So B, one of my
roommates, badges into the room.
‘Uzube,’ he mouths
with that peculiar Yoruba accent, substituting the n for a u. ‘To be a man no
easy oo.’ He just took a call from whoever. They spoke pidgin, with freckles of
Yoruba.
I wonder at what
might have prompted the comment. ‘Even to be a woman no easy.’ To be a woman may be harder sef, I want
to add, but rethink.
‘Eem,’ he narrows
his eyes, as if it were the sun, not my face, he’s looking at, obviously at a
loss what to say. ‘Haa!’ – his eureka – ‘but a woman will get married, and her
husband go don make am. Na we men wey dey suffer!’ Dogma!
And you,
man, no go get married? I want to
say. And your wife no sabi make am? And
dem women no dey suffer? And . . . But I’m learning not to argue (too much)
again, especially when my ‘opponent’, like B, is a walking trunk without a
head. Plus my stammering has become acute of late.
Auchi,
10 September 2015.
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