The only thing that is equal to the power of a woman is nothing. Ask anyone. Ask my very good friend, Mr. Okiri, he would bear me witness. Okiri is a smart young man. He lives in Lagos. He likes women more than I do. He is a bloody retard, with women. If you live in Lagos you would be smart, instinctively. If it does not work for you your environment will force it on you. By the time you start chasing after a moving vehicle because you are hungry and you need to get home, or by the time you shout on top of your voice and fight with a carefree bus-conductor for your change you would grow wiser. Seriously!
But women are so powerful. I am beginning to think that God is a Nigerian woman. Maybe he is. If all the women in the world should know how powerful they are they would control all men: big or small, rich or poor. I am already in that bondage, so do not worry about me. These great ladies will tie a rope around the miserable necks of the good-for-nothing men and drag them around while they bark for their freedom. No man deserves that freedom. Women do.
If a woman is a writer she would sell more books. Ask Chimamanda. Ask Maya Angelou and many others. She does not need to write explicit sex scenes like some retarded male writers who wish to cajole people into thinking that sex sells, even in literature. No. She would simply write what she feels and there, bingo! The benjamins would fall into place. Isn’t that magical? If a woman cries she would be listened to more. And even if it is the woman who did beat up the man no one would listen to the idiot narrate his ordeal. All fingers would be pointed to the man and maybe he would be stoned to death. That is no one’s making. That is just to tell you that it is indeed a woman’s world!
I bought my girlfriend a book as a birthday present. What else can a bloody writer buy a girlfriend, a diamond ring or some great mobile phone? You should have known why women dread writers. These ladies know writers are just a bunch of rascals who use the most beautiful of words on an empty pocket, promising the moon and the sun on a bed of nothing. A writer could climb the highest of mountains with words, turning roses to glorious mats, while singing with the birds, but he cannot even rob a community bank to appreciate the beauty of his muse. Pathetic!
When I got to the bookshop I scanned around for the best book that could make her feel better. I mean, Nigeria is messy right now and any book that is being bought for a woman should be such that would elate her feelings, mind and sense of being and make her stay sane. I saw a lot of books. Amongst them was a book by Mr. Carson. Ben Carson is a brain surgeon. The black man made the news when he turned out to be the first black man to successfully operate on Siamese twins. That’s his business! I got home that day and presented the book to my girlfriend.
Thank God for her. My girlfriend likes books to Mary-Kay. I know a lot of others who would kill me than have that bloody book. They would ask me if they were made to read or lead a life of boredom. They feel books are for bloody silly namas who do not like fun or where to catch it but in books. Sometimes I see reasons with them. But my babe received the book with all smiles and promised she was going to read it. It was her birthday gift. And to ensure the book was read I requested for a review, something subtle and easy. That way I would be sure of her love for books and I can keep buying her books and maybe some Mary-Kay, when necessarily needed, if it would ever be needed.
So there I was recalling all there could be with a woman who reads good books not junks. There would be great conversation. She would be able to argue a point and not use the Twenty First Century word: ‘whatever’. I once had a lady friend who took me into her bedroom once and showed me so many junk books I had not seen in my entire life. She fed on them. When I asked her if she knew Chinua Achebe and Camara Laye, she asked me if these names belonged to rock stars. I drank the water she offered me and picked the TV remote to busy my boring life. Life is really too short to ask further questions when you are not wanted.
And so my babe read the book and after weeks she presented me with a review written in pen. I read the review and felt warm. Women should review books more often. They put some sexiness in the books. If a woman should review your book as a writer it is like granting you sex without protection. Awesome!
I requested she posted the review online so friends could read and commend her efforts or encourage her where necessary. So she did. She typed the works with all carefulness on her mobile phone and successfully published it. There it was, nice, easy-going and perfect. I read each lines and her voice kept ringing in my head like she was actually reading the words to me. Request to be read to by a woman. You would wish to die in her arms, especially if she is as sexy as the sun in the morning. Tears would flow from your eyes and you would be thankful you saw heaven before your death.
But Nigerian men could be retarded. We hail women even when they sneeze. Shouldn’t we? Is there anything else to do than extol the virtue of the Nigerian women we admire? My friend who could not publish a book review written by me requested to publish the review by my girlfriend just because she is a woman! Nice. The next on my list would be transgender surgery. I need to be a woman so some men would take me seriously.
ARTICLE BY NWILO BURA-BARI VINCENT