Years ago, my father said something to me that was a teaching moment.
A former tenant had owed rent for almost three years. Then his light disconnected by NEPA. When they left, he began to tap light illegally. If NEPA came for an inspection, my father would have to pay the bill.
Knowing this, Dad did what was necessary; he called a professional to come and disconnect the light.
While he stood to the side and watched as the electrician did his job, one of the man’s children came outside. On seeing the two men, she lost it.
"You're very wicked!
Stupid man!” she railed. “You’re doing as if you’re God because you’re the landlord. You want us to live in darkness? Wicked man! Bet here, we’ll have our own house one day. If you like, cut the light.”
Fact to note: my father was older than that girl by at least thirty years.
My first reaction was shock. Then anger. I could’ve easily taken her on. But I looked to my father first, to gauge his reaction.
And you know what? He said nothing. Not one peep. He just stood there while the girl kept mouthing off. When the electrician was done, they left.
I was disturbed. Why did this man keep quiet, I wondered. He’d NEVER have permitted such insolence from me or my siblings. Why would he allow that girl speak to him in that manner?
Days passed before I went to my father.
“Daddy, why didn’t you answer her when she insulted you?”
He was quiet for some moments and then he said,
“Because she wasn’t the one talking. Her father was speaking to me through her. There’s a boldness with which a child will speak and you’ll know that one of the parents is not far away.
They were in that house; they heard what she said, yet they did nothing. My response wasn’t meant for her. That’s why I kept quiet.”
From his words, I understood why Christ rebuked Satan even though Peter was the one who spoke.
I understood why the scriptures say that our battles are not against flesh and blood.
This is why when confronted, I carefully consider all sides. I'd rather seek peace and pursue it. Like the Bible instructs, I want to be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to anger.
Years after my earthly father showed me the way, the Lord reiterated this truth to me in a similar circumstance. And I have kept on that path since.
Because I am the daughter of my Fathers.
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When I was about seven years old, I represented my school at an event. As my father dropped me off at the venue, he asked me if the school was bringing me back home.
I said yes, that the school had arranged for a bus to take me home and he didn't need to come back for me.
When the event ended, I couldn't find any of my teachers. The only classmate I found, her parents came for her. Turns out, there was no bus; everyone had left on their own.
Despondent and terrified, I squatted down on the steps of Sacred Heart Cathedral and quietly began to cry.
How was I going to get home? My house was far away. I didn't know the way, being that I was a child who was chauffered everywhere. Why had I not just told my dad to come for me?
As I squatted there crying, I suddenly heard a familiar voice behind me. The voice of my father.
*pushes bedroom door open and stomps inside daughter's room*
"Your mother said she was going for only ten days. It's been four days and she's not yet back. If I talk now, they'll say I'm restricting her freedom."
"Daddy, it's only been four days!"
"Ehen? Four days, ten days, what's the difference? What's she going to do there that she can't finish in four days and come home? Must she stay the whole ten days?"
"Awwwwn...you're missing her."
"Me? Miss who? Mtscheeeww. A woman who has been married for so many years, yet is so comfortable abandoning her matrimonial home for what I don't know."
A few days ago, someone posted that they made okro soup with ₦1200 and there was a furore. A good number of people derided the author and said it wasn't possible. Now, I cannot tell you if it is impossible, but I can tell you about...
Mesuur, who lives in a lungu (ghetto) in one of Abuja's suburbs. She sells buns and occasionally, adds half a crate of Coca Cola to her merchandise. She couldn't make her rent this year and had to solicit for funds.
Her rent is ₦36,000.
A year.
Yes, for ₦3000 a month, she gets to live in a very lowly box that's made mostly of sand, with cement slapped on in patches. The ceiling is made of cartons and cardboard stitched together. Rats run across it and every so often, their droppings fall into her room...
A lady who lives in my friend's compound, lost her husband and his people showed up from the village two days later to collect everything from her.
As they began to harass her to bring the documents for the house, the car keys and cheque books, a neighbour overheard them.
He went and called three other men who were around in the compound and briefed them on what was happening. These men dressed up; one of them, a policeman who was off duty, put o his uniform. Together, they went to her door and knocked.
One of her brothers-in-law opened the door and told them to go away, that they were having a family meeting.
The three men ignored him and barged into the house. They said they were from the bank, that the late man owed millions in debt and they were there to pack his things.
Your name is Joy, and this is how you first learn uncertainty.
It starts when you're seven years old and Uncle Amaasi pulls you onto his lap. You can feel his erection, and even though you're not old enough to know what it is, you're aware enough to be uncomfortable.
The next time he comes to visit, you tell him you don't like him and don't want to sit on his lap. Your parents are surprised; they say you are rude and ask you to apologise to your uncle. They even demand that you sit on his lap to show that your apology came from your heart.
The next time you hear you're rude, is when that grown man toasts you by the roadside, at age thirteen. You don't know how old he is, but you can tell by his beard and prominent muscle tone, that he is far, far older than the boys in your school.
School of Health Technology, somewhere in Sokoto State.
The Lecturer 1 hands over a list to the new Lecturer 2 who will be teaching Global Health and Health Promotion to the school's 300 Level students. The list has the names the 409 students she'll be teaching.
She walks into the class, greets and introduces herself. Then she writes UNICEF and WHO on the board and asks for the meanings of these acronyms. Her question is met with blank stares and head shakes. She repeats the question. The reactions are the same as before. She's stunned.
One of the students raises his hand.
"Malama," he says, "I will interpret. They don't hear you. Ba turenci."
He become her de facto interpreter and course rep, translating her English to Hausa. But his English leaves much to be desired. There are many words he can't interpret.