Okay, so what’s wrong with this picture? Well, I recently met up for drinks with an old male friend. He has been in and out of relationships for the past 2years and I could sense he was getting a bit frustrated with the woman folk. So I asked him, Bayo, what really is the problem? Why can’t you stay in a relationship longer than it takes paint to dry?  His answer annoyed me. “Glory, my last girlfriend’s wahala was too much.  She was too stubborn, she wasn’t submissive enough. I want a

submissive wife”. Bayo and I go way back, so I decided not to give him the tongue lashing he deserved. I just smiled and said “may God provide you with a door mat!” and continued sipping on my drink.

But my anger was further fuelled by this month’s issue of Essence Magazine. In an article posted by the magazines relationship columnist, the writer seemed to suggest that independent women are preventing men from being men in relationships. I wanted to scream! Why can’t men make up their minds, if you are a real man, then show your woman what you are made off instead of throwing hissy fits trying to shove your man hood down her throat.  (Okay rant over!)

After I had calmed down, I started thinking, is it really possible to be independent and submissive at the same time? Is there some invisible shade of grey between submissiveness and independence that we women most cross in order to become the perfect woman? The truth is I don’t know the answers to these questions. What I do know is that the world is sending us conflicting messages. It’s like we are expected to be business moguls, tearing down the barriers of the business world. Then like Cinderella, when the clock strikes five, our 400 pounds stilettos are meant to turn into aprons and our briefcases into  cooking spoons! How are we supposed to balance these seemingly polar personalities? How is it that after I have had the same job shift as my husband I am meant to come home to the cooking and cleaning and he comes home to the sofa and latest Manchester United scores?

This article seems to have raised more questions than answers. And if I am honest with you, I really do believe that a woman is meant to be submissive and should also be allowed to make her mark in the business world, if she so desires. But I also firmly believe that it takes 2 to tango. And every perfect dance requires a leading man, providing a steady hand at the small of the woman’s back and a steady footing for her to follow. What do you think?

Now, it’s a beautiful thing when two lovers share the same culture and core values. For starters this eliminates the hassle of constantly doubling up as a ‘tour guide’ at family occasions (’bow when the chief comes. Eat the fufu with your bare hands. Refer to women you don’t know as auntie…’). But more importantly, it ensures that subtle shades of meaning are not lost in translation in the course of everyday interaction. Heritage is preserved when the language, norms and currency of one’s past are handed down to the younger generation. However, life doesn’t always go according to the script. Many people are receptive to the idea of ‘marrying their own kind’ but for one reason or the other, things may not have panned out as rehearsed. So those who are wise have adjusted their expectations and opened up their eyes to see the bigger picture. Tell me. Is it right for society to pre-judge these people and make their lives a living hell?

I was listening to an emotive discussion about inter-racial marriage on a U.S radio programme very recently. The black men who phoned in didn’t sound too pleased about the growing trend of well-educated African-American women marrying white men. “Sell outs.” They called them (in some quarters those who want to better themselves are called ’sell outs’ these days). Naturally the ’sistas’ were fluent in their own defence, reminding everyone who had ears to hear that many black men in America run off with blue-eyed blondes once they become successful, that yet another chunk of the quota didn’t have jobs (or were in prison) and so what’s a ’sista’ to do under the circumstances. The male retort was that black women are unapproachable, too independent, too strong. The response, ‘for goodness sake, what do black men want?’

Following a series of extra-marital allegations, the media spotlight has lately been focussed on an accomplished golfer of mixed heritage. For some this matter is a non-issue, little more than light comic relief at best, for others it’s about serial infidelity, for many however, it’s racial stereotype confirmed. I am struck by the emotive interest inter-racial topics evoke even in this multi-cultural age. Apparently it’s not only African parents who still lay awake at night praying that their sons will come home and take a wife. Many people are not as modern as they like to think when it comes to culture and colour. ‘Race’ is a super highway that must be navigated with care as those who cross without looking may be knocked down… dead.

Of course it’s concerning when people date or marry for predatory reasons that reek of self hate. However, there are others who venture beyond the conventional borders with much love and common sense. Let’s live and let love, shall we? Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where none of this matters anymore. If racial constructs weren’t that much of a big deal to primitive people of centuries gone by, then why is it the be all and end all in this so-called modern age? Why are we so determined to see the ways we differ rather than the human qualities that make us very much alike?

Wish I could get my head round that one…

For the woman however, the stint means two whole weeks in the village cooking local delicacies faster than the stream of traditional chiefs, distant cousins and peasant children can eat them (house-helps and electronic appliances are often redundant at this time of year, so God help the woman who can’t roll up her sleeves and make fufu the old fashioned way). And what’s worse, the children are too little to assist without making a mess of things and dear hubby dared not lift a finger while his relatives were about – for fear of being labelled ‘woman wrapper’.

Idowu also ’snapped’ during the holidays. It was his wife who found him slumped on the bathroom floor that fateful morning and raised frantic alarm. He was only fifty three. Yet he was dead. Throttled by high blood pressure on Boxing Day because the bills mounted every day his father-in-law’s corpse remained unclaimed at the morgue. Not to mention house-keeping allowance and the children’s school fees due, without fail, on the first week of January. “Why, God why?” His widow wailed. “Why?

Oh, Why?” The children gathered around their mother, eyes wide as frying pans, heart pounding in their throats, the future uncertain.

I empathise so well because I also reached breaking point over the holidays. Like many Nigerians I cringed when word broke out that 23 year old Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab had been arrested for attempting to detonate a bomb aboard a U.S aircraft. Thankfully his concerned father had alerted the authorities earlier on and no innocent lives were lost in the botched terrorist attack. However, ‘for a moment’, whatever was left of my optimism about Nigeria, was lost. Indeed the swagger was knocked out of our stride, the hopeful smile wiped off our faces in one cruel swipe. When you’re nearly fifty and still waiting for your big break, still trying desperately to turn a corner, all hope seems lost when something like this happens – without warning for that matter.

Still, where there is life there is great opportunity. And often ‘breaking point’ is a good place to be because when we’re pressed to the wall we realise that we can’t stick our heads in the sand anymore, that we can’t rear sacred cows any longer. It’s time to stand up and be counted, time to rise up and fight for our future with every ounce of strength left inside of us. They say what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. But it can also teach us the valuable lessons we should have learnt a long-long time ago.

Somehow the idea of fidelity or monogamy has become old fashioned. Like a dead dog kicked to the curb, being faithful has become distasteful in today’s society. And heaven help you if you are married or dating a Tiger Woods wannabe, you’ll have barmaids, baby mama’s and all manner of women folk crawling out from under the wood works!

But you’d be wrong to think cheating was a privilege reserved for only the male folk. On the contrary, women have also entered this new amoral club, and have taken all its privileges to heart. Recently, I went to visit a friend of a friend only to witness what I can only describe as an all male, female bashing session. Apparently, one of the guys who had been engaged to marry sometime in the new-year, had been ditched by his girlfriend for an albeit older but richer model. The abuse was endless, “what a wh**e”, “Bit*h”, “after all you did for her”, “you are better off with out her”. Since I was the only woman present, I sat in silence while the abuse continued. But I couldn’t help wondering if the guy in question had been an entirely innocent party. As if reading my thoughts, one of the guys replied, “abi is it because of what happened between you and Rotimi”. “And so”? Another replied, amazed at his friends suggestion “A woman is not meant to cheat”. For some reason I cannot quite explain, a cynical almost wicked smile appeared on my face. Yes, shoot me, but I was happy. For a long time men have taken women for a ride, cheating like their lives depended on it, now its payback time and they are whining like school girls. At

that moment, I wished I knew the girl in question. I wanted to say thank you for getting yours back. And if by chance you happen to read this…good on you babe!!!!

But then when I got home, common sense returned. I began to wonder if two wrongs really do make a right, even if it’s just a little right. I wondered what sort of families the world would have if mummy and daddy were both having affairs with house help and driver. The thought is actually cringe worthy and quite repulsive. So my question is this, if we all can’t be monogamous, why commit? Really, is there a point? If you can’t keep to one partner why stand before God, family and friends and promise to do so? It puzzles me that in this time of AIDS and other STDs people choose to change partners like they are in some sort of Olympic relay team. Maybe I am old fashioned, but I believe it’s a free world. If you want the freedom to choose between Kemi, Rose, Charity, Peace or David every day of the week then so be it. But if you want the responsibility that comes with marriage and commitment, then for goodness sake stick to it! (Okay, rant over). But seriously people, the world is full of drama, terrorists plots, recession, petrol scarcity, inflation….the last thing one needs to be worrying about is a cheating partner!

I mentally replayed the first part of his last statement. How long is this “long time”? Since we met or since what?  

Our conversation lasted about forty minutes. He wants (us) to use my eggs and, as though to calm my nerves, emphasized on artificial insemination. Eventually I said, “When you are actually ready, let me know”. “Is that a no?” he asked looking bemused. My ‘shmuck’ish grin returned, “It’s a maybe.”

That is the beginning of what might just become my surrogacy story.

For the benefit of all, a surrogate mother is a woman who offers to conceive an embryo and carry the pregnancy to term on behalf of the biological parent(s) or mother, who may be unable to fulfill this role due to some form of infertility or by choice. Typically during the pregnancy, the surrogate mother is nurtured and cared for by the biological parent(s). Her parental relationship with the child typically ends at delivery. There are all sorts of surrogacy arrangements but it is most common where e.g. the wife can’t carry a baby in her womb due to health complications, or in gay marriages.

You see I have no issues with being a surrogate mother. Infact I have had constant premonitions of being one, but to a couple, a man and wife unable to have kids on their own, not to a single (and I must add, darnnnn good looking) man who has simply chosen to not settle into a relationship. Relax, he is exclusively straight. Let’s stick to the topic. My only hesitation: Those premonitions were not envisioned using my eggs.

Surrogacy has become increasingly common in developing countries like India, though almost all of the cases I read about were done in secrecy, just between the (usually financially-strapped) woman, and the couple in need (mostly people living in the diasporas). In some cases the surrogate’s husband is in on the process so they would cook up some hyped story to their kids and extended family on why she has to be away from home for a while. Even China has a growing ‘womb-outsourcing’ market, but its open practice is seriously hampered by the country strict civil laws that label surrogacy as illegal. But let’s bring this topic closer home now.

Do you think there is anything ethically, religiously or morally wrong with surrogacy? Have you ever considered being one, maybe for your sibling, relative, close friend or a complete stranger? What if they approached you to be one?

Most of us know at least one couple, married for so long, looking and praying for ‘the fruit of the womb’ and claiming it by fire (I kid you not, I just felt some modified MFM vibes zoom through my body…amen and amen…). Do you think they should consider a surrogate? Not that it’s your call, but what do you think?

If you are open to surrogacy, then the price is right at $_______ (N________).

Or are you thinking, “enkay biko what’s this talk about price??? It is not our culture!” Reallyyyy? So what are your concerns? On a related yet random note, I guess it’s also safe to say that an African man will almost never agree to use a sperm donor if his sperm count is low. As far as he is concerned that child is not his. Period. I can already picture him chasing his wife down Alimosho Road accusing her of sleeping around even after it was a consensual decision to use a sperm donor.

There’s always the good old proudly-African perspective to such unspoken topics. Call me the taboo queen. I’m talking about it.

To my potential client ……it’s still a maybe.

I received so many responses to my note “Are you the other woman?” Some were hopeful, others angry, some were sad and depressing. I received a note from a woman that chilled my soul. She was so sad and embittered. She was angry and hurt. She talked about how she had fasted and prayed for him to love her but still he left. She talked about herself as if her life were over.  She talked about how he left her with their children to go and live with his love and their love child. Chai.

Now without a doubt, I don’t know the specifics of that situation but I know she is not alone in how she is feeling. I know many women have found themselves in this situation, many a woman has had their heart broken by a man who chose to walk. I know how it can feel when you are heartbroken and spiritbruised.  I know. And here are my words to you…

Maybe he hurt you
Maybe he left you
Maybe he disappointed you
Maybe he betrayed your trust
Maybe he broke your heart
Maybe he broke your spirit

Maybe you left him
Maybe you are still together
Maybe you are confused about what path to take
Maybe you are pressured into staying on one
One thing is for sure, no matter how you find yourself, in or out you can still be happy.

Maybe you are filled with pain and bitterness. Maybe you feel victimized. Maybe you have painted yourself as less than and I know how that can feel when your self esteem is damaged.

I want to give you a hug and say this…

Perhaps you keep replaying the horrible things he said to you in your mind. Perhaps you look in the mirror and you no longer like what you see. Drown the noise out. Get a new soundtrack.

Just forgive and let go. Move on. You are not a victim.

Yes, he may have hurt your pride and shattered your heart, but you can still be happy.

He chose to walk out, ok, fine.

Truth be told, the demise of your relationship was not caused by him or you alone. Maybe there were things you both could have done better, maybe you could have both become better, because no woman can take a man permanently who wasn’t already looking for a way out. So yes, this realization probably hurts and things may suck right now, but this is not the defining moment of your life.

This pain will pass, if you let it. What looks like an abandonment is actually a release. So you have downturned lips, get together with some girlfriends, have a glass of wine or two, put on some great music, allow yourself to cry it all out, then dance it all back, reclaim your sexy, reclaim your soul and open your eyes and live.

I know the other woman may seem a person to envy right now, but I assure you the picture is not as rosy as you think it is. And anyway who cares. You have a brand new life ahead of you. A chance to do it all over. How many people get that?

You have your children, who no doubt are the most precious things in your life. Give them a kiss and hug and laugh with them. Shoot, if you can’t call anyone, call me. Together we can cry and then dry our tears, we can pray and hear from God, then we can laugh and make merry, we can look at the life that is ahead of us, because I don’t have any plans of dying and I will share with you the chapters that I have closed that were filled with pain and I will show you those that are not yet written that will be filled with joy. When something like this happens it is tempting to stay there but my darling turn the page. This is one chapter, it is not your whole story. If you are no longer the wife, then rewrite your poem.

I was the wife, in a past life
Now I look forward, now I look up
I have dried my tears, I have quelled my fears
I now know my worth, I know how to push forth.
I gave birth to children, I will birth myself.
Into a new place of healing and forgiveness, into a new place of possibilities and blessings.
Today I am rocking joy and I refuse to wear shame.
Today I will laugh
Today I will live
Today I will love
Watch this space…
because the best is yet to come.

I ask because a vast body of evidence suggests that this is not the case.  Growing up, many of the African novels I devoured depicted the African man as a tyrant, a wife beater. In the absence of violence, an uncouth caricature was painted at best. The African man was often the one who ate messily (loud chewing sounds interspersed by deep pig-like grunts). He drank water and thumped the glass abruptly on the table. Not much mind was payed to dress and physical comportment – hence the bushy hair, lager soaked moustache, nondescript loin cloth and shoddy shoes. His courtship exercise lacked imagination: moonlight frolicking, the occasional flower-plucking off a nearby shrub and the masochistic wrestling at the village square that makes the term ‘trophy wife’ sound quite apt.

Of course, we now know that this was a case of negative stereotyping and racism.

It was in Hollywood movies that we first saw suave looking men who got on their knees to pop the question, men who opened doors and pulled back chairs, who dared show their sensitive side by shedding a tear or two and who effortlessly swept women off their feet – literally. Fast forward to this era and you’ll find the controversy of the vulgar hip-hop video, the blatant media stereotypes… and the books, ah yes the books, aren’t much kinder to African men, if I’m honest.

I’m aware that romance is NOT love even though romance has its uses. Let it also be said that the media’s obsession with romantic love has crushed many an impressionable bride who discovered, after the fairy tale wedding, that hardwork and prayer (tons of it!) is what holds a marriage together. I now know that non-African men are not always as suave as they appear on screen and (if domestic violence and divorce statistics in the western world are anything to go by) not as woman-friendly as we are led to believe.

Of course, Africa now has its own version of the Hollywood rom-com and in the real world one can find many honest, decent and incurably romantic black men. However, I wonder what romance means to the typical African man and how it is expressed to the women in their lives – not just at designated seasons but on a day to day basis.

Are you in love with an African man? Is he faithful and sweet and full of pleasant surprises? Does he cook, clean, make you proud, make you laugh, wipe your tears and rise swiftly to your defence? Much has been said about the insensitive, two-timing, arrogant tribal-warlord types. Let’s hear it for the ‘real African men’ who know what love has got to do with it.

Or aren’t there any?

Love is a strange feeling, it has the ability to polarise every emotion. Anger and joy, sadness and utter happiness, laughter and tears. Anyone who has loved will know that it is always painful to love. It’s almost like the two words are linked and without knowing, in some way, love either births pain or pain births love. Whether it’s the pain of loosing love or the pain experienced from making love work. Either way with love there is always pain.

I was in love once. A very long time ago. I loved him with everything I had. Every part of me seemed to resonate with him. It was easy to love then. There where no complications, no what ifs, just possibilities and dreams. And dream we did. We dreamt of the future, of our children, of owning our own home…. we dreamt of everything. Then life began and I watched those dreams slowly disappear like the morning dew. It was almost like we were different people. Like the gods were unhappy with us. It was one thing after another. My weight, my friends, my job, my parents. The list was endless. But I held on to love. I was in pain, but I loved regardless. Somewhere in me I believed this was the transitional phase, “every couple goes through this” I told myself. “Just pray and it will be well”. So I kept loving through the pain. At first it was hard, and then it became familiar. The long awkward silences, the mechanic love making, the pretence in front of friends. It became like second nature. But I still loved him, through the pain of our pretence.

Then one day, on Valentine’s Day to be exact, I got home from work early to surprise him but he wasn’t there. I called out his name but he didn’t answer. I called his phone, once, twice and thrice but there was still no answer. “He is probably busy” I told myself “in a meeting perhaps”. But somewhere on the left side of my chest I could feel a familiar pain rise. I went into the bathroom placed my cloths together as a heap on the bathroom floor and went into the shower. I stood as the cold water drenched my body in one swift motion. It became impossible to tell where my tears began and where my bathing water ended. They all mingled together as one as they hit the bathroom floor.

I can’t remember how long I stood in the shower, I just remember waking up at 2:32am to the front door slam. He was home. I imagined that he would walk into the room with a huge bouquet of flowers, give me a kiss on each cheek and tell me just how much he loved me but even I laughed at my naivety. He walked into the bedroom then, he was drunk, I could smell him from the bedroom door. I pretended to be asleep, knowing what was to follow would be inevitable. He covered the distance between the bed and the door in what seemed to be one swift motion and landed with a huge crash on the bed. I took a deep breathe as I felt his huge hands tug on my dressing gown. He was on top of me now and as usual I stayed still, his foul breathe bringing vapour to my eyes. I began to think back to the day we said our vows, how happy we looked. How we swore before God and our family to honour, love and protect each other, and now, almost 3 years to the day, my beloved husband lay on top of me, raping me.

As usual it was quick. I had timed him once, and concluded that it to took me longer to fill up my car with petrol than it took him to do his business. But I kept that information to myself, there was no need to make a bad situation worse.

“It’s like fu**ing a corpse”, he grunted as he went to the bathroom. For some reason I cannot now explain, I answered. I shouldn’t have, in fact I rarely ever spoke to him but for some reason the words escaped my mouth like a runaway train.

“Its not like its any better for me”

What did you say “bi*ch”? He said turning towards me. He was halfway between the bathroom door and the bed and I calculated that it would take him less than two seconds to reach the bed again.

“Nothing”, I replied

You comparing me to your pimps, bi*ch? His eyes widening as each word left his mouth.

You think I don’t know that you have been sleeping all over town? He screamed.

“I wish I was”! I retorted, my brain failing to communicate to my mouth to shut up.

The slap was like lightning. He grabbed me by my hair and pulled me to the floor, I tried to grab the blanket to cover my modesty but it was pointless. I tried to scream but that too was pointless, the punches just kept getting harder. At first I fought him, I kicked and scratched and spat but soon gave up as each of his punches seemed to take away a small part of my consciousness. I must have fainted because when I woke up he was tucked in bed, snoring like a swarm of bees, while I lay on the floor naked and bloody. My hands instinctively reached for my face and I winched as I felt its soreness. Lord, why didn’t I die this time, I asked silently, although not expecting a reply. I had long decided that God had forgotten all about me. I was in this on my own. I was alone in this particular love story. Alone, in love and in pain, physical, spiritual, emotional and mental pain. I held on to the edge of the bed to gain my balance as I slowly got up. My left eye was throbbing now, it was almost like it had a pulse. I gingerly walked into the bathroom and turned on the light. I clutched both hands on my mouth to prevent myself from screaming as I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I would have cried if I could, but the pain would have been intolerable. My left eye was so swollen I could hardly see my eyelid. The left side of my upper lip was hanging like a loose thread and my nose had been bleeding so much, the blood had clotted to form a dark red line at the side of my cheek.

I kept staring at myself, hoping that the image I saw would somehow disappear, that the image of the beautiful, independent and carefree woman I once was would take the place of the docile, punching bag I had become. But nothing happened. Instead the tears began to fall again. But this time the tears were for an all together different reason. I wasn’t crying because I was in pain or in love. I was crying because I was tired of being either. Tired of the person in the mirror, tired of being beaten, tired of being unloved, tired of being me. But the cycle was always the same, there was never a point to these crying sessions. I was better of with him than with someone else. “The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t” my mother had said the first time I left him. Where would I go anyway? I had no money, no house, nothing. No, it was better to stay here and endure.

I suddenly felt hungry then. So I turned off the bedroom light and went to the kitchen. As usual there was nothing in the fridge. The fridge was like a mirror of my marriage. Cold and empty but necessary to have around, just incase. I remembered that I had a small piece of yam left in the pantry and some sardines with tomato sauce. So I put some water on the stove to boil as I began peeling the yam. I remembered how my mother would always make me peel its bark thinly to avoid wasting any yam. I smiled then, recalling my mother and how we wasted so much time fighting over trivial things. I needed her strength now. She had always told me I was too soft. “Toughen up” she would always shout when I cried. “Life is not for criers”, she had said. So I wondered why God had taken her first, since she was the stronger one.

I looked down then and noticed that the yam was covered in a reddish colour. I kept staring as the blood from my index finger stained the formally whitish yam. I should have run my hand under the tap to see how deep the cut was but I didn’t. I just stood there looking at the red-like yam and then all of a sudden it hit me. I looked at the blood stained knife and my life never seemed clearer. The yam fell to the ground then as I began tracing my steps back to the bedroom. My mind was blank now but my heart was beating faster than it ever had. He was still snoring when I opened the door. His face looked so peaceful, his breathing so relaxed, childlike almost. It was this childish innocence that had deceived me. This peaceful demur that made me believe that my future was secure in his hands. I touched his face then and he waved my hand away, assuming it was a fly. The tears began to fall then, as I realised how I had wasted my youth on a man who wasn’t worth it. All the pain, hardship, trauma and miscarriages I had endured. I remembered how I missed my own mother’s funeral because my husband had broken my ribs the day before. How I miscarried my last pregnancy at 7 months because he had pushed me down the stairs. How he had slept with all of closest friends and impregnated 2 of them.

All these events flashed before my eyes like a trailer at the cinema and it was all I could do to hold back from screaming. I clutched the knife with both hands and lounged down with the strength of a million horses, aiming straight for the left side of his chest-his heart. He let out a small gasp, but didn’t move. I called out his name but there was no reply. I thought to myself. Could it be that he died and felt no pain? Could it be that for all of the pain the bastard put me through for 3years, he’d end his days with a singular gasp? NO WAY! I wanted him to feel the very weight of my tears. I wanted his gut to quiver like mine did anytime he made me cry. So I took out the knife from his heart and began stabbing him again and again. I was screaming now, I didn’t care that there was blood on my face, on my hands, entering my mouth. I didn’t care, I just wanted him to feel pain. I kept stabbing him with all the strength I could muster. But there was still nothing, no sound. No indication that he was hurting. So I stopped. I looked at his dead limp bloody corpse as it lay on what I once called my marital bed. The bed he had carried me into on our wedding night. And for the first time in years, the glint of a cynical almost happy smile appeared on my face. It was indeed a befitting end, that the bed that caused me so much shame and pain would be were my dead husband should lay. There was some poetic justice in it all. And even if he didn’t feel any pain now, surely the fire of hell for all eternity would be justice enough.

Call me foolish, but I also believe in the one man, one woman rule. I.e. if a guy has a girlfriend, wife, significant other or baby mama attached to his hip and is trying to step to me, I make it very clear that I am not in the slightest bit interested. Life has taught me that karma is indeed a female dog and always comes back to bite you in the derrière. Anyway, it is with these few but salient principles that I have chosen to wade through the valley that is singleness believing that what is mine is mine and what is someone else’s, is well…someone else’s.

These principles were put to the test exactly 5 days ago. A close friend of mine (Ada) and I had decided to meet up for a leisurely lunch somewhere on the island. The lunch itself was pretty uneventful, except for the usual girly chitchat. Things however took a sharp turn after lunch when her male friend (lets call him Idowu) arrived. As is usual with male female gatherings, conversation turned to relationships. Why are men so wrong? Why are women complicated? Whose man was caught where? And the like. Then he asked the question that I have gotten quiet accustomed to answering in the affirmative.

“So Glory are you single?” I nodded as I sipped on my fruit smoothie.

“Why?” He retorted ( I cant stand that question, why is the sky blue, why can fish only live in water, why does the sun not come out at night?) “Errr because I haven’t found the right person” I replied trying to seem nonchalant about it all.

“Well, do you have a plan to find the right person”? He asked almost immediately.

Now I was well and truly confused. ‘Plan’? I asked in return. I looked at Ada to see if she understood what he was talking about. But even she seemed as confused as I was.

Sensing that we needed to be educated, Idowu continued.

For everything in life you have a plan. You planned your career path, you planned what you were going to do today. You must always have a plan. Is there any major decision you have made till date which you didn’t have a plan for?

Sensing I was about to put up an argument to his theory, Idowu continued without waiting for a reply. “If you don’t plan to find a man, your plan is to remain single.” Ask the single women in their thirties, they are single because they didn’t plan. He

concluded rather mater of factly. “Okay, so tell us how we can plan”, Ada asked obviously absorbed by her friends thesis.

Idowu went on to explain that the plan isn’t a step by step plan per say on how to get a man but more like a set of philosophies, which single women must abide by if they are ever to get married. His philosophy is outlined as follows. (Please do not shoot the messenger, remember this is a man’s point of view, not mine!!)

1. All men are directionless. They have no capacity to think ahead or think past what they are doing at that precise moment. Therefore women always have the upper hand in directing a man to wherever she wants him to go.

2. You must assume that every man you would want to be with, tall, dark, handsome, ambitious, well educated, well spoken, is taken. There are no good men left. The single men left are those that have been discarded and no body wants a reject.

3. 95% of men don’t marry women that they had been dating for 10 years. They marry the ‘smart women’ who either stole them from the ‘main babe’ or directed them down the aisle, the so called ‘bad girls’.

4. Based on the above points you must act accordingly. If a man you like is interested in you, forget about his present relationship status. That’s his business not yours. Instead concentrate on where you want the relationship to end. Focus on the aspects you like about his relationship with you and direct his interests towards your desired goal-marriage.

Now based on the principles mentioned earlier, it is obvious that I disagree with Idowu. But I cannot help but question myself. Have my somewhat traditional principles become archaic in today’s contemporary society? Am I wasting time trying to keep a good girl image, while the so called ‘bad girls’ clinch all the already dwindling amount of eligible bachelors available? Has the world so decayed that we are prepared to both covet and steal one another’s partners? Or is patience truly a virtue with the fattest prize reserved for those who wait their turn? You tell me.

Then just a regular day at work, we received a text message. The message was from a listener who said she was pregnant still in her first trimester and her husband had just beaten her with a cable wire.

As we read out the text on air, my insides started to fill up with hot air – I was furious! Then we called her and she narrated the story to us live on the radio. As she spoke my head became a slideshow of familiar images. I tried so hard bottling up my pent-up frustration. But somehow it succeeded in getting the better of me. My boss watched as the tears fell in ferocious trickles down my face. Then he put the story forward to our listeners soliciting their contribution he added “Wana even shed a little tear there” in his jokey American accent. The woman became our radio moment case study for over a week. Numerous calls and text messages came through. With everyone having their own unique brand of counseling and therapy. We were inundated with advice from those who were friends of friends and of more friends of victims of domestic violence.

Amongst the responses received were

“I think she needs to stay in that house and get on her knees and pray”

“You know we women have sharp mouths on us so we don’t know what this woman did to upset or provoke her husband”

“It sounds like there is more to this story than she is telling us”

“Divorce is not an option, the bible is not in support of that. she needs to seek the counsel of the Lord and remember that this is a marriage. It is for better for worse”

At this point I wanted to tell these illiterate morons that till death truly do them path right, and we will all buy expensive lilies for her grave stone right? Of course the epitaph on her gravestone would read

“our dearly beloved sister, dedicated wife and mother who sat there while her beloved husband opened up cans of “WHOOP ASS” on her while she was pregnant. She was so dedicated to her vows she stayed till her ass was whooped to death. She will always remain an inspiration to all. Her suffering in silence was always commendable. Her patience, next to none and her commitment to culture was always admirable”

I eventually had to keep reiterating whilst struggling to appeal to my conservative listeners that this wasn’t about what she had or hadn’t done. It was about the fact that you don’t beat your animals with cable wires let alone a woman you marry and call the mother of your children. It was bad enough I had already been reprimanded at the office general meeting for being too “girl power” on the radio. So it was very important to not condemn or have an opinion on the subject.

The weird part was that most of these comments were made by women. But I had seen it before. My mother had been beaten for over ten years actually. We had prayed, burned celestial candles, been to the prayer retreats, anointed by prophets and exorcised from the demons of great grand parents past – and it didn’t change a thing!

No one ever said pack your things and come stay in my spare room. We stayed there and prayed while we incurred medical bills from our lives of domestic abuse. Still we were lucky because for some others they paid for caskets instead.

After that week on the radio, I realized domestic abuse in my childhood home will always haunt me because it wasn’t just about me. There were women in Louboutin shoes and Marc Jacob bags who covered their punch bag faces with MAC foundation used alpha-hydroxy acid to rid their skins of scar tissue.

The worst crimes against humanity are those that happen in your own homes. You know why, because home is the place every human being should feel most safe. I read once on an Adidas poster, “to be silent is to be a part of the problem”. I realise I might for the rest of my life embarrass my brothers because I will always talk and write about domestic abuse. So let me be known for my woes. The day that you shut me up is the day that I die.

If you are a victim of domestic abuse, please seek help. You can visit www.projectalertnig.org to get resources that can help guide you and protect you from your current situation