SO I DON’T WANT TO HAVE KIDS! DOES THAT MAKE ME A HORRIBLE PERSON?

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   For girls like me Rebellion was not an act, it was a necessity. It was Reflex, like the air I breathe.

Rebellion for me was never with the mediocre things like late night parties or leaving the house in a mini skirt. I always thought bigger, wider, life changing…

I was sure that like many other girls from my side of the country, my fate was sealed.

School – Graduation – NYSC/Find a husband- get married and begin procreation 9 months from the night of the wedding.

And then settle into the life of the dutiful Igbo wife. Breastfeeding baby, Making Oha Soup, Making Egusi, Abacha, Jollof rice on Sundays.

Plus conjugal duties, plus that miserable civil service job you had to take so that you could be able to pick up the kids & spend time with them, since Oga closes work at 8pm.

There is absolutely wrong with that life, I just vehemently refused to let it become by reality. I wanted more.

My first major act of rebellion was my decision not to have children. For me, it was natural. As I got older, I realized that my maternal instincts were never going to kick in, because they were never there to start with.

I am a smart, beautiful, almost successful; tax paying, upright Nigerian Woman. But all of that is forgotten the moment I say I do not want kids. The day I let it slip from my lips, during an afternoon of drinks with my girlfriends, you needed to have seen the way they looked at me. In that moment, I might as well have been Adolf Hitler or Osama Bin Laden.

How dare I decide I don’t want what thousands are begging God for daily? How dare I defy God, when he commanded that we be fruitful and multiply?

These are some of the questions I was confronted with.

I learned that it is easier to lie to the world, including yourself, rather than face the unpopular truth. Maybe it is my societal or religious duty to procreate, I get that. But I’m not sure if I want to have kids. Slaughter me!

You can imagine how unpopular my view is, in a climate such as Nigeria, where being pregnant is the equivalent of getting a degree from Oxbridge. You are announced, celebrated, congratulated. Your parents are proud and of course your spouse is beyond elated. He is truly a man.

But what about you?

Are you truly happy or are you simply reflecting what society has demanded that you feel?

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21st century mommies, the Instagram mommies, the super mommies; have made child bearing & Child rearing, Glam!

Photos upon photos of perfectly orchestrated 1st birthdays, 1st steps, adorable smiles, taking baby to swimming lessons and French school, while still looking on fleek and maintaining a top notch career.

Then there’s the social media frenzy known as #TeamSnapBack😳 What post baby weight? The silent struggle to be the thinnest possible version of yourself, as quickly as possible after childbirth.

In my humble opinion, Babies are cute when they are someone else’s, only.

You spend a fuss free hour with them and gaze and aww at their curly hair and tender skin. Pick up your bag and head to your baby free apartment. The End.

What happens to the woman who is stuck with the baby 24/7?

Who is the poster child for sleep deprivation? Constantly bathing and feeding. Constantly trying to figure out why baby is crying. Dirty diapers, spit up, child care etc.

Forget Hollywood; but the price your body pays for having a child, physically and psychologically is unbelievable. Despite all the body magic and hours in the gym, does any one actually get their pre-baby back 100%?

Puberty has left me with enough stretch marks; Thank you very much. Who needs more?

Call me vain, but these things matter to me at least. Let us not even talk about ‘downstairs’. Does it ever stay the same? What is the effect on your relationship with Oga; the one with whom you started? Does your love and attention move from him to the baby? What happens to your chemistry?

Does it get stronger or is it a constant race to get away from the house & away from baby’s screams?

What about the physical? Does that fly out the window? Since you have made the transition from gorgeous girlfriend & wife to Mama Bomboy.

What about the physical act of child birth. For some it is ‘miraculous’; for some it is ‘quick’ and virtually painless (as if); but what happens to the other 50% who don’t have a ball, for whom is a struggle between life and death. But are expected to make at least 3 more trips to the labour room.

And who even talks about Post Partum depression? It is very much real.

Questions to which I have received, frankly unsatisfactory answers.It is a constant game of giving and giving and giving.

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Then they attain the age of walking a.k.a the age of breaking shit. Oh, then there’s tuition. It goes up with every year and every new class.

Is the price really worth it in the end? Is everybody meant to be a mother?

I Like peace, quiet, tranquility, order, glass, a good night’s sleep, a healthy bank account, a great body (without living in the gym) all of which I don’t see happening for me in baby-ville. I do love kids, ironically. I can actually stand them, for about 3 hours max. Until they get restless and get into tantrum throwing mode. And I just want to drop them back into their mother’s waiting arms.

I have made peace with my reality. The potential emptiness of living alone with my partner, till death do us part. The echo of our laughter, as it slithers through our half empty house. The struggle of even finding a partner in this part of the world who shares my view & will be willing to commit to it long term.

For the mothers who love motherhood, who revel in it, like my mother & many other mothers I know, I salute you. Your work is not easy. You are a superstar. You are extraordinary. I am glad my mother chose to be a mother.

As for the rest of us who refuse to bow to societal pressure, please let us be. If we have made peace with our choice and our reality, the rest of the world needs to make peace with it too. Doting mothers, doting aunties, nosy relatives, nosy friends; yes you; make peace with it.

Stop trying to convince us that our maternal instincts will kick in once the baby is here. What if it doesn’t kick in? Then what? Is it a toy that you can return?

There are so many beautiful children in this world already, whom I can shower with love & affection. Do I really need to have any of my own?

LOVE,

YELLOWIBOGIRL

BUHARI: A POTENTIAL TALE OF SHATTERED HOPES & BROKEN EXPECTATIONS.

  Let me start by saying that i am very much a pessimist. I am not here to mince words or cater to popular opinion.

This is purely my own view!!!

   History has proven that being an optimist might be too much for the Nigerian climate; so a pessimist i remain.

  This post would’ve been more aptly titled, the ADAMS OSHIOMHOLE EFFECT. I grew up to images of adams oshiomhole as NLC  president; placard carrying; trouble brewing adams.

Once there was fuel scarcity, he was out to battle. Once there was at least an event of unpaid salaries, he was out to fight. 

  He led strikes and demonstrations against fuel price increases; he negotiated increases in wages.

It was an ongoing battle between the government of the day, and Oshiomhole.   

  Oshiomhole was our man. Lord knows if i was from Edo state when he came out for governor, i would have gone out to queue under the hot sun, to vote for him. 

    He had indeed proven himself to be flawless leadership material. 

Under his government, Surely, the taps in Edo state would flow with milk once turned on. Surely every civil servant was going to be paid 1 million naira every month. Surely Edo would have been so transformed, that Nigeria might contemplate making it the capital city. 

  BUT ALAS; EDO state is not a nightmare; but it is definitely not a dream.   Alas EDO workers still have unpaid salaries, and go on strike to ensure that they are paid. ALAS; the proverbial Moses appears to have never made it to the promised land. 

  This right here; is what i like to call the Oshiomhole effect; Riding on a train of high dreams and high expectations; with a potentially huge crash in the not too distant future. 

  This is not an attempt at bashing  Adams Oshiomhole, rather it is an attempt at pointing to the fact that “Only he who wears the shoe, knows where it truly pinches”. 

  Until you become president of this nation; you do not know for sure what that position entails and what you will do with it; whether you believe it or not. 

What is the connection, between GMB & Sir Adams you might ask?

 

    Buhari won; reoccurring history was defeated and the nation rejoiced. It reminded me of the night that Sani Abacha died. Nigeria was agog with merriment; indeed democracy had won and we had voted our messiah into office.

  But before we pop those bottles of champagne and prepare our drums for the party; let us be patient and watch.

There is nothing to celebrate; until MAY 29. 

  Releasing impressive statement after statement, does not a good president make. And at the rate that we as Nigerians are going, Buhari is about to fall victim to the Oshiomhole effect. 

 I have read blogposts and interviews and articles upon articles, regarding what we expect of Buhari’s government. 

 And Honestly; come on. Na so e dey happen. Is it an overnight something?

   There are 36 states in this nation; with a population spanning, well over 100 million people; with the inherited problems like BOKO HARAM, CHIBOK GIRLS, POWER ISSUES, CORRUPTION, INSECURITY, THE DWINDLING VALUE OF THE CRUDE OIL on which our economy firmly rests; all of which are supposed to be dropped on the shoulders of a 72 year old; LOL.

   Nigerians need to adjust their expectations accordingly. 

Buhari is not going to perform magic. Buhari’s first act of office will not be to walk into whatever forest the Chibok girls are in and fish them out; 

APC does not have a miraculous broom, to sweep out corruption in one day. These things we want will take time.

 IT TOOK US 55 years to arrive in this hot mess. Every thing that we are facing as a nation, is a collective effort of 55 years of disappointments and bad leadership; and it sure as hell will not take 8 years, to turn Nigeria into the photocopy of America, we believe Buhari will deliver overnight. 

  Lasting Change has never been achieved overnight. We have taken the first step towards change, by changing the leadership of this nation; what we need to do now is make REALISTIC demands of our government, expect them to deliver and then pray for Nigeria. To avoid the Oshiomhole effect. Remember: 

“Na the new wife soup, Dey sweet pass”

   Only time will truly tell where the fate of our nation lies. So can we drop the drums already, there is no reason for them. YET.

YellowIgboGirl

LONGING TO DIE….

Have you ever wanted to die?
Voluntarily, on purpose, quietly, silently, without being disturbed or stopped.

Life in itself is fascinating, the concept of breathing and moving and the soul we know dwells within.
But even more fascinating than life, is death. Human beings are wired to chase the unknown. Science has broken down childbirth and life and the human anatomy.

But not death. Or rather, what happens after it.

As the world evolves, expectations soar, and the need to succeed exceeds our need to be happy;suicide rate soars in the western world.


Things get tough; and suddenly a certain, irreversible end, becomes a means of escape.
Everything stops; no expectations, no deadlines, no fear, no anger; just floating, quiet, bliss.
Escape.
The big question, is what exactly are you escaping to?
Every faith has it’s own theory, on the after life. But Christuans take the cake. Paradise or hot steaming pit of fire.Really that simple.
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But can you really tell for sure?
Only those who have left this world, understand the dynamics of the afterlife. Only them know for sure, what fate lies ahead of us after life.
So,Why in the hell, would you want to leave what you know, to an uncertain end. That for all you know, could be your body stuck in a dark 6ft deep hole, for eternity.

Depression is real. In this part of the world, Nigeria to be precise, we do not consider it to be real.
Like eating disorders and even some allergies, we classify them as white people problems. Not real.
The average Nigerian is an angry person. If you are Nigerian, somewhere between traffic and our sketchy politics and the job situation, you will find a reason to be angry


Most of us use religion as a means of escape. For the rest if us, religion is not enough. We hide our depression and general dissatisfaction with life, for fear of not being taken seriously.

And then one night: you cannot take it anymore and find yourself popping all the pills on your dresser, to escape a mental state that could’ve been helped.

Within our families and our circle of friends; let us pay attention to people.
Prayer is the key; but so is Love and attention and understanding.
Depression is as real for the black person, as it is for the white person. It is not a joke, it is a cry for help and love.
YellowIboGirl

Diary Of An Ex-Natural 4c Nigerian Girl. #TheRelaxerChronicles

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Dear Diary,
Today marks the end of an era. The end of 2 years of my life. 2 whole years of curl patterns and curl definition and the t.w.a; and then the conditioner; then the twist out (never worked on my 4c hair), the braid out (never worked too), the Afro puff ( my default setting), broken combs and broken expectations;comments that were hot enough to set a house on fire.

And Boom, it is all over. Just like that.
I fought the good fight, and one would’ve thought that I would’ve had a more dramatic ending to a natural hair journey that lasted 2 years.But No.

It all started that fateful Saturday morning. Heart in my hand; I knew I could no longer do this natural dance anymore. Everytime i ran a comb through my hair; it was like all my new growth followed the comb. And i was back to square one. The hassle just wasn’t worth it anymore.

I admit i had no deep reason for going natural. i wasn’t re-affirming my blackness or rebelling against this new generation of black female’s aversion for anything straight and silky.
I was just curious to know and feel the undiluted texture of my hair.

And then there were all these girls on youtube, dropping tutorial after tutorial, convincing me that my hair could look like theirs, once i dropped my relaxer tub. I dropped my relaxer tub & ohh, They Lied.

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Beside the brief mass of 3b curls at the back of my head, i was left with hard, hard to manage coarse,kinky,4c hair; that just wouldn’t budge. No matter how much conditioner i poured into it.

There were no rows and rows of silky curls piled on my head; my wash n go’s were a constant fail. And i found myself constantly protective styling my hair, to retain the slightest length.

So i never actually got to enjoy the hair; for fear that it would break if exposed too much. Lord knows how many tubs of eco styler gel, i had to go through, before i finally accepted that my hair would never curl like youtube girl’s hair; or how much heat i had to put my hair through, to make it presentable.

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And then the humidity.
The Nigerian weather; extreme heat & extreme humidity does not encourage natural hair.

Neither do the comments from mothers & aunties & passers by & hair stylists; who are convinced that your hair is rough, or you look unkempt, or you’re trying to grow dada (dreads), or your face looks hard and non feminine.

*If you spend the whole of your natural hair journey under wigs and braids, what is really the point?

*Are you actually natural?

*When do you really get to rock all that length you’ve been carefully retaining, besides the day you loosen your braids; and make your new set, 3 days later?

*Or are you waiting to arrive at ass length first, before rocking your hair out in public?
These are the questions that bordered on my mind; as i made my final decision.

If I could stop myself from falling for the creamy crack at that point; my imagination was drowned in images of silky, well blended weaves (who needs a closure anymore) and an even silkier bun.
And I picked up my texturiser kit and set out of for the salon.

10 minutes, 15 minutes of this almighty texturiser sitting on my scalp, And there was no sign of my inner Beyoncé leaping out. My hair just stayed there; a slightly curlier; looser version of it’s former self.
And so I left the salon; technically, still natural.
LOL

My hair was determined to put up a fight.

By my next salon appointment; I knew my texturiser would not do; and so; I finally killed my guilt and bought it; Yes; A relaxer.
As this potion was slapped against my scalp; I couldn’t help but feel like a sell out, to the kingdom of natural hair, which I had promoted endlessly.

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And Voila, my kinks were stretched and stretched and finally straightened. I have to admit, my initial instinct was panic. Lol
Maybe it didn’t occur to me, that you cannot unrelax; already relaxed hair.

After the panic, came acceptance; and finally joy. I will say what I am not allowed to say, I love love love my hair relaxed.

I do not want to get into the science of it; we have all seen Chris Rock’s ‘good hair’, and we all know what is really in a tub of relaxer; bla bla bla;
But The ease of care is just mind blowing. I do not remember the days of spending hours in front of the mirror to get a decent style fondly.
And who knew I had all this length :O

And my edges; I am eternally grateful to my relaxer for my laid ass edges. Not the laid from 9am-11am kind. They actually behave all day long.

And then my length retention is mental. I remember the good old days of all my new growth; following my comb.

Do I miss being natural? Hell yeah. My hair products and potions will always be a constant reminder of my natural journey. I miss my texture; every other day.

Will I be going back to natural? Honestly, I really doubt it.

What have I learnt?
*think long and hard before you decide to relax your natural hair. You cannot unrelax it

*if you’re going natural expecting to look like all the curly girls on youtube, LOL, you might just be disappointed

*nobody’s opinion should matter before yours

*every texture is beautiful; some are just harder to work with than others, lets be honest. Even on social media, and the internet in general, when natural hair is being promoted, they tend to stick to images of women who fall into the type 3 category. Until you have had 4c hair on your scalp, do not sit down with your beautiful mass of 3b, get up and go curls, and tell me why RELAXER is the devil & i have to be natural. Girl, bye.

*natural is definitely harder than relaxed and far more expensive.conditioner is not cheap,neither are all those ‘butter cremes’ (i honestly thought it would be cheaper)

*you need a hell of a lot of patience,time and product to handle your hair; if you have hair that is anything like mine

*product junkeism is real; you do not need every product marketed on youtube or your favorite blog. find what works for your hair and stick with it. I would’ve saved tons of money, if someone had told me this early

*you still need to take care of your relaxed hair for it to thrive. Relaxer will not make your hair problems disappear, if you do not take care of the hair. I still care for my hair properly and i intend to have a healthy relaxed hair journey.

*Being natural is not for everyone. quote me anywhere. It took me two years to realize that in the end, it is your hair. cut it, style it, blow dry it, relax it, let it grow natural, straighten it, whatever works for you;

IT REALLY IS JUST THAT…HAIR…A REALLY SMALL PART OF THE AMAZINGNESS THAT MAKES YOU THE WOMAN YOU ARE…

YellowIboGirl.

THE ADVENTURES OF KUDI THE THIRTY SOMETHING YEAR OLD, LAGOS GIRL; “If wishes were horses, would you ride?”

Lagos-City-On-Earth-600x600The best part of having a dream, is that its free. And your typical Nigerian, is a dreamer.

‘One day, e go better’,

‘One day, i’ll get that better oil company job’

‘One day, you know that S class, the one with the white interior and crazy lights, it will be mine; all mine.’

And so it begins; on and on. The big dreams, the impossible dreams. The ones we share with our loved ones, in hushed tones over the coolness of the night. The ones so mental, we are even afraid to admit to ourselves; but in the spirit of hope, we still dream…

The older Nigerian, is tired of dreaming; Happy to exist in her reality. Abi Dior and chanel is not for everybody.
Her salary is 50,000 monthly, which is budgeted to the last kobo. A personal favorite of the bus conductors and the morning motor park touts, she takes the first bus, from Bariga to Ikeja every morning; running in black kitten heels with the rising sun.
Hustling to a job where she is underpaid and overworked. Lateness is unacceptable;

especially when your madam is a fifty something yoruba woman, vicious, bursting from the seams, grossly unqualified and grossly overpaid.

My name is Kudirat (a.k.a KUDI)….. Born Muslim, Raised Christian….35 years old (football age of course)…Dedicated yet Underpaid Bank Worker (Mantra; Any work is better than no work abi)….Almost Married (Its complicated sha; i have been dating Raji for 10 years now; nothing nothing till now)…..Raji’s Co-tenant (Are you already judging me. Don’t. Just focus on my story nosy :)…Beautiful (If I do so say so myself)…Tall, Naomi Campbell skinned ;)…..A tad overweight (I blame my mother, its genetic. But Raji is not complaining, so I’m not complaining either).

I assume you know me now. Well most of me. You will hear a lot more from me soon.

Today, the focus of my tale, is Bolanle, my neighbor. And don’t just enjoy the story, learn something….

It was meant to be another tuesday evening. I had a pattern. Walk into my flat, kick off my shoes, drop the blazer and handbag on the couch and drag my feet into the kitchen to begin making Raji’s dinner. As i started to expertly peel the yam, making sure none of the yam was lost to the peel, there was a knock on my door.

Bolanle.

Hi, i’m bolanle, your new neighbor. I just decided to stop and say hi, you know, neighbor things.

I didn’t stand a chance. Her high squeaky voice, in a non-nigerian accent i couldn’t quite make out, hit my exhausted eardrums in all the wrong places. While i was trying to rearrange my thoughts, she had wiggled her way in and was conformably strewn across my most comfy couch. I hated her already.

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22 years old, tight body; with not an ounce of fat;false lashes up to the sky; statuesque; cocoa; crisp; witty; legs that refused to end; carelessly smudged pink lipstick on her thick lips; She was TOO MUCH; too heavy on the eyes; but she was entertainment on legs. Her whole life was ahead of her.

She was a Law Student; 2nd year; She was going to practice law; join the Keyamo’s & Izinyon’s of this country. Her name was going to ring through history. She had the tongue for law.
Then she was going to buy an Aston Martin; Matte Black. Get a serviced apartment, in banana island; 3 bedrooms, big, imposing, gorgeous, expensive; cream coloured. No mention of a husband in this story (These new generation girls are so different).
For a law student, i assumed she lived and died in books. So when i asked her if she liked reading, i really was just trying to make conversation. I was promptly dazzled.
“lol; read sha. i don’t have that time jor. i’m too busy with there things. if i can’t study 2 weeks to the lecturer, i’ll find money and settle the lecturers.”
Her boisterous laughter filled my small living room and clouded my thoughts. She reminded me of me.

I was 22 once too. As a young school leaver, thrown into political Nigeria; one job interview, after another. Each interview outfit tighter than the last, hoping that if my CV has refused to catch the attention of the interviewers, perhaps something else will. Day after day, i fell lower; i lost my morals; i lost my fresh from UNILAG look; i officially looked like one of the job seekers. Lagos had won.

Nobody warned me. I started off like bolanle. Get together, after get together, school happened to me. It didn’t matter that we had a test next week; or that the exam timetable was out. I was beautiful; legs long, neck long, with every step necks were breaking.
I was the girl you wanted to be in uni.
Sure school wasn’t my thing, but where my brains stopped, my beauty was going to get there.
So as i clutched my certificate with my name boldly engraved on it. Kudirat Martins; Third Class Honours in Marketing Management; Ready to take on Lagos.

By the time my certificate met the eyes of the interviewer; it didn’t matter that my skirt was short or that i was speaking through my nose; i just wasn’t qualified enough.
Soon enough, i lost my shine.

Mama had a point. I was going to have an Aston Martin too; I had the legs for loubutins; Raji is not the man of my dreams, but the man of my reality, so wetin man go do; I have had to settle for so many things.
But dreams are free; reality is more expensive. And beauty fades; youth is not eternal; nobody tells you that you will not continue to9 be the most beautiful woman in the room.

I wish someone had told me earlier to put my head down. Now i know that to take off and touch the moon, you have to start from the ground first.

Dreams are Free; Reality is more expensive.

Bolanle’s chattering brought me back down to earth; I can see her; but i can’t hear her.
Her gesticulations, her blonde braids flying in the air with every word; A character; she reminded me of me; before it all fell part.
Before my beauty became a part of ancient history and my low level bank job got the best of me. I have to warn her; Someone has to warn her…

Your’s faithfully,
KUDI…

A Tale of Ghana-Must-Goes & Powerful Godfathers; No Place For My Childhood dream & Your Childhood dream of being president

As a child, I and every other kid in my class, was going to be president one day. In my day, Lagos was the hub of all social & political activity; so growing up in Lagos gave me a good view of what Nigerian politics was really like.

Our teachers encouraged us to dream big; dream far; page long essays were written on the topic, ‘what would you do if you were president’.

For some, dreams of being the first lady were enough. But i was always on the road less travelled; being queen was never enough for me; i was going to be KING. My name was going to ring through history; children were supposed to read about me in school books and write about me in their civic education exams.

But they forgot to warn us; Our teachers failed to warn us; that there might be no place for our dreams of being presidents In Nigeria.

So here i am, far from a dreamer; steeled from the harshness of the Northern sun; accepting my fate; but refusing to back down. Hoping that word for word, sentence for sentence; i will change the world & make way for my dream; or the dreams of children like me. And so it begins.

In Nigeria, there is absolutely no group that is generally hated and criticised by the masses, like the political class.

 We see them adjusting their agbadas & immaculately tailored kaftans;

We watch them roll up in long convoys; hiding behind the tinted glasses of black bulletproof machines;

Escorted even to the toilet by armed men of the uniform. Acquiring jet after jet; land after land.

Even more annoying than the men, are their wives. Claiming to be champions of the people; and launching NGO after NGO; with diamonds choking their necks and Gold adoring their every limb.

When we see them outside, we ‘dobale’ for them and stretch out out hands to collect naira notes. But behind their backs, we call them ‘thieves’, ‘ole’, ‘armed robbers’.

We know they divert public funds into their private accounts; and live like royalty; their children attend the best schools, abroad of course; and if they as much as sneeze, they will immediately be flown off to a hospital in London. But wait.

Let me now give you a different perspective.

A month ago, I was sitted on a couch, flipping through the newspapers; and I came across a breakdown of the cost of a nomination form to contest public office. And it is important to know that this form merely makes you eligible for the primary elections. Which if you lose; you lose all your money;

State House Of Assembly- 1.2 Million Naira

House of Reps- 2.4 Million Naira

Senate- 4.4 Million Naira

Governorship- 11 Million Naira

Presidency- 22 Million Naira

This is only for the PDP by the way, the cost of the nomination forms for the other parties, are not very different.

injustice_993685Nigerian elections; are an investment. The amount of money you invest in your election is directly proportional to your success rate at the said elections . So we get a system dominated by an unqualified elite; or one that is swarming with super rich godfathers; running the nation; via the pawns they have sponsored into office.

Yes we want change. Let us carry placards in the streets and take to twitter; and pump out hashtag after hashtag; But real change is one that is channelled right.

As a nation, we need a clear, transparent, form of control on electoral spending. We need bodies to regulate it; both the legit spending; and the millions passed at the back, to political thugs. A system driven by money; cannot give us the quality of leaders we so desperately need; hence our nation is currently in this mess.

Political office should not be the exclusive preserve of only those who can afford it. This is why we only get recycled leaders. People who made their money off government; and want to spend such money acquiring more power.

We want more young people in politics; yet how much is the average youth paid?

So how many youths can afford to as much as buy a nomination form; talk more of afford to fund the regular Nigerian electoral process. If Obama were Nigerian; I assure you, he would not be able to afford to be president.

Yes we argue that making politics strictly elitist, makes for politicians who are already rich; and do not need to embezzle public funds. Typing that even makes me laugh.

In the same vein, Where is election debate in our electoral process? How many of this our so called leaders can appear on international television and inspire an entire continent to move towards change? Or even give a well articulated speech in public; without disgracing our nation. How do we effectively differentiate between the mentally sound and those who just print beautiful campaign posters?

While they hop out from out bulletproof Mercedes to the next; we sneer and secretly envy: But do I blame them?

If it were you, what would you do?

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Let me be frank with you; If I spend an average of 200 million naira; getting myself into political office (which is probably a realistic figure, considering the fact that the actual nomination form is the cheapest thing on the average political list). My first act in office, will be to recover my money; with interest. The people i have been elected to serve and all my campaign policies, will be a mere afterthought.

So While we throw sticks and stones at them; let us sit back, relax and critically examine the society (of which we are a part of) & the system that produces these thieves; as we so fondly refer to them.

Until we get a system based solely off merit; where only the fittest can survive in the political game; With or without billions of their money; in quick circulation; we will continue to kid ourselves every 4 years, without fail.

YellowIgboGirl.

EJIMA; A promise that you will never be alone…

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Ejima; Twins
we were called,
Shortly after you came into this world,
To check out the vicinity,
I joined you.
Soaked in blood, kicking,
Screaming to be let back into the warm, soft confines of mama’s womb.

I couldn’t see you yet, but I could feel you,
The warmth of your earth brown skin,
As it warmed mine, in our cot.
The shadow I could always see.

Days, months, years,
Babies became girls,
Toys were swapped for pink ribbons;
Floating in the air,
As we skipped around the yard,
Breaking all the rules and dishes in our way.

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Ugly Matching fluffy dresses,
Matching black church hats,
And matching white powdered faces.
Who needed a mirror!
You were my promise that I would never play ten ten alone,
My promise that, when Nepa took light, I would always have a warm hand to hold.

Every scraped knee, every broken ankle,
Every first position, every last position,
It was okay; because you were there.
Ejima;
My promise of a lifelong friend;
God’s promise to me, that I would never be alone.
No matter what.

I noticed the first flutter of affection;
The first blush; the first smile;
The first sneaked glances during church serivice.
Asa, the way your walking step changed;
Red, white, waist beads furiously gyrating to the beat of your feet;
Your oyibo noise; pointed in the air.
He was watching; the whole show was for his benefit.

Indeed; Girls had become women.

I think I got too engrossed in the cinematics of your life,
That I forgot to live mine.

The day you sneaked me out to meet him at the stream,
And you paced furiously as I assessed him,
Eagerly awaiting my review.
He was everything. Nnamdi.
He was just what you needed; the right mix of Lion and Lamb.

It was that event that led to this event,
The day we finally get to live our seperate lives.
I wish I had disapproved of Nnamdi,
But it was fate.
My own too will come.

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Tall, thick, the colour of the church pews,
Glowing in the sun,
Hair adorned with red beads,
Your smile could light up a nation.
Quivering fingers; ardently clutching the cup of palm wine;
Adorned in Hollandis; carrying out the tradition of the amazons before you,
And the women after you;
Nnamdi was proud;
Papa was even more proud.

As you seamlessly, coyly,
Swayed to the rythym of the Ogene,
Searching for him; among the stream
Of faces,
Beckoning on you to bring the palm wine, and be their bride,
I was right behind you,
Beaming with smiles, dancing with you,
Step for step, beat for beat,
Ignoring the inquisitive glances of the nosy villagers,
Wondering when my own time would come;
Torn to pieces inside.

As we waved at you, while Nnamdi took you away,
Beaming with smiles; laced with hot tears and salty mucus;
After the wedding,
To Kaduna of all places.
Far, Too Far.

I felt like my spirit had broken in half,
It hurt, So bad.
When will I see you again?
Ejima’m, when shall our paths cross again;
Kaduna is too far.

But as surely as the sun sets and rises,
I know you are there, somewhere,
Friend, sister;
Come home soon Ejima.
Come home.

YellowIgboGirl.