Saturday, August 14, 2010

A Woman Called Nigeria,By Ayinde Katunga. First published 2/7/2010

We are breaking with tradition today,we are publishing an article written by a very good friend of mine. He is a visionary,with a monumental capacity to see into the future,a great future for Nigeria. 

Read,and enjoy. I hope you get as much pleasure from Ayinde Katunga,as I have.

If the Nigerian nation were a woman...and most nations are; I believe. She'd be an angry woman. 
Fine woman...but angry woman. Voluptuous woman...but angry woman. Symphonic woman...but angry.

She'd be fully blossomed and matured. Adorned with shapely curves and replete with nature's - fullest of feminine fleshy accoutrements. Confident about her richness in allure, and yet so frustrated - because she is unfulfiled. She knows what she wants, or thinks she knows what she wants...but really she doesn't know what she wants. She does know however - what she doesn't want. And what she doesn't the way she feels, about something she doesnt want. So really...she does know what she wants. But better expressed with dripping tears, than tear splashed inky-words on unposted finery of paper.

She's frequently neurotic... and snaps into an artful pique. Her different parts are in perpetual conflict...her north and south unrenconciled. As she lies down expired.

Her northern parts think one way. As her southern parts think another. Sometimes she looks so dejected -not even bothering to pay her - Delta and Jos - parts the attention they need. They are neglected and unkempt. And all because her deepness is unfilled, nothing of note has joined her to share. She can feel her own void...and it gnaws. She wonders...what is it? What is wrong with me? So she has a number of flings to kill time. Starchy green khaki and rippling white agbadas. And has careless dalliances with a post-independence flitting time.

She plays and feigns, as she acts in fling and headless romance. Romances marred by many unforgettable long rapes. Old London, New Dubai, the town under a Cape, and the city that never sleeps: all of them she's been dragged through...they bear the currency imprints of her tattered past. She is making up for lost time; she deludes. But more accurately she is virulently angry with scorn. And why? Because at a level, much deeper than any canyonic word can yawn. She knows what she wants. She has the language to define it...not with words. But with loopy feelings and the nasty aggro - of a tsunamic agitation.

She has a super-duper crush on him. Its more than a crush...its a thing about him. Jiggy him, whom she'd always known was hers - and she; supposedly his. She had decided these things, and requistioned fate to seal. And so her pain was more.

Ok. So he is a little slow, he is taking his time. Or maybe he is a little intimidated by her brazen, unabashed full-on attractiveness. But she knows...deep down - not only does she want him...she wants him to cherish her. And wants him - to want and long for her; like crazy. If he doesn't do these things...then all the juices of her intense passions get locked in - and she hugs buddy neurosis again. The schisms of her south burp; the east-west split rears its dabaru-head again; it gives her untreatable headaches; uncured by the - imported fake drugs she cannot afford.

So one day after the end of another- sweaty breathless fling. The emptiness returned. Her aching joints and twitching facial muscle led a cascade of painful turmoils - whizzing across her stiff neck and blinking eyes. She was alone and spastic. Nervously she grabbed hold of a past mirror and looked at herself. She what she saw. The sadness from her bubbling bone marrow and inner nerves rose to her jangled face. She looked like a - dried up yam tuber. She cried out again "why does he not see me". "Why doesn't his passions push him...right into me". "Why is he so timid". "And why am i cursed to bear this torture".

She was wailing uncontrollably in between munches of stale suya...from last night, when she saw him. He was walking past her house front - on the 1st October, one day. She saw him and shivered...then she breathed him in. She was part happy and part nervous. Again her northern and southern parts were in harmonious disquiet...but she was in pain. The weight of the years of her birthday didn't help.

"Enough is enough" she decided. If he won't come to me...I'll go to him. She dashed outside her house and ran after him [Mr Progress]. He was a little faraway. But she raced and caught up with him. In no time she was behind him...her heart racing and her nostrils flared, as her - award winning bum - threw caution of tamed decency - to the winds of Atlantic and Sahara; colliding. Jiggle...Jiggle.

She tapped him on the back, he turned around. She looked into his eyes. Their eyes squared. Their hands joined. She read his mind. He understood what was going on...he had no escape. He had to face the truth. He'd always felt his destiny was fated to hers... but didn't know or wasn't sure how.

She hushed him "shhhh" as he began to falter his limp words. 

She spoke: "It's ok..." "...don't worry" "You won't be alone" she said. "You and i...are now one". "Just let it go, let your hesitations go...we'll be alright". "I love you...i've always loved you". "And love you even more...that it's taken this long". The dread of her age lightened, as she felt his purpose and power rising. And since she was hope...she breathed him some more, and was inspired by the shining paths that opened up before her, as he moved nearer.

That's all she had to tell him "you and I...are now one". He believed, he strengthened...and joined her as one, as their flesh stuck, and the current moved. And every hope in her, he fulfilled, as her inner turmoils of north and south were transcended...the east and west complied. And she gasped her passage through into paradigm. And he arrived where she went. 

The heavy rains soaked the soils, the yam tubers plumped up, as their roots sucked up hydration. 


We are a great country. Let us fulfill her. 

That she fulfill us. And she is fulfilled to fulfil us again and again 

Let the ideology of - a truthful progress of moral conscience, enter her.


There is a voice of progress in our nation. 

There is hope in our nation. 

But first...they must join, before either can be whole. 
Because their wholeness is to be found in their union.

Just like man and woman are fleshy illusions of a virtual reality. 
So too...are Hope and the action of Progress. 
Real Hope is - actualised. 
And Real Progress is - actualising.

Woman has no definition outside the realm of man.
And neither has man any defintion outside the realm of woman.
But together their blissful union shines and twinkles...and is the happy face of our progressive humanity. Everything else is window dressing - and apologist commentary.

Woe-man, is the man not in benefit and guidance of a woman's love.
And unmanned, is the woman orbiting alone in the universe unguided.

A woman called Nigeria needs help. Are you the one she is looking for?

Hell hath no fury like a woman's scorn.



  1. Darlington EhondorAugust 14, 2010 at 3:12 PM

    The metaphor suffices, drives the point straight home. But the hope is a grand delusion. Nigeria is so far gone that retrieving her from the deep end sounds utterly delusional. The moral and physical damage is too thorough, irremediably complete. Pity, that.

  2. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!