telling me about his female best friend and how they organise sleepovers once a month to, you know, ‘catch up’.

Excitedly, I said oh can I join the sleep over, he said I should not make stupid jokes with him.

I shut up and ate my chicken.

But because I have strong head, I started an argument about his best friend in the car while he was driving me home.

In retrospect, I should have just started the conversation AFTER I had gotten home, but there is nowhere in this newsletter where I gave you the impression that I had sense.

Anyway, I was having a heated one-sided argument with Boda Psychopath when he parked and told me to come down from the car.

Mind you, I didn’t have money for Uber. And POS places were not popular at this time, so I had to walk 25 minutes to the nearest ATM to withdraw money to enter bus home. How much did I see to collect? 500 Naira.

My own once bitten can never be shy. Clearly, they have to bite me and almost kill me before I have sense.

So seeing how much I have suffered because of love, does love not deserve to collect one or two from me?

Whatever your answer is, I don’t care. You people can stick with your lofty New Year goals like joining the gym, starting a business, and learning a new language, that’s great for you, but me? I am finding love, and I am beating the shit out of it.

If I cannot catch Cupid to beat, I will be beating the shit out of the men that fall in love with me.

If you like, cry domestic vyolense, that’s your BIZNESSSSS

Byeeeee

This week, there is no song for you. I am angry.

Oh, wait, you can listen to Portable. Fitting, isn’t it?

Nobody asked you if you wanted to be a boy or a girl, be born into wealth or poverty, be Muslim, Christian or Buddhist. Your race or skin colour. All those things are predetermined.

Nine months late, you’re born and suddenly, everything becomes a choice.

When I heard that people were splitting their phalluses and turning them inside out to make vaginas, my jaw was on the floor but that’s the whole point of life - you have a choice. You have freewill.

Freewill. Something a lot of people don’t really think about.

As a Nigerian first daughter born to muslim parents, I didn’t think I had a choice even after my birth. My paths were chosen for me.

I was supposed to dress modestly, use a scarf, go to Arabic school, do well in school, pass jamb and study law. When I didn’t meet the cut off mark for law the first time, my dad made me write the exam again the following year. Shortly after writing the exam, I was offered admission into university abroad to study journalism and I accepted the offer. When my second jamb results were released, we found out I was admitted for Law but since I was already abroad, my father made the decision for me to stay there.

And so I stayed.

When I was done with university, my parents made the decision for me to get my Master’s Degree because what is a first born Nigerian daughter without a Master’s Degree? Yet again, I went along with their choice.

I finished the degree and entered into the job market. I found a job in tech. I didn’t know if it was the right job for me, all I knew was that I hate job and I despised the people even more. So for the first time in my life, I made a crucial life decision. I quit.

To be fair, my best-friend (God rest her soul) had been pushing me to quit for the longest time. My boyfriend, at the time, was also encouraging me to quit but I couldn’t because it was so off-script for me. So unheard of. I was the model child. I was not supposed to quit my serious 9-5 to pursue a career in creativity. Baba Hauwa would have an aneurysm.

And he did.

When I told him, he was so confused. The child he spent millions on was saying she didn’t want a job? He asked me to go and ask them for my job back. I refused.

A few months later, I told him I wanted to move out.

I wasn’t trying to kill my dad. I just had discovered that I could make decisions and I was exercising that right.

We went back and forth on moving out but my parents eventually agreed that living in Ikorodu and jumping bus into town everyday could potentially run me mad. So, I moved out.

And that’s when I started actively choosing my life.

For a while, I had fomo every time I saw that people were invited to Lagos events but the minute I started getting invited to these events, I realised I hated being outside. I preferred my own company. Now, I actively fight to be inside.

Everybody and their mummies are taking a trip.

“Here are 5 countries you can visit on a budget” - Not for me.

I realised I didn’t like travelling if I had to do it on a budget. I don’t want to skimp on hotels or food. If I could afford business class, I would.

So I only travel when I have the money to splurge. If I don’t, I stay in my house.

I don’t fly business yet but the minute I can start flying it, I’d be insufferable. lmaoooo.

I hate bread. I always thought I had to like it because we ate it a lot growing up. But I hate it and so I don’t eat it. You will never find bread in my house.

In 2022, I wanted to loc my hair and my mother asked what’ll happen if my future husband didn’t like it. I said I didn’t care and loc’d it anyway. It’s almost 2026 and the said future husband has not married me.

I tried raves, I tried clubs, I hated them. So I don’t go.

I like boring lunch dates, so I go.

On some days, I don’t like having a scarf on my head. And on some days, I like it. I was recently offered a lot of money to take it off but I am not ready to make a decision. And that is also a choice.

Your choices don’t have to be black and white. They could also be - I don’t know about this yet so I am just going to wait.

I was raised to want marriage and children so when I started dating, I dated with this in mind but along the way, I fell in love with someone who didn’t want kids which was interesting for me because while I was raised to want kids, I didn’t know if I actually wanted them. I love children but I also like my current lifestyle and children require a lifestyle change.

On the other side of that, I love seeing children with their mummies and I’d love to see how cute a mini-me would look. Staying with him meant choosing a definitive path and I didn’t want that so we ended things.

It’s the same way I feel about marriage. Everyone who knows me knows that I like having my house to myself. My mother is the person I love the most in this world and even she knows that she has only one week in my house before I start to get cranky. So how am I supposed to live with a man for the rest of my life? I love Love so maybe I will love marriage when it comes but in case you hear that I ran away from husband house, don’t be shocked.

I don’t gravitate towards religious men because everyone that has sexually assaulted me has been a religious man so I stay away.

I love washing plates so I wash them.

I don’t like cleaning toilets so I pay someone to clean them.

The choices you make to make your life unabashedly yours don’t have to be big choices. They could be the smallest things, but choose your life. The rewards or consequences will be yours to bear so you might as well bear consequences of a life you chose rather than the one you didn’t.

It is why I am baffled when people refuse to marry someone because their parents said so. No other reason but - “my parents said so”. And then years later, after said parents have died, they start to have regrets. Why?

Anyway, this newsletter is to remind you that you have a choice. You always have a choice. You were brought to this world to design your life. Granted, some choices are easier to make than others. For example, it took me 7 years of working a 9-5 to save up enough to quit my job but making the choice to loc my hair took me 2 seconds.

Life takes time. Remember that. But also know that you deserve to be happy and no matter how much your parents love you, you are the only one who knows what will make you happy so choose that.

Sprint towards your happiness. Every other person will be fine.

And if they aren’t, that’s not your business, to be honest.

Love you always,

Hauwa.

The song of the week is Sweet - Cigarettes After Sex

It was repeated over and over to me. I heard it in school, at home, outside the house, on the news - I heard it so much that I started to believe it and when I went to study outside the country, I repeated it to everyone I met.

Am I a fool? Yes but that’s not the point.

The point is, that’s what being a Nigerian is. The complete belief that you are better than everyone else. It is not uncommon to hear people proudly say that being Nigerian is to have grit, the hustle spirit and a certain kind of confidence or one might even say - arrogance.

You will know a Nigerian anywhere. We walk into rooms like we own it, we speak louder than every other person and our flair for pomp and pageantry is known throughout the globe. We’re so popular that some parts of our culture, like the wedding culture, is being recreated in other parts of the world. Nigeria is like that kid you secretly hate in class but can’t deny her brilliance.

But underneath all that pomp and pageantry is a staggering poverty. Being born in Nigeria, you’ve already lost life’s lottery. It is only made easier if you are born into a rich or upper middle class family. If you do not have to beg or depend on the graciousness of others just to survive. If you’re not left to fend for yourself at a young age. If you do not have to interact with poverty.

Because poverty in Nigeria is so violent that it strips you off everything. The poverty is so dehumanising that it causes you to bend and twist yourself into acceptable forms just to eat. The kind of poverty I hope never to experience but am aware that it is all around me.

That’s the thing about Nigeria. The proximity to poverty is staggering.

I live in a house where light hardly trips off. I am on the government’s Band A so there’s almost always light. Yes, I pay through my nose but light is almost constant. During instances where the light goes out, my inverter kicks in so fast that I hardly notice. Today, I casually ordered pizza and chicken wings for lunch which cost me N22,000. I saw a dress online for 30k and I am considering ordering it. I haven’t ordered it because I want to draw up my budget for the month. Soon, I will get in my car and go grocery shopping. I will complain about the economy and how expensive things are but I will still hand over my card to the store attendant and watch as she debits my card. I will come back home, close all my windows, turn on my ac, put on a show and cuddle in with a bowl of ice-cream.

Meanwhile, just 10 meters away is my estate security guard, an old man, who has to stay on guard every day. He does not get off until 9pm when the night shift guard takes over. He survives on a salary of less than 30k. He waves to me as I zoom out of the estate hoping I spare the normal 1k I give him sometimes. I haven’t given him any money in a while because I keep forgetting to withdraw some cash. He relies on these handouts. The petty cash he gets from cars driving out of the estate contribute to what keeps him surviving.

His case is not in isolation.

Last month, I parked my car at Access Bank inside Unilag. I had come for an event but the car park was full so I had to go to Access Bank’s car park. I begged the security guard to let me park and he let me. At the event, I was given some boxes of custard. I hate custard so when I got back to my car, I handed the custard to the security guard along with 2,000 Naira and he thanked me like I had bought him a house.

Poverty is so violent. H said thank you in such a way that made me so uncomfortable. It was just custard.

Except it wasn’t just custard. It was food for a good amount of time, to him.

Last week, I gave a woman, old enough to be my mother, a box of perfumes and she called me ‘ma’ and almost knelt down to thank me.

Poverty has subdued people so much that they fall over themselves when they are given things. I hate it so much. I hate what Nigeria is and what it does to people. Nigeria is not the giant of anything or anywhere. It is an embarrassing excuse for a nation that continues to oppress its people.

I don’t know how to make it better. I can only continue to spare what I have knowing it is hardly going to make a difference.

Today, please look around you, recognise your privilege and give something, no matter how small to someone that needs it. You might forget that N200 in your purse for a week but that N200 will keep someone’s stomach less empty, for at least a few hours.

Okay. I think I am done ranting.

Have an amazing day,

🤎,

Hauwa.

Today’s song of the week is - Love Me Not by Ravyn Lenae

He had been unwell for quite some time but I couldn’t visit because my schedule was just too packed and on the days that I was free, all I wanted to do was sleep.

Look, the one thing they fail to tell you about adulthood is that it is extremely difficult. You are supposed to be juggling multiple things while trying to stay alive.

Exhausting.

Anyway, last week, I had a free day and again, I just wanted to sleep but what did I do instead? I carried my bag, popped into the supermarket to buy him some things and immediately requested an Uber to his place before my body changes its mind and decides to stay at home and sleep.

When I got there, I noticed he had gotten much better. He was well enough to eat, talk and walk about the house.

We started talking and he said something so insightful that it stuck with me.

He said, “When I was very sick and it seemed like I was at death’s door, I asked God, why me…”

I nodded. That was nothing new. He had kids and a wife he did not plan on leaving behind. At least, not yet.

He continued… “I was asking why me because I was in pain and anguish. However, there were times when things had gone right for me. I was making a lot of money and I was surrounded by the pleasures of life. In those moments, why didn’t I stop to ask God why me?”

I thought about it. He was right.

We don’t seem to ask questions when things are looking up for us. On sunny days, there is no reason to ask why the flowers are blossoming and opening up. However, on dark days when the flowers begin to die, we suddenly start asking questions. I know that it is because we believe we deserve only good things and good days because who prays for dark days?

It is why when we hear that other people were in an accident (that could’ve easily been us) we thank God for sparing our lives but forget to ask the most important question.

Why was my life spared?

You were going to get on the bus that was involved in that accident. The only reason you weren’t on it was because you woke up late that day.

You were supposed to be on that plane that crashed but you missed it because your daughter fell sick and you had to stay home with her instead of getting on that plane to attend that conference.

The minute you heard of the plane crash, you hugged your daughter tightly and thanked God for sparing your life. But you don’t ask why your life was spared.

Regardless of your station in life, start asking yourself that question.

Why do you have a large online platform? Is it so that you can spread awareness on a societal issue?

Why were you promoted at work? You are efficient, yes, but could it also be because you can make changes to the team you currently lead?

Why did you get that contract everyone is bidding for? Is it because you’re meant to create jobs and pay people a fair wage?

Please continue to ask yourself these questions and don’t wait until life pulls you down to ask… why me?

You can ask ‘why you’ right now.

I fully believe I rambled through this letter but I hope you get something out of it. No matter how small.

I love you and I will see you next week.

🤎,

Hauwa.

The song of the week is Ravyn Lenae - Love Me Not.

I like the bop and I want to dance to it with a lover someday.

The tweet may seem flippant but I have to admit that it took me a really long time to get to a place where I can easily forgive myself. The road was not, in any way, easy. However, I got to a point where I realised beating myself up was not going to solve anything so I started to make a more conscious effort to be kinder to myself. The world is already a hard enough place to live in and I really don’t have to make it harder for myself.

A lot of people agreed with the tweet and we seemed to be united in the knowledge that learning to forgive yourself is very crucial for self development.

Until someone slid into my DMs to ask me to write me about this.

I had a feeling she probably has a hard time forgiving herself and/or is struggling with a mistake she’s made in the past.

Before we get into that though, let me just say this letter is not for you if you’re a bully or someone who intentionally goes out of their way to harm other people. If you are, you need to go to God. Not me. 🙏🏽

Now, to the rest of us.

Beginning to see yourself as human and inherently flawed is when you release yourself from the shackles of perfection and are able to forgive yourself.

For me, the inability to forgive myself stemmed from being parented by… well Nigerian parents.

As a kid, I remember several instances where my dad made me regret making certain mistakes. I could have forgotten my notebook at home and my father would scold me throughout the car ride. One day, I forgot my school fees payment receipt in the car and I wasn’t allowed into school so my father had to leave work and bring the receipt to me so I would be let in. I regretted my life that day. Not only did I chop cane, I heard it from him for a week.

It also did not help that I was the first child so I was not allowed to make mistakes. I had to be perfect. My brothers mistakes were easily forgiven but not mine? Nope because I was supposed to know better, right?

WRONG.

I was just a child. I didn’t know any better and the people parenting me didn’t know any better either so they just parented me with a heavy hand. They didn’t forgive my mistakes and taught me not to forgive my mistakes either.

And so, I went through life unable to forgive myself and other people. If I couldn’t forgive myself, there is no way in hell, I’d forgive other people. It started to affect my friendships and relationships because once you offended me, you were immediately cut out of my life.

As an adult, I’d hyper-focus on the mistakes I made, beat myself up and be unable to move on. Sometimes, I won’t be able to sleep.

To make it worse, religion was at the very core of my upbringing and one of the first stories I heard was the one of Adam and Eve. The mistake they made by eating the apple was what got them them kicked out of the Garden of Eden and as a result, the punishment we all face today.

Punishment.

I remember an older woman telling me the reason childbirth is painful today is because of what Eve did.

Some people even joke about having words with Eve because she’s the reason we are all suffering today instead of chilling in the garden of Eden.

So after growing up on all that, forgiving yourself may not be the easiest thing in the world but you have to remember that human beings are deeply flawed. You were created to make mistakes. If the first people made mistakes, why can’t you?

This is your first time at life. Nobody gave you a manual. Nobody gave you a rule book. You’re figuring this thing out yourself so why can’t you give yourself some grace?

As you stand now, I am so sure there are mistakes you made in the past and that you can’t even remember anymore. There were worries that seemed like they were going to consume you that you just don’t remember anymore.

When you sit down and really think about it, you’d realise that beating yourself up for making certain mistakes will not change anything. We are all specks on a floating rock. Let yourself make mistakes. Reflect on them. Get the lessons you’re meant to get out of them and then move on.

Because you are going to make more mistakes.

Maybe one day, you will have a child who will make mistakes and look to you for mercy and grace but if you are unable to give your own self grace, do you think you’ll be able to be kind, patient and graceful with them?

No. Because you cannot give what you don’t have.

So stand in front of the mirror today and say.

I forgive you for your mistakes and will hold you for the ones that you will make in the future.

Because you deserve to be kind to yourself and you deserve to hold the little boy/girl inside you with softness and kindness. They deserve it.

Well, I am off now. To blackmail the guy I am seeing into buying parfait for me.

Take care of yourself.

Love you always,

Hauwa.

The song of the week is Heavy Love by Jacob Banks.

I did survive the week but I woke up this morning in a panic. I was so focused on getting out of this week alive that I completely forgot to write a newsletter.

The way I saw it, I had two options laid out before me.

1. Scratch writing a newsletter this week. Nobody has died because they didn’t get a newsletter.

Or

2. Be vulnerable about a feeling I’ve been too ashamed to address.

I was tempted to go with the former because truly nobody has died because they didn’t get a letter but I knew this was a test from the gods of consistency. I have done this too many times to know that missing this week might seem small but that is what will ultimately lead me to missing next week and before I know it, I have missed a whole month of newsletters.

So I got up because 30% is better than 0%.

Today’s newsletter is not about what happened this week. It is about a feeling I’ve been struggling with for weeks now. It was a feeling of betrayal and something else that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Maybe jealousy?

About a month ago, I shared an idea that I had with a ‘friend’ and I started making plans to make it happen but I was lethargic and slow about it. I would start and then stop. Start again and stop.

A few days ago, I saw that they had executed the plan and not only had they executed it, they executed it well.

You know when they say someone can steal your idea but they cannot execute it as well as you can? That did not apply to this because even I was impressed by how well they executed the idea.

I had to sit with my feelings for a bit and think of why I felt the way that I felt. Does this mean the idea was now theirs? Should I still continue with the idea? I couldn’t do it now because they had made it their own. At best, I would be seen as the person stealing their idea.

I was so mad at myself for ‘slacking’ with the idea because I heard somewhere that God can give you an idea but if you don’t get a move on and do it, He will simply make it happen through someone else.

At that point, I got even madder because wow, God really gave them the idea and the knowledge to execute it flawlessly?

God, do we need to throw hands? I know you will completely finish me but at least I will die trying?

God told me to shut up and sit down with myself for a little bit and I did.

I realised that the reason I was sluggish about that idea was because I wasn’t really convinced about it. If I was, I’d have immediately done it. Instead, I was confiding in people up and down like a confused goat.

It was while doing my cho cho cho that they took it. Who is a fool? Hauwa is a fool.

I spoke to someone and had even started to call myself a failure when they stopped me. They said the thing about creativity is that it never really runs dry. If you stay hung up on it, it is because you genuinely think it is the best idea you will ever have and the truth is - it is not.

Look, I could sit here and moan about that person executing an idea I shared with them or I could open up my laptop and start working on another idea that I have.

Now, I am talking to you - The reason you think another person is doing better than you is because you’re focusing all your productive energy on that person instead of bringing that energy into your own life and goals.

The point of this really short newsletter is that when you are looking at someone and are perhaps jealous of what they have or what they have accomplished, you are losing time on making yourself great.

Don’t focus on another person’s race and forget to run yours.

Now back to the story, I don’t consider that person a ‘friend’ anymore. I don’t hate them of course but if you know me, you know that I only have a few friends and keeping people at a distance is something that comes too naturally to me.

So now, I prefer to deal with them from a distance but I am more than happy to applaud them.

So cheers to living while working on yourself.

This week’s song is Leave Your Lover by Sam Smith

Quick backstory - I used to listen to this song a lot when I was in a relationship with one stupid boy. In that relationship, I was desperately praying someone will come and steal me from them because am I not a hot cake? Omo. Nobody stole me from the relationship o. I was so pissed. You mean nobody is fighting for me? Chai. Hauwa, you don suffer sha.

Anyway, enjoy while I go and find something to eat and toast my crush.

Thank you for always sticking with me.

🤎,

Hauwa.

I’ll explain.

Every month, I splurge on two things: Adaeze’s double choc banana bread and Melonypine’s parfait. Those two things have too much of a chokehold on me. So, at the beginning of every month I order them and this month was not any different.

On Thursday, 2nd of October, I texted my friend asking her if she wanted some banana bread and she said yes, so I ordered an extra loaf. I told her I’d bring it to her house on Friday evening after the gym.

The next day, I was unable to make it to the gym because by the time I was done with work, it was 5pm and I was ridiculously hungry. The last thing on my mind was doing sumo squats on an empty stomach. Na pesin wey dey alive dey get yansh abeg. I just wanted to grab something to eat and go to my friend’s house to drop off the banana bread.

I left my house at 5:15pm to get some fuel because I was already hearing speculations of a scarcity. After the fuel, I went to get some pizza and started the journey to my friend’s house. By that time, it was already almost 6 - peak period of the infamous Lagos Friday rushhour traffic. However, I wasn’t worried because our houses were only separated by a bridge. The Ogudu Bridge.

Where I didn’t know I’d almost die.

Anyone that knows Ogudu bridge knows that it’s one of the worst places to be stuck in rush-hour traffic. The worst part of this traffic is not that it can be standstill, it is that it’s just downright disorderly. Utter chaos. Danfo drivers are trying to bully you off your lane, delivery bikers are popping out of nowhere to force their way through, horns are blaring, cars are bonnets to bumpers, everyone is trying to cut into lanes and yet nobody is really moving.

When I saw the traffic from afar, I knew there was no going back so I simply settled into the chaos. I was in no rush.

I was next to a petrol tanker. This is not a rare sight in Lagos. In normal circumstances, you zoom past it praying that it doesn’t fall on your head and crush you. However today, there was nowhere to zoom to. I was praying to God that the traffic moved so I could move past it when the tanker crashed into another one right in front of it, shattering its lights and then, something more sinister happened. The chamber holding the petrol burst open.

The liquid started to gush out. My arms immediately went cold, clutching the steering wheel. I was stuck in traffic near this leaking petrol tanker. The one in front of it wasn’t leaking but was also carrying some petrol. The traffic was hardly moving. I was stuck in a death trap.

I could get out of my car but how far will I get on foot before the explosion happens? I couldn’t jump down from the bridge because if the impact doesn’t kill me, I’d definitely get hit by oncoming traffic.

Death was staring me in the face and I was too afraid to look back at it.

A spark and everything was over.

I had nowhere to run to.

So I sat in the car.

I’ve thought about how I want to die and this was not on the list.

I called someone so I didn’t have to die alone but they didn’t pick the call. I started thinking of my family. I didn’t even have a will. Yes, I don’t have much in the bank but they should at least get what I have so the bank does not steal it. Fuck. I never even got to get married. Although I know that whoever I marry will still chase me out of the house, I still wanted to taste marriage.

Is this the end?

Surely, this can’t be the end.

I looked at the box of pizza in the passenger seat. Will I die hungry? I had not eaten anything all day. Is this how I will go to my grave on an empty stomach? I will now be stealing food in the afterlife? They will definitely think it is hunger that killed me on earth. Should I quickly bite into one slice of pizza? But is this the right time to be eating?

Fuck it. I threw open the box and took one bite of pizza. The way I saw it, there is nowhere to run to. I might as well enjoy my last moments.

In the middle of this, the cars next to the tanker already knew something sinister was about to happen so the traffic got more chaotic. It was confusion, mayhem and pandemonium. I was chewing as fast as I could while praying to God not to end me like this. People were honking trying to get away from the tanker. I quickly stuffed the remaining hot pizza in my mouth and went along with the chaos. I knew that I had to get as far away as possible but the traffic wasn’t moving fast enough.

It was death.

As someone who has always been curious about life after death, I am constantly questioning if there is indeed life after death. My religion tells me there is but there is a small part of me that believes there’s nothing after death. We just vanish.

I think this part of me wants to believe it so bad because if there is indeed heaven and hell, I don’t think I am going to make it to heaven so oblivion is a much better option.

Stuck in that traffic next to a tanker about to catch fire though, I wasn’t thinking of any stupid oblivion. God please just don’t me die. I am not curious again oooo. ABEG OOOO. I took one more slice of pizza because it was actually really good. I was so glad I told them to add extra cheese.

At that point, in the middle of my chewing, a third tanker behind me was honking and trying to get past. I was wondering if he wanted to climb my car BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW WHERE YOU WANT ME TO GO NOW. SHEY IS IT ME THAT NOW WANTS TO DIE??? JUST BECAUSE I AM EATING DOES NOT MEAN I AM NOT AFRAID PLEASE!

It was when I got to my friend’s house that I finally calmed down. I first slept for like 4 hours.

When I woke up, I thought about the fact that I could have died just because a tanker was being driven recklessly. I live in a country where people are not trained to take something as delicate as driving petrol-filled tankers seriously. Where a life hazard is treated with so much levity. Where disasters are just waiting to happen.

That tanker could have exploded killing hundreds of us and the best we’d get is one day of twitter dragging the government for their incompetence and a tweet from the president (if he is in a good mood) before things go back to normal.

The people that died in the recent fire, the arise news anchor, the people who have died from tankers crushing their cars - all victims of a failing country.

As sleep cleared from my eye, I remembered the boy toasting me from Canada. Let me go and call him big head so we can take our talking stage more seriously and marry by 2026.

I do not have enough money to relocate but through the Lord who strengthens me, I can relocate through marriage by 2026, Insha Allah.

Because no be life we dey live for this country.

Thanks for sticking with me my loves.

Yesterday was not the day I died.

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The song of the week is You Like It, I Love It by Jacob Banks.

Na so I for take die because of banana bread - Is this how I will die because of banana bread?

Na pesin wey dey alive dey get yansh abeg - Big bumbum only benefits the living.

because no be life we dey live for this country - Bascially the quality of our lives in the country is shit.

Danfo - Lagos commercial yellow buses.

ABEG OOOO - Please oooo

I felt the punch in my gut. The kind of punch that causes you to hold your abdomen and almost double over.

That was Darasimi. She works at my management office and was hitching a ride home with me. We were talking about something but we sort of arrived at discussing my newsletter when she said those words.

The younger version of me who started writing these letters almost five years ago would’ve been so disappointed. My first instinct, after hearing Darasimi’s words, was to defend myself and list all the reasons I was not consistent but it didn’t matter. The point was I wasn’t and that was it.

I agreed with her and promised to do better.

She nodded.

During that ride home, I started to think of all the reasons I wasn’t consistent. I used to love writing to you. Why has it become a chore now? I realise that it’s because I’ve started to treat my newsletter like my social media where, to a large extent, I have to perform. I’ve forgotten that this was the one place I didn’t have to crack a joke or try to be funny. This was where I could just… talk.

So to take the pressure off myself, I have decided that every week, I’ll come here and write about an absurd encounter I had during the week. And because I am mildly popular, I’m not going to run out of things to write about because weird things keep happening to me.

A few days ago, it was my experience at the embassy.

Let me tell you now, fame is an exhausting thing to deal with. And worse? Fame without a shit load of money is just hell.

This week, I needed to complete a visa process. I had initially tried to get the visa earlier in the year but I botched the process so this time around, I was bent on doing it right and getting it out of the way. So, I went to the embassy. After queuing outside for a bit, they let us in and as I was walking into the building, Sope (my manager) called to inform me of a meeting we had to take. While I was on that call, an embassy official (who recognised me from social media) waved me over.

She started talking about getting me into the VIP section so I didn’t have to wait outside with the ‘regular’ folks. I wasn’t going to take that offer for three reasons.

1. I hate spending money unnecessarily.

2. I am regular folk

3. See number 1.

I’d been offered this many times at embassies and I’d never taken it. However, this time, because I was on a call with Sope and speaking to the embassy official who was quite persistent, I was disoriented.

1. Sope needed me to join this meeting.

2. The official was telling me I couldn’t take a call in the general area.

3. I couldn’t leave the building either because I had been stamped in.

Before I could make a decision, the official ushered me into the vip section.

What I hate about this entire thing is the vip section was soooo cold and I hate cold so basically, I paying to be uncomfortable? The opposite of what VIP was supposed to represent? Meanwhile, the free waiting area outside was room temperature. The perfect temperature for me.

I was disoriented but I soon settled into VIP and finished my meeting. They took my documents from me and bumped me up (a perk of the vip) so I spent not more than 10 minutes where I may have spent an hour.

Yes, great.

But at what cost?

I had to pay 100k.

100 FUCKING THOUSAND.

FOR WHAT???

My friends reading this are probably rolling their eyes because I complained to everybody who cared to listen. EVERYBODY.

This is why I say fame is rubbish. Or rather, fame without money.

Because tell me why I, Hauwa Lawal, need the VIP section? Am I a politician? Am I Wizkid? Am I in witness protection? Will cameras suddenly come out if I am seen in the general waiting area? I’m so sure there were people in that ‘regular’ waiting area with more money in their bank accounts than I. So who am I deluding?

It’s why I lowkey hate social media fame. It makes people think you’re more than what you really are. I am not looking down on myself, I am simply being realistic. Because after that encounter at the embassy, I went to Bariga market to buy foodstuff.

So who are we kidding?

In the grand scheme of things, I am a regular average person and that is okay. There is nothing wrong with that.

It is the same way I was on a plane, trying to find my seat and a woman next to me said,

“Shouldn’t you be in first class?”

What is wrong with everyone? Can I please live my life and not be pressured into what I am not?

Anyway, back to the embassy, I had to pay the 100k.

I tried to run away from the vip but I couldn’t. They caught me.

So, this is me, mourning the loss of my 100k.

You may think 100k is nothing but ah it pained me o. I think that was a very big waste of money and I promise you, I will never be coerced into anything like this again. I’d rather just take a minute, ground myself and make a decision.

Moral of the story - this small social media fame seems to be deceiving all of us.

My vow to myself - The next person that tries this with me will be collecting a strong knock on the head.

So, that’s what happened to me this week.

Honourable mention - one stupid girl in her foolish benz tried to scratch my toyota at the gym today. She is lucky, it did not scratch my car, she’d have seen madness. Me, that is still angry about my 100k?

Anyway, that’s how my week went. How was yours?

Our song of the week is Gravity by John Mayer.