Happy International Women’s Day; The Real Woman

​When I see ‘woman’, I think of strength, beauty, ambition, kindness, love, perfection. So why don’t you see yourself as that?  ‘They’ tell you the colour you should wear, the ‘virtues’ you should develop, the career you should pursue, the job you should get, how much you are allowed to earn, that you must get married to  complete yourself and even the age at which you must be married, that you should have moderate ambition, that you should ‘swallow’ the abuse for your children because you are a mother,that you should let the males take the lead while you follow. ‘They’ tell you many things. 

But really, who are they? Who tells us these things? Our mothers, our sisters, our aunties, our teachers. Do you really blame them? After all, they were taught the same thing. 

Society makes us think a certain way, telling us to be mediocre. But how long can we blame society when we are the ‘society’ that teach our daughters how to be ‘proper’ ladies’?

Well, as for me and my house, we refuse to be ‘proper’ girls, women, ladies, if being proper means  being  subordinate , mediocre or  weak. 

Let us come together, strong,regardless of our ethnicity, race, religion, beliefs and make a new society for our girls, one where they are taught to be as ambitious as they wish, be bosses of their worlds, earn big, have the right virtues, do what they want to, when they want to and because they want to. 

This is who a real woman is. 

Happy International Women’s Day.
Dedicated to my unborn daughters, Ivenna and Sonna. I know you will make a difference. 

Thank you Angelina Ogbonna for teaching me right. 
Nneoma Ogbonna©

DEAR AMBASSADORS FOR CHANGE,

Dear ambassadors for change,

You who give nothing

And in return ask for the world. 

Our paths have crossed for a reason.
You who clothe yourselves  in ashes, 

Posing to wear yourselves out, 

Yet you indulge in guilty pleasures

Thinking you fool the rest of us.
You who are the toughest judges of all, 

Just because you feel ‘bester’ than others.

Let’s play a game called ‘Let the Skeletons Out’ 

And watch me kick your ass.
You who sell us with your sugar-tongue, 

While coating your lies in beauty, 

Take advantage of our hunger for difference, 

And in the end,  emerge victorious. 
You who boast of change

And really give it. 

Though negative, it still  is ‘change’.

It is not your fault for we never asked you the brand name.
You who know nothing about your ‘agenda’

I ask you now, ‘what does’ change’ mean to you’?

Silence…

I hear your silence echo through this crowded room.
Well, let me school you.

Change is a process.

True change comes from within

And spreads through the circle.
Now our hope lie in the future.

The future is all those  potentials of ours, 

Awaiting excavation. 

After excavating , we shall attain heights we once only dreamt of.
Dear ambassadors for change

Your reign is over!

Completed on Thursday, May 19th, 2016
Ogbonna Nneoma 2016©

My Perfect Gentleman

My perfect gentleman with home of lice as hair,

Awesome fashionista observing him  ‘rag day’  

In something that was meant to look like a dinner attire;

Green blazer, red trousers, black shirt (sticking out from the back),

Pink lopsided bow tie, wooden shoes,

But did not due to some psychiatric issues, I suppose.
Still staring at him in amusement from the car, 

The sky became saturated and rain drops fell

 Poco a poco until it got so heavy,

Market women clearing their shades,

‘Mallams’doing same to their kiosks.

Obviously everywhere was rowdy like

 The round two of the Biafra war was about to commence.

Finally, I took notice of my perfect gentleman

Who like a fish at the first sight of water after forty days

In the wilderness, walked cheerfully under the rain

Keeping the face of ‘ah, where them dey run go? ’.

I summoned courage,parked y car and walked up to him and said,

‘Oga rain don start oo’ expecting him to run in foolishly or act dramatic,

He said in polished English, ‘Of course I’m aware of that’,

I even ended up being the one that felt foolish.

He grinned, displaying his conspicuous teeth with attractive colours,

Red, black and yellow polka-dots on the white-turned-cream background,

And his bleached tongue.

No one could help noticing these distinct features of his;

Even the blind man could sense its presence from its aroma

Bringing memories of Raid insecticide plus camphor plus ‘ogiri’.

What a combination!
Walking majestically like Mister Universe on the runway,

Displaying the big hole on his thigh,

He got into his ‘sanctuary of mess’, hailing his priests; rats and mice,

Picked up a shabby cushion, got out his Berlinski David’s A Tour of the Calculus,

A gigantic notebook, that looked twenty years old, and a pen.

Still wondering what was going on, 

He hummed Beethoven’s Fur Elise as he opened the book

In search of the topic for the day and taught his invisible students calculus.

He was so good a teacher; the best I had ever met. 
The way I studied him made me feel like Pavlov and he, the dog.

One thing shocked me about him,

With all the polished English, colourful teeth,

Gentleman-rainbow-attire and the disorder

He had nothing to worry about,

No shade to protect when the rain set out,

No reason to be angry.

He was always smiling,

Advertising his dirty teeth without even realizing

It discomforted the rest of us.
Of course I never want to be a madman,

Of course you do not ever want to be a madman either,

But he has something we unknowingly envy;

Self-esteem and confidence that we yearn for.

We get intimidated, whereas he does not.

We claim to be straight minded, completely sensed,

Yet lack what the lunatic possesses.

What then makes us any better than

My perfect gentleman with a lopsided brain?
©Nneoma Ogbonna 2016

THE MYOPIA OF THE AFRICAN MAN

​by Ogbonna Nneoma

In the eyes of the African Man,

She is just property 

The more number, the more the acknowledgement 

So he acquires as many as possible,

Bringing them all into the ‘boat’.
In the eyes of the African Man,

She is a zombie

Awaiting ‘master’s’ every command.

She gives up her dreams

He then runs her life.
In the eyes of the African Man,

She is a pleasure satisfier;

Always at his beck and call

Where she objects, well she dares not,

He takes her by force for his use.
In the eyes of the African Man,

She is a piece of log

Possessing neither nerves nor emotions,

So he toils with her

Expecting she serves him forever.
In the eyes of the African Man,

Her life ends in the kitchen.

She never gets a chance,

Her intellect then goes to dust.

The poor world then suffers great loss.
In the eyes of the African Man,

She is a knife to be used to part the Red Sea,

Antibiotic in the midst of resistance,

Arrow aimed at the prey but shot at the opposite direction.

She is worth nothing.
But in the eyes of her children, her babies, her little ones,

To whom she is The Pride of Life,

The Beauty for all Ages,

The Oasis in the Sahara, interalia,

She is the Symbol of Strength, Survival and Hope.

She is WOMAN, NWANYI.

She is MOTHER, NNE.

(COMPOSED ON 14TH APRIL 2016) 
©Nneoma Ogbonna 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE QUEEN MOTHER OF AFRICAN LITERATURE!

 by Munachim  Amah

​It’s easy to not like Chimamanda. To disagree with her ideologies and perceptions of what it means to be human. To try to find faults in even the most passing of comments she makes.
It’s even easier to channel your frustrations and insecurities on one woman and say, “Oh, she went to America and they have Westernized her.” “Oh, that thing she is talking, that thing, it is very, very un-African.” “Oh, that daughter of that professor in Nsukka, she has lost her sense of origin. She has forgotten where she is coming from.” Some people even say, “I thought she said Chinua Achebe is her mentor.”
This is not only funny but disturbing in some ways. The view that all writing today should fall neatly behind Achebe – who was born in 1930, lived in an entirely different generation and saw splashes of colonialism and independence and so wrote about his space and time and reality – does not only come across as barbaric but unrealistically presumptuous and sanctimonious.
Many things are happening today. The world is changing in so many ways that marvel the mind. We cannot write about things that happen now but we can write about when the colonial masters first came to Onitsha or when people used to travel several kilometres to fetch water, abi? Do you see that you have refused to see that the current realities need to be written about too? After all, isn’t that what writers do? Piece the present together so that they illuminate understanding of the past in many years to come?
It is easy to not like Chimamanda and her views and her writing, but what is even easiest is to be endeared to her simplicity. To love her. To feel a strong sense of attraction to her humanity and her commitment to her truth. It is easiest to read this woman and be haunted by the characters she created for days. Easiest to watch her talk on Youtube and hold back tears. Easiest to spend 10 days in a safe space with her, and with other amazing people, and never remain the same.
Again, love and likeness and attraction are subjective notions. Beauty, they say, is in the eyes of the beholder.
Happy Birthday to this woman that means different things to different people.

(culled from his Facebook post of 16th September, 2016) 

©Munachim Amah

MY ELASTIC HEART; THE HOOKES LAW SLAYER

by Nneoma Ogbonna 

Science, the best teacher to most

To its best, explains every action and reaction;

Ranging from Newton and Boyle to Charles and Avogadro 

Then my favorite, Hookes.

To Hookes, the elasticity of all matters has limits.

For this reason alone I disagree, the nature of this heart of mine.
Like a bag of water 

You run a knife through me

Hoping I’ll bleed out evry drop in me

but like a were-wolf I shock you

in no time I heal
Like M.Ali you  use your last strength, 

Running your fist through me

With thoughts that I will turn blue-black

Like a rubber I surprise you

I thump out at the same time.
Like I am a cigarette, you light  me up

Expecting that I get fired-up 

So you smoke the life off me.

But like a thermo-resistant matter

I prove immune.
Like a German-shepherd,

You bark endlessly at me 

Believing I will have my ear-drums burst out.

But because I am sound-proof,

I hear nothing.
Not like I don’t have a heart to get hurt

But if u were Sia you’ll get it better.

Mine is not any elastic heart,

For  an elastic heart will at a point lose its elasticity

Becoming strained,

But mine will never lose it.
The elasticity of my heart is supernatural;

Beyond the understanding of science.

My heart has broken Hookes law

For the more force you exert to break me,

The more elastic I become,

Then you get more frustrated.
Don’t take me for a fool for staying back,

For I stoop to conquer

And will forever conquer.

Never will I lose my elasticity.

Never will I get strained.

Like a phoenix, I rise from the ashes! 

(COMPLETED ON SUNDAY, 17TH APRIL, 2016) 

©Nneoma Ogbonna 

THE CONTEMPORARY SLAVERY

by Nneoma Ogbonna 

In the past, the Israelites were enslaved.

In the past, Africans were enslaved.

In the present, women are enslaved.

But this style is different;

It is ‘The Contemporary Slavery’

Where the woman is treated with contempt

By the man.

Not even in their place of work

But in the place she calls home.
Home is associated with rest and peace

But in the home, she is but at ease. 

She is the jar into which he pours his anger 

Erupting from jealousy for the dumbest things.

Like a hammer to drive a nail

He picks her head up 

Strikes it on the wall so hard, she bleeds.

He leaves, letting her to drown in her blood.
Being the psychotic psychopath that he is,

On his return, gifts and presents

All for her.

He brainwashes her with these things

And she forgets her near death experience.
In their home, HE IS GOD.

She dares not say a word against him

Because to him, he owns her.

He gives the impression that he does her a favour

And she gets so deceived

That she tries to keep him like he is a treasure.

He brings others home

But who is she to utter a word?

Well, it is all for her safety.

Once, she dared.

He so nice, he gave her two options.

‘Sweet heart’, he said, 

‘Which do you wish to lose today?

Two of your incisors or your sight?’

She was too afraid to speak

So he gave her that which he felt was milder, 

The former.

That day, he beat her meticulously.

He threatened that if she said a word to anyone,

She will lose the latter.

When ‘GOD’ said do not speak, who was she to?

After every torture session, she feels raw hate

But after the supply of present

She feels wild love.
Now, like me, you might be really confused

As to the true meaning of LOVE.
Her feet are unchained

But she hates to leave;

There have been no altar vows

But she hates to break up;

He is about killing 

But she condemns divorce

And longs to protect her children.

She forgets she was in existence prior to his arrival.
If she eventually loses her  life

Through murder and manslaughter

Life is up for her.

If she loses her life,

The babies she longed to protect

Will be exposed to maltreatment and torture.

So what exactly is she protecting?
Dear Females,

Let us strive to be independent and strong

So we will be treated with respect

And not messed around with.

Let us join hands and fight against

This evolution of slavery,

DOMESTIC VIOLENCE.

(written on Wednesday, June 15, 2016) 

©Nneoma Ogbonna

 

MARRIAGE BOAT

by Nneoma Ogbonna

A day or two ago I heard

‘A good man is hard to find’.

Not so long ago, the title of a movie said,

‘A good man is hard to find’.

Pretty sure am I; you too have heard it.
My mother said ‘marriage is for ENDURANCE not ENJOYMENT’.

Funny saying, so I laugh for a moment

Then I cast that off for myself, ‘well not mine’.

Praying to God for me she says, ‘Amen my daughter.’

I sigh and smile keeping the words in my heart.
In school and groups, girls tell personal stories;

Cursing the boys and men for their ‘nature’

They ask us to our faces,

‘How can I take carbohydrate all my life ,

When I can freely settle for a balanced diet’.
It sure makes sense to me

The reason for this love for variety

Rather than being stuck with ONE BRAND

Afterall, ‘the spice of life is variety’.

They say this proudly, it feels like spittle in our faces.
No respect for the poor lady,

They act like they do us a favour.

Is variety not also the spice of a woman’s life?

But we dare not say this out;

We know the reparcaution for the action.
The woman almost leaves;

At the thought of her poor little babies, on she lives.

She gathers strength to ride-on the marriage-boat

Though she trembles,

She gets stronger as she paddles.
Watching her, he marvels;

At her strength he gets filled with shock.

He thought his mere words would make her startle.

Well, it actually did,

But she never broke.
Every tear she sheds

Goes with a prayer.

Even in her sorrow bed

She remembers her daughters

Praying that they see good and that her sons be good.
These things make me wonder.

I even say to my mother-

‘You no marry—WAHALA,

You come marry— PALAVA’.

In the midst of all my doubts, I know the truth.
From the prayer of mothers,

The hope of daughters,

One thing is sure:

Though the good man is hard to find,

He is out there, somewhere, closer every moment we hope.
A good man is as much a blessing as a good woman,

For he sticks on forever.

By forever I mean that

Even the forces of death cannot do them part.

He exists somewhere.

(Written in April, 2016) 

This is one of my favorite. 

© Nneoma Ogbonna 

What Thing is Love

by George Peele

What thing is love?-for sure love is a thing. 

It is a price,  it is a sting, 

It is a pretty, pretty thing;

It is a fire,  it is a coal, 

Whose flame creeps in at every hole;

And,  as my wit doth best devise, 

Love’s dwelling  is in ladies’ eyes, 

From whence do glance love’s piercing darts, 

That make such holes into our hearts.

darts) the arrows shot by Cupid,  the Romans God of love

Reference 

University of Cambridge  Local  Examination Syndicate; Songs of Ourselves 

Sigh No More Ladies

by William Shakespeare 

Sigh No More, ladies, sigh no more, 

Men were deceivers ever;

One foot in sea,  and one on shore, 

To one thing constant never. 

Then sigh not so, 

But let them go, 

And be blithe and bonny, 

Converting all your sounds of woe

Into ‘Hey nonny, nonny’. 
Sing no more ditties,  sing no more

Of dumps so dull and heavy;

The fraud of men was ever so, 

Since summer first was leave. 

Then sigh not so,

But let them go

And be you blithe and bonny, 

Converting all your sounds of woe

Into ‘Hey nonny,  nonny’. 

blithe and bonny)  merry and beautiful 

‘Hey nanny, nonny’)  a cheerful chorus

ditties) songs

dumps) fits of depression

leavy)  leafy,  decked with foliage 

This remains one of my favorite poems ever.  So true! 

Reference 

University of  Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate; Songs of Ourselves ; Foundation Books