I remember life as a kid, growing up. I was born and raised in Kaduna, under the heat of the northern sun. LIfe was free and fun. I never really did see my dad, except for the holidays – when we would take the long trip to Port-harcourt. He was under the employment of the NNPC and deployed to Port-harcourt. So, I spent the bulk quota of my adolescent life with my mother. You know what they say, a child never forgets.

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I remember the one day I tried to crook my way to following my parents out. Oh please, before you let your mental take it out on me, they were going to this fun bush bar I liked to go to. Unlike the usual ones, it had fishponds (for point and kill – stop swallowing) and an orchard where I gloriously exhibit my fruit plucking skill. After a series of begging and crying, I decided to just go into the booth and hide – there was no load to put in, so I thought, why not hop in now and pop out when we get there. I was unlucky though – mother saw me. She gave me very sound and thorough flogging with a slim green stick – the flexible ones (the initiated will understand the effects of such canes). After the flogging, she canceled the outing, made pap (Akamu) for me and sang me songs (with “who beat my baby?” as part of the lyrics). Oh, sweet mother.

Talk about being young, wild and free, at a tender age, I would go out after school and stay till late at night. After series of corrective shouting from mother and flogging from an uncle, she decided to interrupt my sleep one lovely night – with the most beautiful slap I could have ever had back then. I opened my eyes in confusion, wondering where I was. For right before me was a lit stove and a bottle of oil. Had my mother become a babalawo overnight? Very far from true. She grab my legs, held them together and flogged them with her ‘kasko’ spoon (metallic). Then she applied some palm oil on the sole of my feet. It was a relief until she suspended them above the fire from the stove. “Sheybi, you have refused to tell your legs to stay at home” she said as she taught me the chemical and heating relationship of fire and oil.

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So, yes, it beats me, when I hear women say “teach your sons this and teach your sons that.” I do not blame my dad because I am more a product of my mum than I am of my dad. Yes, my dad would flog me  when I got bad grades or destroyed something at home. But, mother? She would spank the seven heavens out of my soul when she sees something off in my inner man. So, when the very people responsible for the molding of the child complain about the child, it irks me to the marrow. Ask any one of the women who say “We are wives not cooks” if they would accept for their sons women that do not cook. What do you think they would say?

Hence, instead of accepting anything that comes from the colonials or their siblings, we should take it, self appraise and decide if it is one to keep or to discard.

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A strong reason for my respect for women is because, my mother whooped me and educated me on respect for females, when, at age 8, I hit my little cousin.

INSTEAD OF CARRYING PLACARDS ABOUT AND FIGHTING DESTRUCTIVELY, TEACH YOUR SONS HOW TO BE GOOD MEN, YOUR DAUGHTERS HOW TO BE GOOD WOMEN AND ENLIGHTEN YOUR FELLOW WOMAN TO DO SAME

We could ask why the men do prefer to go to offices and not do this. But, that would be more or less asking nature why she is nature. Yes, nature is a she. Don’t ask me how I know.

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