YOUNG CHILD, ADULT BODY

Ever seen someone on the street and you wondered if it was a kid or an adult? Sure, you must have noticed that once or twice especially in this new millennium. So was my fate a few weeks back. It was my sister’s birthday and we and a few friends were having celebratory drinks at a pool side spot somewhere in the FCT.

When we got seated, my sister spotted a man/boy in the pool, playing with some much younger looking kids and pointed him out. At first glance we all thought he was their young uncle teaching them to swim but on closer look we began to question that. A friend said, “I think he’s a child”, but I didn’t seem to believe that, so I countered. We began to anticipate that the object of our argument will come out of the pool so we can put the matter of his age to rest. 

We waited for what seemed like an eternity before the 150 pound young man waddled out of the water. Lo and behold, his face said it all; he couldn’t have been more than 10 years old. With lips agape, we watched as his mother strolled over to wrap him in a towel and take him back to the lounge seats which all manner of food arrayed beside it. 

On a good day even the stoniest of us would laugh uncontrollably but on that day even the most sanguine couldn’t bear to laugh. I could read worry, bewilderment, exasperation etched on everyone’s face. No it wasn’t funny, we felt terrible for that young man, sorry young child.  

We sat speechless for a little while before anyone could say something. I broke the silence by opining that the boy’s mother should be arrested for negligence and all seemed to acquiesce. I want you to understand that it isn’t the case of a well-fed baby or one with chubby genes but this was an overweight, over fed, obese child. He could barely walk straight and he towered over all the kids who were his mates like a goliath. 

I was so angry with his mother that I felt like walking over to her and giving her a smack on the face. But then again abhorring violence, I decided I would pen down my frustration as is the only way I know best to express myself.

I know in time past, children hated eating and seeing that it may make them prone to anorexia, the parents had to force them to eat. And I accept it only if they are forced to eat healthy foods in healthy rations.But I remember stories of a few parents who would heap the plates of their children with an insane amount of food and force them cane-in-hand to eat every last portion. In their rather unexposed minds, they probably thought they were doing the right thing, but that is what has heralded this obesity epidemic in Nigeria today.

 

Forgive me for being presumptuous but I think this the attitude of the Nouveau Riche. A well exposed and vastly read person knows beyond doubt the right way to feed a child. However, I find that those who newly arrive into wealth from a close minded background think the best way to pamper a child is to glut him. I am no health expert, but I do know that a treat is good every now so far as one does not allow junk food and large quantities of food become their child’s daily ration.

Even schools aren’t helping, especially the so-called top tier primary and secondary schools. Though, I am wont to argue a point in their favor that most times parents only agree to enroll their kids in such schools because of the promise of the feeding included in the curricular. 

I know two 13 year olds that are so physically different that if you do not look close enough, you would think one was the mother of the other. Where one from a moderate, financial family looks every inch her age, the other, from a wealthier family looks way older. I don’t mean to be cruel, but she could pass for 30 years old. No doubt there is a fat gene somewhere in the mix, but I can assure you it is mere food that has made her so. 

Growing up I had some friends who had come from the US to vacation in Nigeria. I remember being surprised by how much bigger than us they were. My mother who was a Food and Nutrition specialist would always say it was the junk American kids ate that made them so big. We scoffed her back then, but now 15 years later I am a believer. 

This chubby 13 year old consumes half a pack of sausage as a snack, not even a meal! And when you question her mother, she will say in her defense, “Hmm, leave her oo, that is how she and her brother use to eat”. These kids are fed ice cream, fries, and burgers at lunch time in school. Common parents! Agreed, a kid doesn’t always know what is right so doesn’t know when to say no, but parents should know better. And none of these parents want to hear you call their child fat. While i understand that mothers do not want their children criticized, I wonder this; shouldn’t your kid’s weight be your concern? You have to put such personal feelings aside and help your kids by feeding them healthy, home cooked meals in appropriate portions.

 You can guess my surprise when I meet women at malls with their chubby kids trailing behind. They hit the ice cream café and burger and fried chicken sections first, and then go in search of “organic” potatoes, beef, chicken and the likes. I bet the joke is on them. 

 
My worry isn’t only limited to the health implications of over feeding a child, like lifelong repercussions such as diabetes and heart disease but also the social stigma. Growing up, calling a child “fattie” was the cruelest and meanest form of bullying. I am curious, isn’t that still the case today? At least back then, suicidal thoughts among teens and pre-teens was a rarity. However, today, with the proliferation of western media and with it the negative adaptation of disturbing behaviours, parents really need to watch out.

Growing up too fast robs kids of their childhood. I know a 14 year old kid who is so much bigger than her contemporaries that she now befriends 18/19 year old girls in tertiary institutions whose interests cannot be same with hers. While hers should only cover experimenting with make-up, and such mundane things, she could get sucked into theirs which mainly revolves around boys. 

It is bad enough that this computer age has stolen the appreciation of fat burning field games such as “Ten Ten and Suwe”, replacing them with computer games. Forgetting that with it brings an increase in the number of couch potato kids, leaving the matter of health entirely now on a kids diet.

So, that kid you love and so you think the best way to show affection is by shoving food down his throat, could be the victim of jesting, bullying and fagging in school and may be contemplating suicide. If you already have a kid who is threateningly close to obesity, you had better make them hit the gym as soon as possible while you also significantly cut down their food rations. If you have a healthy kid, well done, keep up the good work. You are the change Nigeria needs.

HELLO LOVER, BYE FRIEND!

For those of you who think only breakups of the romantic kind is heartbreaking, sorry to burst your bubble, but a more hurtful one is the one between friends. I could never claim to be best at friendships, relationships and the like ‘cause I have had my own fair share of heartbreaks, falling outs and maybe a mild case of ego-centrism. However, one thing I have learned over the years is that the value of good friendship is inestimable. This is a very touchy subject to me and although I had battled with myself over whether or not to share, my vivacious alter-ego has won the battle. So here’s to making public, private conversations ****

It was Sunday evening, the most hated time of the week (only second to Monday morning of course), with anger towards everything in general over the impending end of the weekend.  I had just left the swimming pool and a friend and I drove to our favorite suya spot and ordered some chicken delight to take away the impending gloom that the thought of Monday brings. While we joked, chatted about boys, shared a gossip or two, my phone rang.

I pick it up with a smile as I recognized the caller and turned the phone screen to show my other friend the caller ID. Aah, it’s our very good friend, the one who cracks me up so bad; maybe I should invite her to come join us.

“Y’hello sweetie”, I crooned. She responded, “Hello Jay, what’s up?” Hmmm, such a curt retort I thought, but dismissed it ‘cause it might well be that she’s just woken from sleep or something. “I dey oo” I replied. “How you doing?” I asked her. She responded “I dey alright”. From her responses I should have guessed that something was amiss, but I was on a roll and couldn’t let anything dampen it. But her next words roused me from my high. “Babes, you know what?” she asked, “No, what’s popping?” I replied, and then she goes, “Boyfriend and I are having a misunderstanding and he is giving me an ultimatum that I should no longer be friends with you”.

Oh man, I did not see that coming. If she had said she had cancer it wouldn’t have surprised me more than what she had said. “Errhh…” I tried to respond, but my words failed me. She plunged on, “You know I want to marry him and I can’t let anything scatter the relationship at a point like this, I hope you understand”. At that point I began laughing, I thought it was the biggest joke of the century and I told her “ok ma, whatever makes you happy”. Even as I said so, I expected she would burst out laughing too and tell me it’s a joke. But that didn’t happen and we said goodbye.

When I hung up, my friend who was with me asked why the change in my countenance and I recounted to her the most bizarre conversation I had just had.

This was totally unprecedented, we had just had lunch a week before and nothing seemed off with our friendship. If anything, I was sure we were in a very good place. We were daydreaming and planning her wedding and I had assured her of how I would gladly travel across the world to attend hers when this guy she is seeing does propose.

I am a loyal and moral friend, if I do say so myself. So what could possibly have heralded such decision from ‘Boyfriend’? It definitely could not be that he had heard something foul about me, we aren’t close like that. It most definitely could not be that he sees me as a bad influence; if anything I am a rookie where my friend is concerned.

Even though I had heard stories of men who dictate the people they want to be around their woman, I had thought it farfetched and unbelievable. That day, I received first-hand the lesson that when a woman begins to get serious with a guy, she jettisons her friends. Yes I got my first non-boy-related heartbreak. 

And now, let me assert that I am not an Avant (stoic) feminist. I do like men and I believe they are vital to every woman's well-being -physical and otherwise, as well as to the growth of society. But my biggest believe is sisterhood.

 I can't see how we expect men to respect us women and see us as equals, when we don't even seem to respect one another.
There's so much strife, comparison, and the "I am better than her", "I owe her no apology" attitude which honestly, i find petty and heartbreaking.

So yes, I admit, I am heartbroken, because I had always believed in 'sisters over lovers'. Not in the literal sense of it, but figuratively - that your friends are essential to you just as your lover/significant other is. Studies all over have shown that for a relationship to remain healthy and to thrive, a couple need friends. Both the ones they share together and individual personal friends. This helps keep balance between them.

For days after that bizarre conversation I expected her to call me back and say it was a joke. As days turned into weeks, I gave up on the joke, but I began to expect her to text to explain the situation that led up to that phone call, she owed me that at least. But alas, nothing happened. So I totally gave up. But some days, at odd times, the thought sneaks up on me, and i am still perplexed by her and her obvious disregard of our friendship.

I believe that the now ex-friend should have stood up to her man or at least pretended to acquiesce his demand. If she couldn’t do that, she should have let time and distance make the friendship fade naturally between us instead of placing that call. In fact, the only time I should have heard of that discussion should have been years later, when we are old and grey and laughing over it... But then again, "different strokes for different folks". As cliched as that sounds, i've found it to be true.

MY FATHER’S DAUGHTER

“Kai, don’t hold your little sister without washing your hands first”. Those, I was told were my father’s command to my elder siblings whenever they attempted carrying me as an infant. My mother would say, my father raved about how much of a beauty I was when he looked at me swathed in my baby blanket in the delivery room. I was light skinned and so he believed I was his oyinbo child and so didn’t want me to become black due to too many dirty hands carrying me.

It was love at first sight. The eternal love of a father for his daughter. I was his jewel, the one child who was an exact replica of him. With a long, aquiline and dignified nose, you could say similar to a Caesar’s. Our bond was enviable, I was the delicate beauty who took after his physical features and whom he carried everywhere with chest puffed up. 

My earliest memories of him was he in his white boxer shorts with me being carried on his shoulders. Sometimes, he fed me sugarcane which he had peeled and diced into small cubes to make it easy for me to chew on. 

He had a constant smile on his face and almost always wore his “Abacha” rimmed glasses; to conceal an eye infection I later learnt, but to me he was the perfect man-god. I was a completion to the family, he wanted no more kids, hence the translation to my name “Misurinum”. Which Stands for ‘I am satisfied Lord’. Much to the chagrin of his mother, (my grandmother) who was hoping for a litter of young ‘uns. 

Growing up, I was unabashedly a Daddy’s girl and my mother always says we were inseparable, but that’s not hard to believe as we were identical, in features and in manner. And many years later my mother would say, in brains also. I faintly remember my favorite nap position was to lie on his bare tummy. And my mother always told a rather embarrassing story of how I once sucked my father’s navel in quest of breast milk. 

With the tender love he had for me, he was still a disciplinarian and my biggest fear was being reported to him for having done something bad. Though he was rarely home, (as he worked in a different town), every time he was to visit, the house was thrown into a frenzy of feast and festivity. 

This was all well over 20 years ago. He lived a short life and passed on before his fortieth birthday. But I still remember him fondly whenever I look myself in the mirror and mimic his flawless pearly toothy grin. More so today, as Nigeria celebrates Father’s Day. Rest on Papito.

My greatest pride and joy however is the person who resumed the role of father, mother, disciplinarian, care taker, bread winner, family head and spiritual guide – My mother. A strong and resilient woman who lost her husband in her 30’s, never remarried and who has single handedly brought up four children for the past 20 years. Even though the eldest was barely 10 years old when Daddy died. Big ups mother. You always put up with my errant self. You are one in a million and the apple of my eye. My earthly god. I Love you.

Happy Father’s Day to all good and responsible fathers. And importantly, Happy Father’s Day to my mother and all the single mothers out there who are both mothers and fathers! God bless you all.

I AM MY HAIR

Dedicated to the memory of Maya Angelou - Poet, Educator, Author, Human rights activist. 

Dear India Arie, sorry to differ with your analogy that we aren’t our hairs, but the soul that lives within. Fact is, we are both our hair, and our souls. I am a Black African and I have a black, wooly, dense hair, so does that mean my hair isn’t an extension of my race and personality? Or is it possible to be 100% white Caucasian and then have the wooly hair of an African? 

I understand the concept of the song as being an enunciation of one's belief that how we carry our hair isn’t who we are made of psychologically, emotionally, and intellectually and that is most admirable if only it was so for everyone. But more often than not, Africans, African-Americans and African-British are disenchanted with their hair. 

We are quick to celebrate and claim kinship with the likes of Lupita Nyong'o, and super models like Grace Jones, Alek Wek for their brazen courage of flaunting their “Africanness” and or Blackness in the way they carry their hair. However, most of us wouldn’t be caught dead carrying ours like that. We associate beauty only with long, straight, wavy, curly lax hairs of the Americas, Bohemia and Asia.

And India Arie a picture of a strong black woman croons “I am not my hair… I am the soul that lives within”, seriously? Doesn't that scream of self-consciousness and low esteem? That you have to explain to anyone that you aren't your hair, sounds as though you are apologizing to some superior being for who you are, and just teeming of insecurity.  

You know, our tough black hair is an extension of our physical and psychological toughness. I believe there isn't a woman as strong as a black woman. So it pains me that today many women in Nigeria now only rate a person’s importance and status by the quality of weave that they fix. The longer or curlier or straighter the better. A large number of us are getting dumber and more snobbish by the day. Basking in the luxuriant feel of foreign hair and forgetting that the one we were born with is equally beautiful. As God is a God of variety, this makes me wonder. Why it is hard for us to believe that Black is very much as beautiful as white if not more so?

In fact, in time past, my friends and I were guilty of this. Anytime we had to carry our natural hairs we refer to that as our ‘bad hair day’ using the dogma “I am not my hair”. What’s more ironic than that? A bad hair day is when you forget to wash, comb, and pack or style your hair neatly not when we have to carry our natural hair in public.

It is true that the African hair is stubborn and hard to comb. But that doesn’t mean that when you manage to tame it it wouldn’t come out beautifully. Africans are blessed with a scalp that will make most hair styles look gorgeous. You can rock the low cut or corn rows weaving, the Afro and even go brazen and rock the close to skin cut. Because neat and well styled almost always does the trick.
 

Let’s see our own hair as a reflection of the sexy, empowered, black woman that we are. Wear your black hair proudly, you owe it to your race.

As in the words of one amazing, strong and markedly black woman “I am a woman phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, that’s me”.

Rest on Maya..