Tuesday, August 30, 2016

the Painting, this Boy and his Love for the Artist

It started with a tweet. A guy named Murphy with whom I had attended an arts show months earlier.

‘Artist needed. I look to commission a painting’ then trails of short direct messages ensued; ‘I know a guy, who knows a guy, who can hook you up’.

It was Sunday when I first met Yemi. I remember particularly that the sun shone bright and hot. And my head ached, the kind of head ache that said clearly you didn’t belong in the sun. 

My car lazily pulled into First Bank’s parking lot. This has to be the smallest bank branch I thought as she came into the front passenger’s seat;

‘Good Afternoon’ she said without saying her name as though being nameless was a show of respect. I nodded and said ‘Just give me directions’.

I remember her smell as it filled the space in the air conditioned car. I first thought cinnamon and later changed my mind and agreed she just smelt of paint; that icky combination of paint and dried up sweat.

It was not until we got to her studio that she took off her headscarf and I saw her hair: uneven, ruffled and all natural. She wore no make-up; like she made no effort whatsoever, like there was no reason to make an effort.

Now it is close to a month and she is ready to deliver my painting. She sends me a photo of it first to let me know what I am expecting. I send her a message saying it is crooked. We go back and forth and she tries to justify its crookedness. I insist it is crooked but for the sake of what may be a friendship, I let it slide. 

‘Please deliver it promptly and in good condition’ I reply.

As she hangs it on the wall I step back and look. Wondering, admiring, I have never doubted her talent and this painting proved that any doubt would have been misplaced.

For the first time, I notice the smooth skin on her arms, her full lips and I wonder what they would feel like if I kissed them. Instead, I say ‘Thank you’ and point to some blemishes on the frame ‘You have to polish these up’.

‘I will do that when next I come’ she says and I am pleased. This is indicative of her want to return, of her want to see me again. It is proof that the slight chemistry between us was not felt by me alone.

She returns as promised and I wish she did not just present herself only as an artist delivering a commissioned painting.  I wished she saw herself as a friend, or someone who was at least welcome in my house. I had demonstrated this on the two occasions when I offered her a drink or a snack or just a seat or that other time when I sent her a message asking her to stop by at will. All those offerings, she refused.

After she left we exchanged messages again.
‘Thanks’ I say. ‘You’re Welcome. Regards to your mum and dad’ she replies and I wish she would not be so professional; only focused on her art and never saying anything personal.

‘They’d hear. They both live out of town’ surely that ought to lure her into conversation, I thought. It didn’t.

I sigh a heavy sigh and feel dispirited.

I remember Murphy saying to me in a message ‘This artist is professional’ and I wonder why he pointed that out. I look back to the painting, there’s a woman seated cross-legged with purity bursting out of her chest. I say to myself 

‘At least I will always have a piece of her’. 

Have any stories where you tried to blur the lines between professionalism and leisure? By all means, share in the comments...  

Adejoh Momoh (momoh.adejoh@gmail.com) can be followed on twitter @adejoh

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

How She Left

I notice it even as I eat, or sit or walk; my motions are getting slower, more deliberate, purposeful even. I hear the door handle twist violently, almost like the person who twists it expects it to swing open. When it did not open, I hear an even louder knock.

I lay still in bed, allowing whoever it is the pleasure of a second knock. All the while I imagine who I must have given the right to knock on my door that hard.  After the second knock I lazily pull myself up from the bed, in the distance from room to door, I hear even louder knocks.

‘Did you not hear me honk at the gate?’ she asked as I opened the door and I hoped the question came out as a joke. It wasn’t until I turned towards her and saw her awaiting response that I sighed defeated-ly and said,

‘Was I supposed to hear?’ a response that didn’t really mean anything, but seeing as it answered a senseless question to begin with, I did not mind. I probably should have asked if I was the gate keeper or if people stayed in their houses and listened for honks.  

We sat for minutes in silence, I thought of offering a cold drink from the fridge but I did not just get myself to. Instead I sat there, willing to say much and actually not saying anything. We both stared, it was uncomfortable at first but it quickly got better. She pulled herself up abruptly, grabbed her car keys and said,

‘Let me quickly drop someone off and return’, I smiled wide. She had outdone herself. I didn’t think she could stand our silence for thirty minutes.
It is ten minutes before she sends me a message,

‘I might run a little late’, I smile and think to myself ‘Learner’…. ‘this is how she finally leaves my life’

Have similar stories of partners who craftily leave just before valentine so they can avoid gifting? Please share in the comments or leave me a mail.... 

Adejoh Momoh (momoh.adejoh@gmail.com) can be followed on twitter @adejoh

Sunday, July 19, 2015

#ShapersCONNECT review

Adejoh Idoko Momoh
For anyone who knows me, they know I’d never pass up on an opportunity to hear El-Nathan speak. He isn’t just a phenomenal writer, he is also true; his honesty is brutal in an ‘I-don’t-care-if-it-hurts’ kind of way.
When I got the #ShapersCONNECT invite and it pointed out that one of my favorite people, Jake Okechukwu Effoduh will compere and El-Nathan John will speak on social media usage and its consequences, attendance was a no brainer for me.
You see, there are certain social circles in Abuja and the Abuja Global Shapers is one comprised of leaders under the age of 30 who are exceptional in their potential, achievement and drive to make a contribution to their communities. At least that’s what it says on the website.
Being there at the event and seeing all the people, I could tell this was no ordinary crop. It
was evident in the way they spoke; the ease with which words bounced off their lips, the delicacy with which they held their glasses, how they gently rubbed on your forearm as they complimented you, I was glad to be there.
The theme itself was fitting- ‘the role of youths in an Evolving Nigeria’ and 3 entrepreneurs shared their perspectives. I do not remember names and all, but I remember the feeling that came with the first entrepreneur. She had this ‘our-society-is-plagued-with-ills-look-and-i-am-here-to-correct-it’.  
I believed this, at least until she started speaking. She began a sermon on financial lessons she learnt from reading the Financial Times and continued with the fact that she relocated from the United States in 2010 and started her Nigerian business in 2011.
She spoke on poverty, talked about discipline and savings and the fact that she was 21 years old when she bought her first house in Maryland. She now owns two homes in the United States.

‘I hardly think she is qualified to talk on poverty’ I said to the stranger who sat next to me. He grinned. The sort that suggested he didn’t want to be spoken to.

Talks of poverty are important in the sense that they create awareness around the issue and the urgent need to end it, but her views were very elitist, unrealistic even. How do you weigh poverty by the capacity to buy houses? In America no less? How many middle class Nigerians even own homes in Nigeria? How many Nigerians have even heard of the Financial Times? Or seen a copy? Or read its words?
Home ownership is important, but it hardly is one of the issues poor people in Nigeria concern themselves with. Poor people usually have issues that surround survival: feeding, access to water, shelter even if make shift or temporary, they hardly are concerned about saving up to buy a home, it’s the least of their priorities.
The second entrepreneur who is the founder of Designers Market Place spoke on innovation in business and youth participation. I honestly have no recollection of her talk. DMP is an event that holds on the last Saturday of every month in Abuja. Designers showcase fancy clothes and prospective buyers come to occasionally make purchase. The DMP is a terrific idea in the sense that it provides common ground for designers and buyers to interact and achieve patronage. For most, it is simply a social hangout, one where you wear your finest clothing, meet up with friends and pose for selfies with mostly red disposable cups.
The close was the most interesting for me; El-Nathan gave a fantastic talk on social media and responsible journalism. He spoke of the lack of social consequences for misuse of media power and the responsibility for free speech. He closed with what to me was sheer genius and I quote, ‘Everyone can choose to assert his right to free speech, but ask yourself, what end does your assertion serve?’ Pure brilliance.
While El-Nathan spoke, I saw Ohimai Godwin Amaize more known as @MrFixNigeria on twitter adjust in his seat, seeing as he has been irresponsible with social media usage, I was almost sure hearing El-Nathan speak mostly rebuked him. I thought to myself, 
'there’s someone finally facing the consequences for misuse of social influence'.

Got reviews you'd like to share? Mail me at momoh.adejoh@gmail.com. If you've enjoyed reading this, consider sharing and recommending it within your personal networks. 

Friday, June 12, 2015



By Adejoh Idoko Momoh.

‘The hardest part… the most difficult part of anything really is the wait’ It makes you see things, think things you have no business thinking. For me it was a lump in the back, slightly beneath my right shoulder blade that disappeared and appeared at will.

As I sat at the radiologist’s awaiting confirmation of ailment my mind wandered: cancer; typically associated with lumps. It made the most sense.

If it’s true what they say and cancers have life, wouldn’t the cancer cells in me be constantly struggling to stay alive? Isn’t my body the most conducive environment within which they can grow? Will taking the lump out not amount to killing it? Killing a living, growing thing?

And then the thought hit me, as much as I will try to fight this if it was diagnosed as cancer, wouldn’t it also fight back? Wouldn’t it want to continually survive in an environment that is conducive for its survival?

I quickly think to activism: we fight for fetuses and animals and plants, all living things. Perhaps we should fight for diseases like cancer or bacterial infections which live as well. Shouldn’t they have rights as well? After all they are smart enough to grow and adapt. To manifest in lumps and tumors that can disappear and reappear at will.


‘Is there an Adejoh Momoh here?’ It wasn’t until he called a second time that I slowly walked up from my seat.

‘Take off your shirt and lie there on your stomach’ I do not quite remember but a question came to mind. I didn’t ask it though.

He spewed a really cold gel on the lump site and ran something that felt like a mouse pad over it. It didn’t take thirty seconds before he wiped the gel off and instructed that I get up. As I stood, he looked at me very weirdly, almost with disappointment in his eyes.  

‘It’s just fatty tissue. Lipoma… there’s a store of fat underneath the skin, yours is simply an unusual gathering of this fat. Not harmful’

‘Do you advise I have it removed?’ …. ‘Only for the aesthetics’ I ran my hand over it, felt it and decided I didn’t like the feeling. I thanked him as I turned to leave

if you've found this interesting, please feel free to share as widely as you can. Join in the conversation as well: share in the comments stories of thoughts you had no business thinking. Adejoh Momoh (momoh.adejoh@gmail.com) can be followed on twitter @adejoh.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

A patient’s tale

Source: www.abujatimes.com

Adejoh Idoko Momoh

‘It was a little harder this time’, most people don’t understand this when I tell it and there’s good reason not to. After all, I always wore a smile, was first to assure I’d be fine in no time and was out of the hospital two days after surgery. I shared with no one the horrid tales of how I thought I’d not survive the procedure, not even with my partner or family; it’s this not being able to tell that hurt the most: Just knowing that everyone has his problems and not wanting to burden anyone.
They didn’t see and I didn’t tell them of the nausea that wouldn’t let me sleep for all my recovery. Or that constantly lingering pain that made me pause even as I tried to do seemingly normal things. How waking from the anesthesia felt like an out-of-body experience and how I could hear the doctors call my name even as I struggled to respond. Every time I formed words in my head they never came out of my mouth. When they finally came the first thing I said was something so inappropriate the doctors cringed.  
The thing about surgery and recovery is that even when no one pressures you to take strides or expects you to make a full recovery immediately; you put the pressure on yourself. Like proving the point that you are strong and can beat the weakness associated with recuperating.
For me, the pressure begins with the very origins of illness; they say an inguinal hernia is mostly caused by pressure to the abdominal wall; it typically presents in patients as they are young and keeps increasing in size as they do things that further weaken the wall. However irrational some guilt starts to prick at you; afterall this pressure is brought about by your own acts.
For most people who suffer hernia or will suffer it, I say this; hernias are typically non threatening and there is the temptation to save yourself the needless procedure that fixes it because it poses no harm. Know that in all these, there is the very slim chance that it gets strangulated and from reduced blood supply to severe pain and possibly a fever there are many downsides to this. My advice, if you start to see signs of a hernia, have it fixed before it becomes an emergency.

Please feel free to share if you enjoy reading this post. If you need to talk, please leave me a mail at momoh.adejoh@gmail.com and I promise to respond immediately.  

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

It is a Woman Thing

By Adejoh Idoko Momoh.

I started out this month watching Selma: ‘the Martin Luther Selma to Montgomery march for voting rights’ movie and I found it fitting that I write about lessons from it. This and the fact that it is women’s history month informs the fact that this piece is about women.
Without Winnie Mandela there will be no Nelson Mandela, without Coretta Scott King there will be no Martin Luther King, at least not to the extent we know both men. In Mandela’s case, he probably would have stayed in prison long enough and returned to meet an uninspired population: people who were content with the status quo and thought it was too difficult, violent even to change it. But no, Winnie kept them inspired, held forte for him.
Nelson Mandela had his shortcomings: he smoked, there were allegations he cheated on his wife, according to most people including Winnie he came out of jail half the man who went in, he accepted a soft landing instead of asking hard for his demands and then he came out and divorced the very same wife who kept his vision alive when he couldn’t do that himself.
This piece does not serve to taint the memory of this man, who quite easily is Africa’s most progressive leader, but this piece serves to celebrate the often unsung heroes who come into our lives and complement our weaknesses, those who help us see life in perspective and encourage us when we choose to carry on in our fights.  
You’ve ever heard the saying ‘behind every great man is a great woman’? This saying mostly is true and for Nelson Mandela, Winnie was that woman. And only when you begin to acknowledge her many roles in South Africa’s anti apartheid struggle will you begin to understand how movements are built. How they succeed, how they never happen in isolation: by one man or woman’s efforts. They always occur in the context of community and family, and for Mandela, that community was led and nurtured by his wife.
Surely, she made a few misguided decisions largely surrounding the Mandela United football club and allegations of infidelity, even as I do not aim to justify these things they contributed immensely to keeping her alive. She could have taken the easy route; simply leave him as he went to jail or give up the struggle as she faced persecution, torture, exile and multiple death attempts. She could have remarried just as soon as he was taken away but she didn’t, she raised his two daughters herself on very lean resources, largely alone and without complaints.
Perhaps there should be a day in her honor; a day when we give thanks to all the supportive women who keep our dreams alive. A day when we say achievements most times are about the person behind the person. The person who encourages the achiever, that person for Nelson Mandela was Winnie, and for Martin Luther, Coretta.

Please feel free to share, leave comments on how your dreams have been encouraged by someone else, leave stories celebrating the wonderful women who make your world what it is. Adejoh Momoh (momoh.adejoh@gmail.com) can be followed on twitter @adejoh

Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Nigeria’s Broken Children

SOURCE: www.marcusbleasdale.com
By Adejoh Idoko Momoh.
Do you know Nigeria has an internally displaced population of 3.3million? And most of these displaced people are women and children? As things are these 3.3 million people are only the officially registered internally displaced persons and many other unregistered internally displaced persons may exist. About 850,000 people in Nigeria’s North East region are internally displaced and the National Emergency Management Agency has set up only 23 camps to cater for them. What this means is that this agency expects an average of about 36,956 people to live in any one of these 23 camps which are mostly National Youth Service Corp camps or secondary schools that do not have the facilities to deal with such a population.
Sometimes, I wonder what it means to be displaced. What it means to abandon your home, to run from the certainty of all that is familiar into the uncertainty of mountains and bushes. In all my questing, I have asked a few people what that all important thing they will take is: when they hear bombs in distance and the sound of gunfire approach, what is that one thing they take as they leave, of all the people I have asked two variables kept recurring; certificates and cash. A few people said things like iPads and travel documents, but those were really few.
In justification of the choice of their certificates, most people say that when the insurgents eventually are conquered and there is relative security, only their certificates will help them rebuild their lives. Considering that since the civil war in 1960 at no point have Nigerians been forced to leave their houses such as now and when there is a constant threat of death education mostly becomes secondary, it is encouraging that people still believe in the capacity of education to get them out of hopelessness and into opportunity.
In all of these, children are perhaps the worst hit as they are most times pulled from schools and develop an unwillingness to return to education. It is not hard to imagine why. The insurgents who terrorize them serve to fight and banish Western education, the psychological effects of this is in time schools begin to remind these children of horror, of death and bombs.
Perhaps to alleviate this, in addition to clothing and food drives we carry out for displaced persons, we should provide these camps with teachers and mentors. With guides and matrons, because when you live in such atrocious circumstances there is the tendency that your world becomes small; reduced from beauty and possibilities to the sound of shelling and gunshots.
This by itself is a tragedy we must never allow happen: we must raise structures that empower Internally Displace Persons (IDPs) to change their mindsets from those of victims to survivors. As it is, we are doing dangerously little to help child victims and it is only our help that can help them win the war against the very same insurgents who made them leave their homes and schools in the first place. Doing anything less will amount to the insurgents winning and the children loosing.
Most people argue that from the United States to Kenya and Pakistan or France, Nigeria is not the only country battling insurgency either on its shores or in an ally nation. The thing with the Nigerian state is that we lack the capacities these nations have demonstrated in dealing with these insurgencies and even when we make progress in infrastructure or the economy, lives don’t improve because the basic necessity of security is not provided.
On one of the only times I met a displaced child; I asked her the kind of questions you expect a concerned older person to ask. I asked her ‘what do you want to be when you grow up?’ I half expected to hear doctor or pilot or hair dresser, but no. Her face turned blank and she said ‘Alive’. ‘I want to be alive when I grow up’. I did not ask any more questions. The tragedy that the Nigerian state has become hit me.

Adejoh Momoh (momoh.adejoh@gmail.com) can be followed on twitter @adejoh

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Television show review: How Hannibal and I are alike.

By Adejoh Idoko Momoh.

As someone who has had experience feasting on raw flesh, it is hard to imagine how watching the television series 'Hannibal' upset me so much; it is after all about a psychopath forensic psychiatrist ‘Hannibal Lecter’ who after gruesomely murdering his victims delights himself by feeding on their organs. My brush with flesh eating I will tell on much later in this review.

Hannibal is an amazing show, one that proves true the theory that not all beautiful things must be explored or seen. Many things are brilliant about the show: the conversations witty and the performances smart, convincing even. My favorite character by far is the Professor Will Graham who plays the part of an FBI profiler, partly because he reminds me of how fragile humanity is; how trusting man desires to be and how guilt most times pushes us to do things we ordinarily wouldn't do. From him, you clearly get the picture of a man haunted by personal demons and feel the urge to push yourself further even when that exposes you to significant risk. His analysis, observation..everything is flawless.

The most disturbing thing about this show is that as the it progresses, the mind games get even sicker and really twisted in a good way that it keeps you interested. Its murder scenes are very detailed and precise. You know that edge of your seat, stomach twisting, gut wrenching gore that in the end leaves you frightened and excited at the same time. And this is perhaps what sets Hannibal apart from other psychological thrillers; its ability to not hold anything back, to be bold in its presentation and imagery. Admittedly, the early episodes of the first season seemed a little misdirected and confusing but going forward from the third, every story line was compelling as it was interesting, I kept thirsting for more, wondering how it was possible for the show to progress, but it progressed in very unexpected ways.  

My take on it really is simple, if you want a brilliant show good enough for the whole family to watch, Hannibal doesn’t quite cut it; the emotional, psychological torture you endure while watching it surely is not worth its brilliance, but if you want bold, audacious, daring, a show that pushes you to imagine things you never thought imaginable, then by all means see Hannibal.

As regards me eating raw flesh, it’s a very funny story actually. After we tired from shopping my sister suggested that since we were both hungry and probably wouldn't be grabbing dinner, we buy a pack of chicken from M&S and settle to eat it. Being someone who has a very healthy appetite for food, I wondered what she expected chicken to do for my hunger, but we bought it nonetheless. As we settled I immediately reached for the pack and ripped it open, removed a thigh and bit into it, it was sheer bliss. Perfectly seasoned lightly boiled chicken; my taste buds were excited. It wasn’t until I took the second bite and swallowed it that my sister stopped me. ‘the chicken is raw, we have to heat it in an oven’ I looked at the thigh in my hand and noticed its pink flesh ‘I am so sorry. I am so sorry’ she laughed.  

Friday, October 17, 2014

Airline Review: The New Spirit of Africa

‘Why Ethiopian?' 
and I immediately knew why she asked. I heard the gory stories too; from plane seats that had tear marks from wear to aircrafts that made a wiggling sound just as you take off and the food; horrible awful food. In the end of what was a long conversation, she said 'please leave Ethiopian airlines out of it'. It was at this point I made up my mind to fly Ethiopian, experience it for myself, see if there was any truth to all the rumors I had heard. 
The rumors began to prove true a good eight hours before my flight; I tried to check in online and save myself the hassles of airport queues, but no, the Ethiopian airlines web site kept popping up an error message whenever I entered my flight details. This was the only time during my experience with the airline that I wished I had taken my sisters advice. 
The airline was nothing like the stories I had heard: we flew in a very generous Boeing 787. There was very adequate leg room such that I could stretch and even cross my legs without inconveniencing the person who sat in front of me. The inflight entertainment was spectacular; the lineup had so many recent movies that I was spoilt for choice, I eventually settled for Hercules and Invictus only because I hadn't seen both of them. The music too; really nice. 
None of the warnings people gave me of Bole International Airport were correct, to my mind it is a very decent looking airport with its expanse of glass and very high ceilings, everything about it I liked, except of course the bathrooms which were usually packed full and had wet floors. This is easily explainable though, it is mostly caused by people performing ablution in non designated areas. I used the Sheba Miles lounge and I was impressed, I had coffee, wifi and was comfortable enough to catch up on sleep. My 5 hour layover was an experience in itself.
The food on board was delicious, better than most bigger, more expensive airlines. I was served an assortment of long grained rice and really tender chicken, a bread bun with butter and cheese to compliment it, a generous bowl of fruit salad with berries and papaya and mango, and a vegetable salad mainly of beans, carrots, peas. All was really nice. 
Most airline related complaints are of air hostesses, but that wasn't my experience; I did get upset a couple of times when I pressed the call button and no one answered, but after a few minutes a hostess came by with apologies, a complimentary gift bag from first class and promised to constantly refill my paper cup with fruit juice as compensation.

All in all, the Ethiopian experience was lovely, especially for the price it flew; as I see it, the airline is both very easily affordable and very comfortable. I will fly the airline time and again. I insisted on filling a comment card on my way out: I am not one to get good services and not commend the business afterwards. Perhaps we all should do this, encourage businesses that make an effort to deliver real value. 

Adejoh Momoh (momoh.adejoh@gmail.com) can be followed on twitter @adejoh

Thursday, September 18, 2014

#BringBackOurGirls and the limits of success

By Adejoh Idoko Momoh

'What if it was my younger sister’s things in the photo?' I asked as I saw photos of personal effects belonging to the nearly 300 schoolgirls kidnapped from government secondary school Chibok on the 15th of April. The touching photos were compiled by a young American artist, Glenna Gordon with an aim to show the nature of these girls: their very delicate, easily impressionable frame of mind and how they are at the mostly confusing phase just before the transition to adulthood.
The events that immediately followed the abductions should give everyone some insight as to the insincere rescue mission going on and is perhaps what informed the formation of the Bring Back Our Girls Movement.
First, there was the miserable attempt by the Nigerian military to sell its citizens a false story as regards the immediate rescue of a majority of the Chibok girls, it did not take long for the people to uncover this story as the lie it was and that all girls were still in captivity but for about 50 who escaped by their own efforts. The military in swift response through one of its major generals in a press conference said that it acted on the information available to it at the time and apologized for deliberately misleading a grieving public.
With the presidency, it was silence. As is the strategy with ineffective governments, the Presidency in all its wisdom allowed rumors suggesting that the abductions were politically motivated circulate. Cleverly ignoring the fact that if it sincerely carried out its core function of ensuring security and fighting insurgency, the Boko haram insurgency might not have escalated to its current level. It is as though with these people who occupy high levels of governance, there is no sense of right and wrong, it is all about selfish interests and what spoils one man can gain from war.
It is in midst of all these confusion that the BBOG movement was birthed by Hadiza Bala Usman and a crop of her influential friends with the single focus of sustaining pressure on the government till it rescues the Chibok girls. With this, they did not demand anything out of the ordinary: they simply asked that government fulfills the most basic of its responsibilities of providing security for its citizens, going on rescue missions and bringing back all who have been abducted. This as it turns out is both the blessing of this advocacy group and its curse: the grouse was first why a single focus campaign when numerous ills take place in Nigeria daily, many wondered why this platform could not spread its tentacles, tackle more issues, be more inclusive of other peoples grievances. What happens to this platform when these girls are brought back? Will it fold? Its leaders, were they being sincere in fighting for the return of these girls or championing some political agenda? When all that proved unsuccessful as a strategy for bringing down the group, an attack at the integrity of its leaders commenced. So far, that too has not stopped the group.
One thing certain of the BBOG and the good people who participate in the advocacy is that they are all courageous, patriotic Nigerians who tragically might not achieve their aim of pressurizing the government till it rescues the abducted girls. On the other hand, one thing they have succeeded at though is keeping the issue on the fore front of discourse and they might have to accept this as far as their success can go.
I have always found consolation in the truth of these words and they are apt with the Bring Back Our Girls movement: it is true that sometimes we ask and we do not get the appropriate response, but it is also true that if we do not ask, we certainly do not get any sort of response. This is why I am a BBOG member: this is why I will stay with the cause until the platform ceases to exist, because it really is about asking the right set of questions. It is about a group of people asking a relatively passive government to rise to its responsibilities of protecting a citizenry and ultimately #BringBackOurGirls. It is about a group of concerned citizens demanding #ResultsFromTheRescueOperation and one pledging not to stop #UntilOurGirlsAreBackAndAlive, a pledge that with time has proved much more of a commitment than we all bargained for.

this article has been published in Sahara Reporters and Nigeria Intel