11 Mar 2006 |
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| There being nothing like a dissident essay on any subject to make your correspondent’s eyes gleam with childlike delight, you can imagine the pure joy in this quarter this past Wednesday when one happened upon a short but interesting article by Srirupa Ray that runs somewhat counter to the usual argument on the issue of women’s liberation on the website of The Telegraph of Calcutta, India. Writing in a measured tone under the title ‘Reconnect with yourself’, Ray seeks to dismiss the culture of celebrating Women’s Day since, according to her, “It is as if men have set a standard, and we have to keep up with it.” She goes on to ask, “If we are so bent upon acknowledging their superiority, then why contest their position? In a bid for being equal with men in all respects, we are compromising on our own identities. If in the name of protecting our rights and dignities, we resort to sloganeering and empty rhetoric, we are indeed painting a very sorry picture of ourselves, and our race.” For all that, it’s in her conclusion that Ray pounds home a winner: “Why don’t we leave aside the gender issue for a while and ponder some basic questions? Why are we seeking freedom, and from what? Do we need a specific date in the calendar to celebrate our femininity? Isn’t every day a woman’s day? Let’s not murder whatever is left of our humanity by indulging in such self-pity. Let us, instead, celebrate every single day as a triumph of our souls in this endless struggle called life.” Indeed your correspondent couldn’t agree more. Growing up, many of the authority figures one knew were women. Elder sisters, aunts, grandmother, and of course, mother--in charge and tolerating no nonsense. Women were also some of the most daring people around the neighbourhood. Some were educated and a good number spoke English just like it was spoken on the BBC. Many wore fashionable ‘bongo’ trousers, bulky high-heels, had big Afro hair-dos, were beautiful and sexy and a few, like Mother’s younger sister, whipped around town in sleek Volkswagen Beetles with one hand on the steering wheel and the other positioned stylishly on the window sill. In the parlance of those days, women were ‘superb’, which today would mean ‘cool’ or ‘hot’ depending on which aspect you wish to highlight. To be fair, there were ‘superb’ men as well. They, like this writer’s elder brother, also wore trendy ‘bongo’ trousers, bulky high-heels and had big Afros. But even while they sang along to Boney M, T Connection, ABBA and Bob Marley songs with characteristic male gusto, they paled in comparison to the charming ladies who had it all locked down; looks, panache and the sheer grace of just being women--God’s coolest creatures! In later life, coming across the idea of women supposedly needing to be liberated from some malevolent male-dominated society sounded like something happening in Liliput, one of the fictional places visited by the hero in Jonathan Swift’s classic work, Gulliver’s Travels. Sure enough there were disadvantaged women in our neighbourhood but there were also disadvantaged men too. Indeed, considering the sort of in-charge status that many women enjoyed in their homes, it appeared if anyone needed liberating it had to be the men! Many times there were dour-faced men who’d been locked out of their homes by their wives for one misdeed or the other. Of course there were unfortunate incidents involving women too but certainly never envied the men, as they had nothing to be envious of, as did the women. Truly, there’s no shame in admitting here that being a woman seemed to be the best a human being could be and many times your correspondent has fervently wished to become one! On Molara Wood’s blog (<http://molarawood.blogspot.com/2006_02_01_molarawood_archive.html>), there’s a picture of your correspondent in one of his ‘I wish I was a woman’ phases. Dating from 2004, the picture was taken in a photo studio in Abuja by (aha, you guessed it!) a sweet young lady who had a bit of fun arranging one’s Bob Marley braids for a session that cost a handsome sum. Beyond dressing up though, the sheer power of femininity has always been appealing in an almost spiritual way. Frankly, the feminine form is God’s most magnificent creation. Recall the softness of female skin, the curvy and round parts and a physique that in some of its very exquisite renditions literally takes the breath away. What more can be said about this? Your correspondent admires beautiful cars and buildings and appreciates good writing and art; has enjoyed the stunning vistas of many plains on the road from Jos to Kerang, on the Mambilla Plateau and the resort at Obudu. He would almost swoon on hearing certain songs. Nice, meaningful and sometimes not particularly meaningful conversations have caused tears of joy to sneak out of the corners of his eyes. Wonderful strangers have blown this writer away with totally undeserved acts of kindness. God has been so kind with uncountable miracles and, even though for a short time only, one has known the incomparable pleasure of being filled with the Holy Spirit. And yet…yet… The feminine form. No word does the feminine form enough justice. All positive adjectives would likely apply. Dazzling, refreshing, inspiring, thrilling! Repeat magnificent and exquisite. It might sound inappropriate to some but the truth is not only is there awe of the feminine form in this quarter, there’s also a craving in the way a worshipper craves oneness with his god. Let it be reiterated: everything God created, no matter how beautiful or breathtaking, pales in comparison to the feminine form. Expect that some would misunderstand this reverence of the feminine form as a sexually guided (or misguided) veneration. There’s also the theory that it is all because of growing up for the most part with women and girls. But there were also long periods of living virtually alone with one’s father, a very manly man, if you please. Incidentally, cooking was learnt from Father not Mother; how’s that for a myth-buster? Sometimes, there’s the feeling God meant to make this writer a girl but the parents got in the way. With six girls already in the house and only one male child, they must have done the old down-on-our-knees number on God (“Our Father who art in heaven, please, not another girl!”) and the forever-compassionate Almighty switched body parts just to make them happy! At other times, there’s the dream of walking down the street in sexy pumps, tight jeans and a body-hugging top. There you go; all swinging hips, shaking big butt and throaty catcalls floating in the hottie’s wake. Ecstasy! The smile, a thousand watts of sheer bliss as long braids trail down the backside. If the world was a locked box and one had the key to it, couldn’t be happier. At such times, when your correspondent wakes up and there are no curves, no hips, no big butt, it seems it takes all the resolve there is to stop from screaming, “Give me back my femininity!” So why those who already have it would want to lose it for anything is beyond this writer. Incidentally, Mother is going to be 75 this month so perhaps it’s a good time to seek her views on all this women’s liberation matter, though, quite frankly, can’t imagine who Mother would be wanting liberation from, except perhaps President Obasanjo’s government that fails to pay her pension regularly. All in all, to women everywhere, a toast: May you all remain God’s coolest creatures!
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