To be a Woman…

Today is International Women’s Day, and I am proud to be a woman. I am not apologising for being a woman. I love being one. Although growing up in a patriarchal society in the early eighties and nineties, I wasn’t too keen on being a woman. I observed women treated badly, abused, assaulted, and sometimes murdered wilfully. It was scary.

Even today, women are still maligned and ridiculed. Speaking up for yourself as a woman can open you up to criticism, coupled with the growth of a hydra, nasty social media where abusers could hide behind the screen and spurt hatred with relish. 

We may also face gender-based violence, harassment, and discrimination. Afraid of walking alone at night, feeling uncomfortable in certain situations, and being subject to sexist remarks or attitudes. In some countries, women fight off killers daily. It’s never ending.

However, on days like these, we can let our hair down and celebrate being a woman, a mother, and a human being. We have shown resilience and perseverance in the face of adversity and have made significant contributions to society in various fields, from science and technology to politics and art. We are a source of pride and strength.

Being a woman means having a unique perspective on the world, shaped by experiences and challenges specific to the female experience. It means standing up for oneself and others, pushing boundaries and breaking down barriers, and celebrating the diversity and strength of women everywhere.

I love being a woman.

Legacy Of Honour

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 The hot African sun shone in all its ferocious splendour, casting a glow on the darkened skin of the woman hoeing and pulling weeds in the corn farm, she stood briefly to stretch her back as her bones screech in protest.

 In faraway India, the tired feminine figure trudged on, pulling the heavy load of rice and in New York, Annabel typed furiously in her cubicle, her manager casting surreptitious glances in her direction. However, her mind was on Michael, her two month old son, whom she dropped in her mother’s house on her way to work. She returned early from maternity leave after her husband’s redundancy, her salary was all they lived on.

In Nigeria, Victoria raced home, her brown face squeezed together like a wrinkled orange. Friends brought her seventeen year old daughter from university, plagued with a mysterious illness. Victoria’s eyes redden with tears, her heart beating like a banjo drum, though she has nine children, the thought of losing one was simply unbearable.

Two weeks later, her daughter was strong enough and she went back to campus but the next morning, Victoria stood in front of her daughter’s hostel, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. When the daughter saw Victoria, she flew into her arms.

”Mummy, why are you here?’

”I wanted to be sure you’re alright!’ Victoria said and joy surged in her heart when she saw her daughter’s healthy countenance.

The daughter smiled and bade her mother farewell. Victoria left the campus and went back to work.

Victoria is my mother and here I am today, well and strong, my mother always feared for my life, I can’t blame her. I was very sickly while growing up. To all great mothers, women, girls everywhere, I salute you in honour. Let us all leave a legacy worth mentioning to generations yet unborn.

Thanks for reading, and to our men folks, you complete us!

Much love, always!