It was a sunny day at the beginning of the semester, those days that you felt like a walking sausage heated under some earth-sized oven. A very hungry (and probably angry and also depressed) student strolled into the Student Centre in a hunt for food. The first restaurant to her left was Barhak, and she believed it was opened for the first time that semester. Amina had recommended them during registration. She had often taken a long look at their closed double-doors each time she passed by, wondering what they could be selling there that could satisfy her.
When she walked into the place for the first time, something was odd. Something only her probably had an eye for, but could not point out. It was there. She looked around again, young men sitting around and talking about freshers and looking away when they caught her less-than-lukewarm gaze. The stereo seemed to hiccup, playing hip-hop and then stopping abruptly, then playing again. Her chin barely touched the counter as she ordered. She was short.
At first, she thought it was her small form that made people awkwardly gaze at her while she ate her rice and salad, turning to face the wall so she couldn’t be viewed properly. It was either she ate there, or ate at the hostel, and you can imagine what will happen if she chose the latter and came across half a dozen of roommates tired from lectures. She punctuated her eating by stopping to glare at those who dared to look at her.
How wrong she was. She was not watched because she was small but because she committed to a taboo. She was at the wrong place in Barhak. She was supposed to behave like girls at her polar end. She did not “deserve” to sit on a table and eat in a restaurant like a “man”, much less to share the same table with men. In a university! Hmmm, interesting.
Now, a couple of months later, the strangeness was still there. She still did not know why she was stared at. So she started returning to the hostel to eat after taking her order. But people did not cease staring, something that was surprising, considering the fact that she was one of Barhak’s consistent customers. It wasn’t until one evening, after a tiring lecture, she and her friend, Aisha, went there to eat. Only that when she began to head towards the entrance, Aisha dragged her towards the inner end of the restaurant, by the kitchen.
You can imagine her surprise when she saw ladies seated there, on an old squeaky bench, and seeming undisturbed by being corned to this end. They talked and laughed as they ate. She was beyond angry. How could they easily accept such a low place in life? Being an aspiring writer, her eyes instinctively looked around in search of something she could turn into a placard, scribble some words on it and to start a campaign against female oppression.
Look at their faces, these girls are happy with the arrangement. You will seem deranged… a part of her mind, which probably didn’t care about female rights, whispered. It made her heart ache. They were worthy of so much more, but they chose to settle for something little. The fact is that women are their own oppressors.
Whenever she began to talk about gender equity to some people, they usually tried to shut her up with: “But then women are materialistic! They are no saints. They spend our money and leave us dry.” And she would come back asking, “Did she pry the money from your fingers? You gave her the money on your own: she didn’t rob you of it. You are under no obligation to feed some stranger you met at school or workplace. But if you have, the same reason that made you give her your money in private should be enough to shut you up. Please.”
She was once about to pay for a photocopy at a business centre, when a male classmate said, “Don’t bother, women always want their expenses paid for.” That was a blow. “Well, you just insulted my father! Do you know how hard he works to make sure I have everything? Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t need money from strangers.”
She counted herself lucky in the “Parent Department.” They were the average family, but hardly lacked anything they needed – their wants always met, though father rarely got lost providing for too much wants. Sure, while growing up in the countryside, they were the only children in their neighbourhood with bicycles, and narrow pavements all around the house specifically designed for them to ride on. They were the only ones often taken to Yankari Game Reserve to swim all day during the holidays. They go to nearby rivers in their LandRover to build up sand wells and castles. They had the usual toys too before they outgrew them.
She was indeed one of the luckiest. She still is. And now, years later, her father provided as much as he did back when they were children. Maybe that was why the girls that waited for young men to bring Ramadan gifts to them, or even accepted pocket money from young men, revolted her. But sadly, it happened.
Her father then gave her another gift that was rarely given to young girls. He told his girls to believe in themselves. He would repeat it, “Don’t expect to be catered for. Anything can happen.” By anything, he meant that the rich husband was mortal, he could die and leave you behind. He also meant that the young man you got happily married to was human. His attention could be diverted to another woman faster than you could say “happily ever after.” It was as if she was the character in his famous essay, The Life of My Daughter.
That was how she was brought up. Her father fed her dreams as much as he fed her. He always put the possibility of earning in the future before them. He would then sit back after all that and watch her either build on that or do what she felt was right. But the silent lesson always lingered there, unsaid, but heard.
She believed that the dignity of the girl child all boiled down to the parents, what they gave – the lessons, the possibilities, the dreams. That was what would balance humanity and restore her dignity. Like other values, realised that independence was derived from the fountain of her individuality which must be inculcated at childhood through both training and provision.
