Why We Must Take Abductions Seriously

By Adejoh Idoko Momoh

In the days leading up to Monday, Fatima struggled with sleep; reconciling the need to wake at night to study and the deprivation of a past time she really enjoyed. Ten minutes after she finally found sleep, she was rudely awakened and forcibly loaded onto a truck.

It has been 94 days now and she is still held against her will in the camp of dreaded Islamist sect Boko Haram. She has neither seen any family nor a thing that is familiar to her and probably cries herself to sleep every night. This can very easily can be the story of any one of the 300 girls that were abducted on the night of April 14^th from the Government Secondary School, Chibok, Borno State.

There are plenty of reasons to be angry with a system that has for the most part been a disappointment and failed to deliver on its principal obligation of security for its citizens. However, you cannot afford to sit on the sidelines; put yourself in the situation of the girls or their parents. Imagine a daughter birthed and nurtured till the age of 18, and then she is carted away and you get no information on her wellbeing or livelihood for close to 3 months?

Or imagine yourself going to work or the farm, a lone land rover drives by and you are coerced into it, kidnapped for more than 93 days? The thought that this could just have been you or a close relative should motivate you enough to speak up. It may be a Fatima from Chibok today or an Elizabeth from Gwoza tomorrow. It may even be your own daughter; she can be kidnapped just as you drop her off in school.

Abductions should concern us and we should lend our voices to causes that demand that governments everywhere fund and motivate their armed forces adequately to go on rescue missions and bring back people who are abducted in a timely manner and deliver them safely to their parents.

If you are concerned about geographical locations and you naively think you are too much of an elite to be abducted or you live in towns far away from where these gruesome acts take place, let me share with you the story of a personal friend; herself a veteran Nollywood actress.

One evening as she returned from seeing her brother at Dreams Garden in Abuja’s Wuse 2 District, she was stopped by thugs from the Abuja Environmental Agency and the Society against Prostitution and Child Labor who accused her of prostitution after hauling her into a bus. She was held against her will: condoms thrown at her, her clothes torn and photos taken to lay credence to their false allegations that she was a sex worker. She has since been released and has sought justice. Sadly, the process is slow or deliberately not yielding any result as people who constitute Nigeria’s ‘high and mighty’ are the same people on whose authority this abduction and illegal arrest was carried out.

Abductions in Nigeria are thriving because of cases similar to the above. Consider also the recent case of the two sisters who were kidnapped in Abuja’s Karmo district just outside their home. It is rumored the family had to pay some N10m to secure their release two weeks after they were taken. Who could have imagined? Two girls on a walk in a town that is supposedly the most secure in Nigeria kidnapped just in front of their home?

As long as people know they can carry out these dastardly acts and not face the wrath of justice, they will keep performing them. As long as we do not speak out, abductions will continue.

54 years after the Federal Republic of Nigeria swore in its constitution to protect its citizens and guaranty them the freedom of movement amongst other fundamental human rights, people like you and I continue to be abducted, arrested and held against our will. In other words, in every one of the 54 years we have existed as a sovereign nation, this country has continued to betray its self imposed responsibilities to its citizens.

Be attentive. Make it a habit to avoid dark walk ways and deserted parking lots. Or in situations similar to the above, get an escort; except in cases of terrorism, it is more difficult to abduct two individuals as opposed to one. Ladies can walk around with small vials of pepper spray in their hand bags; do whatever makes you feel safe.

In addition to all these, you must support movements like the BringBackOurGirls or the Women Rights Advancement and Protection Agency, both engagements that seek to let government know that we have had enough. We all have the right to live in a country that is abduction free. We must demand of our government who is the authority we voted into office to secure our lives and properties. We must make bold and say that we cannot condone these injustices to us, women and children.

(This article was first published on Sahara Reporters and can be found at the following link)

On Managing Peer Pressure

By Adejoh Idoko Momoh.

I today reconnected with an old friend and I cannot recall ever being happier in recent past. Memories of him being so helpful would flood my mind and I would think to the very first time we went out to have drinks.

After taking everyone’s order of something alcoholic the bartender would get to me. He would lean in as though to listen to me whisper:

‘I’d have a coke please’

I’d say with all the confidence a very responsible 19 year old can muster. In a few seconds, my confidence would wane as I’d notice all the stares. First from the bartender, then from everyone else who sat at the table; the very distinct look of hope, the hope that I was somehow mistaken and I had not meant my order.

I’d look to my friend in the corner; his expression would be very different. Apologetic even, sort of like:

‘I’m sorry I put you in this position’

With my gaze still fixed on him, I’d say to the bartender who still stood by

‘a redbull please. I’d have a can of redbull’

7 years ago to this day, this would be my first brush with peer pressure.  Okay, technically it was not peer pressure as the youngest among them was at least 10 years older.

Peer pressure as in this case can be negative and self destructive; however, it can be flipped by conscious action and can become a truly positive force. When you begin to surround yourself with positive people, their influence rubs off on you with time. I have seen this first hand; I knew I wanted to write. I sought for and joined a couple online writing classes, and I have seen my writing improve tremendously ever since. The only difference between positive and negative pressure really is simply the people you choose to surround yourself with.

Let’s make bold. Declare that we would surround ourselves with only people whose lives are examples and are capable of enriching ours positively as opposed to people who leave us worse off. Let’s shun the need to fit in, which really is the foundation of negative pressure and perhaps find that it is fashionable of some sort to stand out of the crowd.

Please share in the comments stories of how you have dealt with peer pressure or reconnected with old friends and classmates. Alternatively you can send an email message to momoh.adejoh@gmail.com and I promise a response. 

On Managing Illness

BY Adejoh Idoko Momoh

‘I think I have cancer Aunty’

There would be the longest ten seconds of silence and then I would continue. ‘It was in the bathroom, I reached for my scrotum and I found a lump’

Like every other Christian I know, my aunt would break into prayer: tell me of how cancer was not my portion and I probably was just scared. She would advise I go see a doctor and ask me to update her after I saw one.

Seven years later I would summon the courage to tell my mother of this lump, we would go to a clinic and discover it was a hernia. They would say it was on the right and then as they surgically repaired the one tear, they would see that it presented on the left as well and recommend that I had a second surgery.

My mood swung like a pendulum in the days that followed the diagnosis; at first I felt nothing, then my mother would ask why I did not trust her with information on the lump when I first found it and I would feel guilt. In a few hours, I would wonder if the doctors really diagnosed me wrong and it was cancer, then I would feel some relief it was not. At night, as I lay to sleep I would sink my face deep in my pillow and cry really loud sobs. In the morning I would think to surgical procedures and how expensive they can be. My thoughts would progress to worry induced by illness and then a lack of finances, then guilt again and some more blame; just the thought that I may have brought this upon myself.

I would go through all these privately and largely alone. I would have the support system of family but then I would consider that everybody has his troubles and I would not bother them. My brother would be at my side all the time, offering to help and my mother, as though magically putting her life on hold would constantly cater to me. I have only a handful of friends and at the time, besides 2 dear friends, they all would be absent. I would wonder why no one else was there and then I would think this spoke more about me and the people I chose to surround myself with.

It is a terrible thing to feel alone: It is horrific to keep family at a distance or hide the fact that you truly hurt from those who are closest to you. For we all who have at some point experienced illness, it is important that we get educated, know that we do not bring these things upon ourselves and discuss them with family, friends, and doctors. Know that if we only will, there is no illness that is too big to conquer or no situation that is capable of breaking us beyond what we allow.

Today, I met someone who would become a lifelong friend. He broke his neck and spine last year in an accident. His lungs collapsed due to an untreated pneumonia infection and he lost all feeling because of his broken spine. The doctors told him he might not speak, or walk, or stand for the rest of his life. Now following a course of therapy, even if his speech is painfully blurred he talks. Even if his hands are slow and they constantly flail, he has regained function in them. Even if he does not walk steady, he stands, takes a few steps then sits again. Stories like these should give us hope; tell us that whatever life throws at us, if we are so willed we would conquer, succeed and that we are truly not limited by anything beyond ourselves.

Feel free to share in the comments experiences that keep you hopeful. If you prefer, leave me a mail  (momoh.adejoh@gmail.com) and I promise to respond to each one.

The Red Lipstick-ed Teacher

BY Adejoh Idoko Momoh

We’ve all had that one teacher who was so tough on all her students that she was generally feared. That one in her middle ages who would wear layers and layers of very bright red lipstick and would come to school in stilettos. She mostly would teach a subject like English and would speak it impeccably, such that she would feel somewhat superior to fellow teachers who spoke the language averagely.

‘Take out a sheet of paper and have your writing materials ready’

she would say as she cat-walked into class one morning. She would administer an impromptu test that would form part of our continuous assessment even though she did not prepare us for it. All through primary school as I remember it, I had never felt as much pressure about passing a simple test as I did that day.

I had written about Kenya’s Maasai people and their distinctive, a-little-too-colorful customs. How they believed soil was therapeutic and they buried themselves in the ground for healing. And then I waited, held my breath as she sat at her table with cane by her side scoring our essays.

As she passed by me returning test scripts, I would see red circles correcting grammar on the first page of my essay and I would think of how she now considered me a failure. How the matron when I got back to the hostel would consider me same and my dad… His face as he looked at the test script not saying anything but probably contemplating if it was still a wise decision to have me in school.

I would flip three pages and what I would see would shock me;

97%. With a tiny gold star next to it.

The universally feared teacher who made it a point not to ever give good grades gave me an A. She didn’t just stop there; she stapled a tiny piece of paper just at the bottom of my script that made me feel special, very special.

‘Excellent storytelling. You have an ease with words. You do us all a disservice if you do not consider a career in writing’ 

The words so profound, no one had ever said anything like that to me. Except of course for my mom who in typical mom-like manner would say I was particularly skilled at whatever it is I told her I was interested in and that I was a genius who would redefine everything I set my hands on. This was when I knew I wanted to write. I knew I would purposefully look for something to genuinely compliment about people whenever I met them. For the sole reason that affirming words like these from friends, mentors, teachers, family, strangers even, make us into the people we ultimately become. They point us in the direction of a dream, make us consider or at least contemplate it.

Words carry immense power and it’s no good trying to deny this. My very favorite quote by Nigerian writer, Toni Kan is ‘sometimes the verbal wounds we inflict on others live with us for the rest of our lives’. As far as our words can go to tell someone we believe in them, they can also tear us or someone else down, make them question the very essence of their lives.

This is perhaps why we need to speak a little more kindly, a little more thoughtfully. Make conscious efforts to have our words motivate people rather than discourage them, inspire them as opposed to devastate them. We most often have no idea what impact a few words stringed together can make. 

Share stories of someone who has been an inspiration to you in the comments or send me a private mail at momoh.adejoh@gmail.com.

26 long years.

My fondest memory from being 25 is arriving at Hartsfield Jackson. I would sigh a long held sigh and whisper

‘I am finally in the land of the free’,

then my thoughts would wander and I would ask myself if a man in Atlanta and a man in Nigeria would turn 26 at the same time? Or if a man in Nigeria would turn 26 an hour before the man in Ghana? I would conclude that such time zone differences were too complex for my fragile head to decipher.

Over the years, I have cultivated the habit of writing a short post or poem every 12^th February and it is relatively easy to look at my previous year’s list of goals and tick most of them as accomplished. This year however, it is different.

Apart from two or three accomplishments, the list stares frustrated at me. I wanted to travel more, earn a lot more, work two or three more writing jobs but none of these has turned out the way I planned. What I would later come to conclude is that progress in your circumstance (wealth, title, salary) is one thing and progress in yourself is an entirely different thing.

In the last year, I travelled for a bit: experienced cultures I had only dreamt of. Survived surgery and believe me when I say nothing gives you a better appreciation of life than surviving surgery. I finally took some responsibility and know what I want to do with my life, what steps to take that would lead me where I want to be in the next few years. And I met a slightly muscled, hazel eyed beauty who I am determined to have the most meaningful intimate relationship with.

In retrospect, this list looks far more meaningful than making a lot more friends or trying to beat deadlines. Perhaps, the major lesson here for me is recognizing that personal progress even when I have not made career progress is progress and every growth, no matter where it happens counts.

That said, I am happy, grateful just to be where I am and I look forward to exploring all the ills and good that come with being 26. 

Please share tales on how you spent your last birthday in the comments or leave me a mail at momoh.adejoh@gmail.com) 

A BIROS TALE

‘Like it is in the picture’. I would run to my mum bellowing like a wild puppy. Pointing to the Ebony magazine I had in my hands, I would repeat, ‘buy me a Mont Blanc pen like it is in the photo’.

My mum would nod a nod that said something like:

‘why does a 9 year old want such a pen’

and then proceed on her journey. She would not buy the pen like it was in the photo when she returned and I would not ask her about it. My brother would later say to me that she had a budget of four hundred pounds for all of four children and could not afford my six hundred pounds pen from the magazine.

Today’s post would not be about luxury pens and all, it would be about a biro or bic- whichever is more appropriate. One First City Monument Bank had freely given as a New Year ‘thanks for your patronage’ gift to customers. As I received mine, first thing I would think is:

‘Would customers not appreciate improved services even more?’

The biro would go on to mean more than just biro to me. It would prove to me that there still is some good to Nigeria. From it, I would come to sudden realization that even when we say Nigeria is doomed because it lacks good people, this is most often not true.

It was on Friday the 17th January, I had stopped a taxi just up the road from the American Embassy and asked the cab driver to take me to my office, he immediately would demand a four hundred naira fare and I would allow a smile spread generously across my face. Three hundred I’d say and he’d look me in the face and frown that weird frown that ultimately continues until it becomes a smile, he would nod slightly and I would get in. Apart from pleasantries, we would not speak until I got to my office. I paid him in complete change, thanked him and I hurried off. He would mutter something like N300 was inadequate and I’d simply ignore him. Thirty minutes would pass and I’d be busy with the day’s paper when the security guard would interrupt and hand me a biro. He would say the taxi man returned it.

This single act would leave me impressed. Remind me that even in a country where everyone is said to be corrupt or self centered and poor, a taxi man still would expend his time and fuel to return something as basic as a biro to its owner.

I would immediately picture God saying:

‘For as long as you are faithful with little, I would bless you with even more’ and I would wonder what this means.

I’d say a prayer for the taxi man and say ‘thank you’ to the security guard. Seating at her desk across from me, my colleague would look to me and ask:

‘are you sure that taxi man is Nigerian?’

I’d look back at her and smile, knowing exactly what she meant.

Share your stories of exceptional Nigerians here in the comments or send me a mail at momoh.adejoh@gmail.com. 

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

In Gratitude

courtesy: www.gratitude.org

By

Adejoh Idoko Momoh

Usually, I think through as I write my blog posts. Checking for inaccuracies, making sure that every statement reads just as I intended it. Today, it will be different. I would write directly as the words come to me, no second thoughts, no corrections.

In the last 5 years, I’ve gotten through the Christmas and New Year holidays with excitement, calm and some sense of accomplishment. Why? Because these past couple years have been some of the best in my life. I have seen myself grow in love, forgiveness, skill and health.

One of my proudest achievements of 2013 must be my blog. For the gift of readers, I am truly grateful. I have seen my blog grow from a site where I mostly write thoughts that are read by a few friends to one that has more international readership than it has national. My readership has grown from a modest 50 persons the first year it started- Yes, I really had only 50 readers read my blog in a 12 month period- to about 2,000 in December 2013 alone and about 45,000 in the year.

I would get e-mails from people genuinely interested in my posts, I fondly remember an e-mail message I got from an anonymous reader on my post ‘Finding Fit’. I had returned from the United States and saw the obesity crisis first hand; it encouraged me to write a post in which I referred to certain people as fat. This is the first time I would hear from the anonymous reader:

Dear Adejoh,

I have read your blog for some time but didn’t feel the need to write in until now. I found your post ‘Finding Fit’ very interesting to read. I enjoy your play with words and the ease there is to your writing. Fascinating. 

However, as an overweight lady myself it is my opinion that you need sensitivity training. You haven’t considered genetics or any other factors which can lead to weight gain in your piece. You somehow manage to generalize and blame it on diet and a lack of healthy choices. The sad thing is the piece in itself was so enjoyable that despite hating its message, I stayed reading it to the end; I guess that’s good writing. 

Anonimous.

In all honesty, as I read this mail I smiled. Thankful that a reader would take out time to read my blog and send me an e-mail in response. It is at this point I would conclude that the achievement really is in my readers, not the blog itself. After all, it really is simply personal experience and things as I relate to them. I would realize that one of the down sides to living in a busy society is that we tend to take things for granted. We overlook everyday blessings; the gift of readers, the blessing of people who freely share their opinion and the generosity of all those who offer encouragement however they can.

It is for this reason I have decided to with my first 2014 blog post just say ‘Thank You’. It is my hope that in this year, we all would be more generous with our thankfulness. I have come to realize that one of the reasons why we should be grateful for the seemingly small things is that it helps us appreciate the big things in life when they come. And the other and perhaps ultimate reason is that as we learn to appreciate the small things, we realize that no act of kindness really is small.

Share your stories on gratitude as comments here or send them privately to momoh.adejoh@gmail.com 

Discovering ISLAM- On Separation of Sexes

By

Adejoh Idoko Momoh

One of my first experiences with Islam was in my mother’s reading room; as she busied herself in the corner reading and chanting verses from her Koran, I picked up a bright purple and yellow book. Its title startled me:

‘Islam forbids the free mixing of men and women’

I remember fondly then I wanted nothing to do with a religion that would seek to forbid my association with my mother and sisters: the only females I had come to see as role models at the time.

It was not until 2007 when I travelled to the Islamic holy land, visited the holy shrine and stood at the foot of al-Hajar al-Aswad or the black stone in my ritualistic dress that I realized this doctrine is tradition at best. Adopted by a few, practiced overtime and has come to be accepted as right.

First off, there is no separation of sexes in the holy Ka’abah: I walked with and took instructions from my mother as we performed the tawaf - the circular walk around the Ka’abah, we were together during prayers and several other men and women prayed alongside each other. This was particularly refreshing for me, in some way, it made me more interested in the religion, in learning its tenets. 

I began to wonder, the Ka’abah and the rituals surrounding it are relics of Islam in its purest form as observed by the Holy Prophet (SAW), if there was any need to separate sexes in Islam wouldn’t it be obvious in this holy mosque? Would efforts not have been made to build a female section behind the male section in the Ka’abah?

My mum had constantly told us that her aim was to read the Koran wholly from cover to cover inside the holy Ka’abah before we had to return to Nigeria, so when hunger began to whirl in my brother and I, she suggested we have lunch at a Kentucky Fried Chicken close to the mosque. I grumbled a bit, wanting to eat some home cooked food but that trip to KFC would eventually provoke some curiosity in me, make me interested in the religion and its truths.

Inside the restaurant, there was a partition with bright red labels that read ‘Men’ and another that read ‘Women’- I sighed to myself and muttered ‘the separation of sexes Nigerian mosques are so familiar for finally shows up here’. A giggle would later escape my lips as we sat to eat.

My brother would ask why I laughed and in dismissing his questioning, I would simply nod and say I just remembered something funny. In reality, I thought of the irony and hypocrisy inherent, it is okay for men and women to mix when they prayed and it is not okay for men and women to mix while they eat?

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

Finding Fit

BY

Adejoh Idoko Momoh

First it was at the Wal-Mart, then the Premium Outlet would follow. It would be the same thing at the local Wendy’s or Burger King: all fat people.

Some riding automated carts so they didn't have to walk about shopping for their groceries or ordering the most fattening item on the menu irrespective of their balloon-sized-weight. It wouldn’t be too long before I would ask myself:

‘Where’s all the fitness, sexiness Hollywood has made me believe is synonymous with America?’

I would go to Food Courts, look around for a snack: candy, frozen yoghurt, sugar coated Danish and I would conclude America is a society that encourages obesity among its young. A society that charges a higher premium on small soda packs only so you are encouraged to purchase larger ones.

I would see this first hand when with a Nigerian friend training as a doctor in Florida at the time; I would go to the Altapointe Mall in Winterpark. Tired from seeing ‘Elysium’ and window shopping, we would settle for a blizzard. I would ask for a mini cone and my friend a medium, the red haired server lady would ask:

‘a mini?’ wearing that look sales people wear when they think you made the wrong choice and can do better. ‘if you’d upgrade your mini to a medium, you could get both cones for 99 cents each as opposed to the $1.30 cost of a mini or $2 medium’.

My friend, himself a few pounds heavier now would say;

‘Take the upgrade, whatever you have left over, I’d finish’.  I would look to him and smile. Run my palm over my now slightly bulging tummy and say, ‘I’d take the upgrade’. The lady would smile back as though I had made the wiser choice.

She would turn the cone up-side-down as though to show the blizzard was frozen stiff and I would remember my friend saying to me earlier nothing is quite as good as a blizzards frozen deliciousness.   

As we took our seats to enjoy our blizzards, I would notice a white haired lady with her American accent bent to reach the lowest layer of a phone case booth, her thighs about half the size of my waist and I would wonder: how in a society with unlimited options and organic food, people still couldn’t make the simple choice of living healthier lives.

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

What Would Victoria Do?

BY Adejoh Idoko Momoh

There’s something about the worship here; the church amazing in its construction: paved rocks like waterfalls leading to doorways that in themselves lead to a really expansive football- field -like arena with very high ceilings of public address systems, air-condition vents and beautiful art.

With arguably the largest congregation of any American church, Lakewood Christian Center seats a remarkable 40,000 people; the building was once Houston’s Compaq Center before the church bought it at $7.5 million and then started an ambitious $93 million worth of renovations, the church as it stood before me, justified every expense.

‘I am a mess sometimes. I might be a mess tomorrow… And you know what? God-says- it- is- okay to- be- a- mess, provided- I don’t- stay- that- way’ Victoria Osteen would say. Picking her words individually, in that voice white people use when they are overtaken by amazement or the sudden realization that whatever troubles they have has been mysteriously relieved.

I would loose concentration, think to my local church: Pastor Biodun Fatoyinbo’s Commonwealth of Zion Assembly, Abuja. His church, much like this: in branding, the motivation- like sermons, the largely youthful, hopeful population with excellent service of songs and praises: the ideal picture of a progressive church.

I would allow my mind wander. Ask what Victoria would do if like Pastor Modele Fatoyinbo, Joel Osteen had an ‘Ese Walters’ leveling allegations of a weeklong affair against him. A weeklong indulgence in fornication which Pastor Biodun fully aware of his actions lured her into, first by asking her to join his pastoral care unit, offering personal spiritual counseling and encouraging her to try alcohol. 

His ‘Ese’ would probably say he spoke in his very charming Texan accent, saying: ‘I’m gonna teach you a level of grace mankind doesn’t understand’ his eyes sparkling with the glow of a teacher eager to school his student. He would then threaten just like Pastor Biodun did: ‘I see premonition in which you leak details of our affair to the press. When such a time comes, remember that the bible requires you to hurt not Gods anointed’

Bringing myself back from thought, I would see her. Light skinned and very pretty in her above-knee-length blue dress accentuated at the waist by a metallic black belt, I imagine she would say to Joel, our marriage is for better and for worse, but mostly she would realize that he didn’t just sin against her, but against his church, against the part of Christ’s body he shepherds and therefore owed more of an explanation than the ‘Leave it to God’ posture Pastor Biodun has currently adopted with the people of COZA and the larger public.

For every one worker who would labor every Sunday, every weekday making sure services run smoothly,

she would demand that he apologizes. Not because by his apology he admits some form of guilt, but because by his actions, he has brought them embarrassment.

She would probably ask him to take a back seat from church activities, let other pastors who were content with their wives and didn’t see the need to desecrate their flesh with adultery, shepherd the church.

She would know that he is human, probably forgive him after she overcomes her own anger. She would know that because of this humanity, he would make mistakes sometimes and would need the direction a good wife should provide.

She would pull herself together: show that she is a woman in control and not just one who is lingering in the background, gleefully playing the victim of a cheating husband. She would take a stand: publicly stand by her husband, help him find God again or walk away, but all she would do, she would do boldly.

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