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Life

Dear August... (and maybe September)

Monday, August 05, 2019

Wait... did you think I was done?

That I had forever buried my e-pen and ink at the bottom of the Dead Sea??

That I had shut THIS all down, packed up my stuff and moved far, far away to Australia?

(No offence to my darling Australian fans... I love you 😍😍 )

Heck no!

But I have been up and about..

Remember when I hinted at the end of last year, that I was taking a step back in 2019, to build more substance in my life??

I love, love, LOVE to give through my writing. And I did a lot of that last year.

But sometimes... to be able to give, you have to build. And grow.

Which is why I've been off(ish). I've been working on personal growth, in my career and otherwise.

Most significantly... I slowly (but surely) rekindled my love for reading, just for reading sake.

I know; it's hard for folks in professions like mine, to make reading their hobbies. But fam... it hit me that movies and Social Media had consumed too much of my appetite than was intellectually healthy for me.

So I took a healthy step back from all of that, and literally forced myself to go back to reading.

At first, it was hard. So I started with the baby stuff. Pseudo-romance novels, laced with the Nancy Drew-type sleuthing.

Then I moved on up to hard-core thrillers. The Dean Koontzes and Robert Pattersons.

Now... I'm in full groove back in my addiction with reading, and just plucking the books from the shelves. My focus recently has been more on autobiographical novels; fun enough to keep me mentally entertained & stimulated, while taking notes on real life lessons.

I've got a poppin' line-up of some of these books, for August, and likely September. If possible... I just might stretch reading them to October. (Talk about delayed gratification)

How do I get the time, you ask?

Boo... I've learnt to restrict my movie watching to just weekends, and I'm now very selective with how long I'm on Social Media a day. Sometimes... 30 minutes a day. Other times... none.

So yes, these are my faves right now: Becoming (by Michelle Obama a.k.a Queen Mother forever!), Born a Crime (by Trevor Noah), Second Class Citizen (by Buchi Emecheta), year of YES (by my darling Shonda Rhimes), Invisible Women (by Caroline Criado-Perez) and Girl Stop Apologizing (by Rachel Hollis).

You can be sure that I'll gush about some (if not all) of them via reviews here.

In the meantime... yes. You can do the happy chicken dance.

I surely ~~am back~~ never left.

Paz,

Meg

P.s: Feels good to be back... doesn't it?

1 Comments

Women

Our Nigerian #MeToo: Finally Breaking the damn on pain and silence

Tuesday, July 02, 2019

I was going to write a cute post.

I was going to make this something intellectual, yet abstract. Something along the lines of using privilege for good… bla bla.

Something we could all easily clap to. And move on to the next thing.

****

To provide some context to my non-Nigerian readers: this past weekend, pandora’s table in Nigeria got scattered to pieces.

Busola Dakolo – Celebrity Photographer, Christian, mother to three children and wife to one of Nigeria`s biggest gospel and contemporary music artists – gave a tell all 25-minute video interview, where she revealed how she was raped serially while still a minor, by celebrity Pentecostal preacher – Pastor Biodun Fatoyinbo.

No one contemplated the nationwide outrage this would spark, culminating to staged protests at the Lagos and Abuja branches of his church. While there are other pressing issues disturbing the Nigerian nation – such as the attempt by the Federal Government to compulsorily allocate state land to cattle rearers - this issue bubbled to the top, past them all, and engulfed our hearts, our eyes and our phones.

Why?

You`ll understand, soon.

****

I was going to write on this, and about the strength in unity. Or the beauty of a support structure. I was even going to tag it “understanding the dynamics of the perfect victim”

But this matter is beyond anything ‘cute’ There is nothing cute about pain.

From the streets of Twitter to the pages of Facebook, it was as if this was the final twist needed for the cap to be broken open.

Nigerian women, for the first time in generations, are breaking their silence, screaming about assaults, abuse, rape they have endured since childhood.

It is as if ~~they~~ (forgive me) we have for the first time been tapped on the lips, and ordered: Speak!

Maybe it helped that the person who started this whole saga was what you could describe as the “perfect victim”.

Church going. God loving. Well mannered. Perfect husband and children. Perfect family.

Which in its own is a problem, and speaks volumes. Of how our society places the burden of 'believability' on a victim. A victim would have to prove total blamelessness for the crimes of the perpetrator.

They would have to be impeccable. Of a particular echelon in society, which would easily dispute quick rebuttals of false blackmail and extortion.

Which is why we could waive aside earlier allegations by Ese Walter, who was the first to speak out against this same alleged perpetrator, citing how he took advantage of her vulnerability and her respect for him as a person in authority.

“But how should we believe her?”, we asked. “She was over 18. How do we know it was not a consensual love affair gone wrong? A lone shot at cheap fame?”

“What was she wearing? Why did she not speak out soon?”

This was what we visited Ese Walter with, and other victims of sexual abuse or predatory-ship who dare to speak out. This in turn ensures others keep silent.

The vicious cycle continues, in one unending circle.

Back to the question: why did Busola’s issue then take precedence over all other national issues, sparking nationwide outrage, particularly women?

Call it God. Call it Fate. Call it the Universe… or if you believe in nothing, call it Time.

For some reason, this was the final straw that broke the chains of silence from Nigerian women, and all weekend, both the stories and the tears have not stopped flowing.

Let me spell it out for you:

We have cultivated and hidden for so long a RAPE CULTURE over the years, where from a very young age, Nigerian women are made to realise that the most of your life will be spent either fighting and fending off assaulters, or giving in to their demands. Either way, if your encounter came to light, you'd be branded.

Loose. Shameful. Ashewo. Raped.

Damned if you spoke. Damned if you didn't.

As if you were to be punished for a culture where men are raised to “get whatever they want”. And that “no makes it sweeter. Push harder”.

As a Nigerian woman, I grew up learning (the hard way) to not be left alone in the same room with males other than my blood siblings or my father. Any other male, I stayed up all night. Wide-eyed. Ready to kick and scream, even unto the death.

We all had these experiences, you know.

That revered choirmaster.

That trusted schoolmate.

That cocky lecturer.

That perverted uncle.

That “generous” godfather.

Even that drunk (or sober) father.

Our stories all rung the same. And for the first time, this weekend, we broke free of the labels and fear of shame to yell in unison “Me TOO!!!!”

For the first time in our lives, this past weekend, Nigerian women damned shame and labels in unison in recounting their stories of horror, and their anger that this monster has been allowed to breathe for so long.

This weekend, we broke that "damn" that chained us for so long, and burnt even the ashes of the keys our lips were sealed with.

So you see those protests against Mr. Fatoyinbo? It was not (necessarily) just about him. It was not even about the church, or clergy.

It was about every predator, who preyed on our innocence, our childhood, our youth, and/our fear.

It was about all of us who died a million uncountable times, from the first No, to the forced penetration, through the repeated abuse, to the tears we shed when our husbands came near us, without understanding why they made us cry when they touched us.

It was for all the pain that made us to vow silently Never Again, while filling us with inexplicable bitterness.

It was for Ochanya, and others like her, whom even as we speak, are still being raped, abused and preyed on.

As I write this post, I cry hot tears of pain and anger. Broken and in pain.

From the stories I have been reading and personal messages I have been receiving from sisters all over Nigeria, opening up for the first time on their pain.

From memories of my own anger.

So stop telling women what to do or not do, how “this protest is not the best way to get past the pain”. Pray tell… what do you know about a pain that you have not experienced? For the brothers, how do you get off mansplaining a woman’s pain?? And for the few 'pickme' sisters (lucky, weren't you?), how do you get off 'othersplaining' a pain that is not yours?

Understand this: the stories shared this weekend revealed that a huge majority (maybe 90%?) of women who lived or grew up in Nigeria experienced sexual assault at some point in their childhood through adulthood, particularly from persons in authority and/or persons close to them. Some of these ended as assault. Others unfortunately, led to rape.

These include your mothers, sisters, aunties, wives, daughters.

Let that sink in.

Go back and read the second preceding line.

LET THAT SINK IN.

That pain? There is nothing abstract about it at all. It is much closer to home.

It is under your nose. Your very eyes. Busola’s was just the tip of the iceberg. The last straw.

What to do?

Call your wives. Call your sisters. Call your daughters. Call your mothers. Your brothers even. Get ready to cry with them. Whatever it takes for them to heal, do it with them. Hold their hand through it.

If you can, confront the abusers. Bring them to book. But many will be long dead, or already been dealt with by fate.

Karma is a never-ending mood.

Whatever you do, PROTECT YOUR CHILDREN. Stay vigilant, and do not cover any predatory behaviour under “family matters” or “church business”.

Let every predator be made to dance to the full music of the law. As I always say, the arms of the justice may swing slowly… but they surely swing.

Sending love, light, peace, and loads of warm e-hugs to every person who had to relive this weekend, pain long “forgotten”.

Love,

Meg.

Photo Credit: www.instagram.com/busoladakolo

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Human Rights

The truth of When They See Us

Tuesday, June 18, 2019

When They See Us has done something to the world that we cannot yet place a finger on.

Prior to this Netflix series, it was something abstract; something we idly watched via BLM protests via CNN.

Prior to now, you did not really understand it yourself, unless you were a person of colour, or had relations with persons of colour, AND lived in North America.

***

It was in 2012 that I first had an insight into the reality of what this truth was.

A freshly-landed post-grad student in the sleepy town of Halifax, with all the “perks” of being a post-grad student in Law; the automatic social pedigree that being a lawyer had conferred, and the sheer oblivion that being a new immigrant cloaked me with.

I resided a mere two blocks from the Law building, and was thankful to be able to walk all of just six minutes for classes and research, without having to curse the god of snow for the blizzards that poured that year.

I lived with four other (generally) quiet flatmates. (We had had one other very noisy flatmate, but thankfully, had been able to get the Landlord ask him to leave, due to his incessant, petulant and noise-making) Other than the occasional heavy downpour that winter, nothing interesting happened.

Go to class. Gym. Eat. Class. Sleep. Gym. Eat. Dunk. Sleep.

That was as interesting as life then got.

Until that day I came back from class at about 6pm, and found all three other flatmates speaking excitedly just outside the door, with three strange girls also.

I just said hi, walked in, and plopped on the bed. It had been an exhausting day.

“Hey”. One of the flatmates – let’s call her Nadia – knocked on my door and peeped in.

“What’s up?”

“Those girls are from the flat upstairs”. (We lived on the second floor of a two-storey “butchered” apartment).

“They were robbed while they were in class. Someone made away with someone’s laptop, and some cash”.

What?

(Sigh. I knew this would happen one day. This darned culture of trusting everyone, and not locking the backdoor)

“What??”

“Oh yea. The police was here earlier. They’ll be back later. Maybe tomorrow… to ask if any of us had seen something”.

By now, we had walked into the living room. It was just me and Nadia. Our third flatmate – let’s call him Tyrion - came to join us as we conversed.

“When did this happen?” I was still dazed.

“They say it was probably between 10 am and noon. Because the last of them left for class at 10.00, and it was about noon that the first came back. Only to find out that her laptop had been taken. And none of us downstairs was around; I was the last of us to leave at 9.30, and came back at 4.30ish. None of you were back”.

Wait… did she just say between 10 am and noon?

“Ahh... I came home at 11 am to pick up one of my notes I forgot earlier. I sat on my bed briefly to rest for like 15 minutes”.

I had not realised I left my IP note, until an hour after I left.

“Now you say this… it’s like I heard someone try to turn my door knob. But I thought it was just you. I was too tired to get up”.

“What?” Nadia looked shocked. “I was at school all day. So was Tyrion, and Steven (let’s call our last flatmate Steven). I came back at 4.30”, she repeated.

“So that means the burglar probably also came into our flat, to try to take something?”

We began to look round, and called Steven in. We all checked to see if any of our stuff was intact, but nothing was missing (thank God). Steven stayed back in his room, to catch up on studies.

Me, Nadia and Tyrion were left again in the living room conversing.

“I should probably still tell the Police tomorrow, or whenever they come, that I’d heard something”.

“God, no! Please!!”

That was Tyrion. I turned in shock, and stared at him.

If there was the poster for a young gentleman, it was Tyrion. While not African, he was dark-skinned, and of African descent, from one of the Island countries. He LOVED eating my Nigerian jollof-rice anytime I made some.

Tyrion was one of the most respectful, well-mannered young men I ever met. When he was not in class, he was playing soccer for the school team. If we needed to take out the trash, it was Tyrion. If there was a “soft” brawl brewing among flatmates, Tyrion was the peacemaker.

Tyrion was the bulb-fixer, handyman, and amateur engineer.

Tyrion was the perfect flatmate. Barely 24 (or so), he could pass for the younger brother I never had.

Which is why I was shocked to my teeth.

“Did you do this?” I asked, eyes wide open.

“Of course not. Why would I ever??” If this was acting, boy… he was really good at it then.

“Then why not??”, I questioned. I noticed Nadia was not as questioning, she just sighed and looked down.

(Oh... the naivety of me)

“Because… ” he gestured with his hands at all three of us.

“I don’t understand”. I really did not understand.

“He means we three are black”, Nadia said quietly. (Technically, Nadia was brown. Steven was a wiley, good-natured, all-Caucasian kid)

I couldn’t comprehend this. We were black; so? It couldn’t have anything to do with the theft.

And I voiced as much, with the most nonchalance.

“Please, I beg you. I’m the only black male here. Don’t say anything please”.

I still could not understand the co-relation between his demographic, and the theft. But something in his voice and his eyes told me this was real.

“Please. I swear to you, it’s not me. I have just one more year to finish school. I’ve stayed out of trouble all through. I don’t want any trouble… please”.

Sigh.

In that moment, I was torn between trying to understand this “irrational” fear, and doing the right thing, if called upon.

Thankfully, I did not have to worry about this conflict. The police never came to take statements; they got fingerprints from the flat upstairs, ran them, and picked up the suspect, who also self-confessed.

(It was subsequently published in the local paper)

But I never forgot that incident. And while I reside in the part of North America where (thankfully) we have not had a sitting national C-I-C, who had taken pages of adverts for to incite national HATE against children (of colour), the underlying reality of that incident is something I have since learnt still lives and breathes among us.

I have seen it in subtle undertones, and in overt actions. I have seen people of colour quick to be carded, for no reason. Heck… I have been one.

That incident however was the (much needed) catalyst that began to open my eyes to the reality of people of colour largely punished for committing crimes of being at the wrong place.

At the wrong time.

People in the past, like Emmet Till.

People in the (then) future. Like Sandra Bland.

This was why Tyrion had ~~asked~~ begged me not to say anything. Because of the harsh reality, that as persons of colour in our society, you’re more likely to be guilty, until proven innocent. While paying the ultimate price, for the “presumed” guilt.

A reality that actual studies has laid credence to.

It is this reality that Ava DuVernay and When They See Us has brought to our consciousness; to all of us.

The world is experiencing this “Aha!” moment in unison.

***

There are many lessons we can draw from When You See Us. Lessons like never, ever speak to the police without your lawyer present.

Or that the pursuit for convictions by prosecutors should never trump genuine administration of justice.

But my spirit is too exhausted emotionally, to intelligently draw out all the lessons.

It is not so much the movie that has broken me, as the underlying reality it portends. The reality that till date, persons of colour are still more prone to be arrested and held for crimes they did not commit.

The reality that between then and now, reality has not changed much.

The one lesson When You See Us reinforces is that until ALL humanity comes to terms with the reality of racism, and consciously decide to eradicate it (if ever), people of colour in North America do not have the privilege of being at the wrong place.

At the wrong time.

Meg.

Photo Credit: When They See Us (by Ava DuVernay) www.Netflix.com

2 Comments

Career

Lessons on Sliced Bread, and failing forward

Monday, June 03, 2019

Last month, I was interviewed by Naija Lawyer In Canada on my journey to being qualified to practice law in Canada. Snippets of that interview is shared below, for the benefit of other Internationally Trained Lawyers (ITLs) just getting started on (or planning to commence) their journey.

And even if not a lawyer, you could pick a lesson or two, on 'swag', failing forward, and the need for preparation. 😉

When did you land in Canada and how was the licensing journey?

My Canadian journey was a bit dramatic. I got a scholarship for my Masters in 2012. I came with a lot of ‘swag’ and ZERO preparation, and really struggled through my program. I barely managed to complete it, just above the minimum grade required for a scholarship student.

But it was nothing compared to the disappointment I felt when I realised after my program that my LLM degree was useless to actually practice as a lawyer, if I did not go through the licensing process. So I went back to Nigeria, and continued practicing.

When I was to return in 2017, this time I prepared well in advance, doing a lot of research, getting family to help send materials for study while I was still in Nigeria, and juggling study for the NCAs with my full-time law practice job in Nigeria.

Thankfully, I had a senior colleague and relative who had just gone through the process, and she provided me with mentorship, sharing some of her pitfalls with me. With all these, I was better equipped. I set my goal to conclude the whole exams within a year, and thankfully, I was able to do so.

What was the toughest aspect of getting licensed to practice law in Canada and how did you overcome it?

I think the toughest part for me was coming in 2012 with nothing but coconut in my head regarding the requirement to be able to practice in Canada as a lawyer; thinking my Masters was sufficient to make me the next best thing after sliced bread (Lol). I probably would have started the process earlier, but due to my lack of preparation, I could not. All the same, it worked out eventually. I failed forward, by using that teaching experience from my LLM to properly prepare for the licensing process.

The other part I found a bit daunting was not being able to practice fully as a lawyer during the licensing process, and wondering if I’d ever get a good job. Law practice is all I’ve known my work life. But the licensing process is a process anyone who wants to practice must go through.

What would you do differently in respect of the licensing journey, if you had the chance?

I think I eventually did differently what I had failed to do the first time. I came back the second time prepared; mentally, emotionally, physically, and in the actual studying. I did a LOT of research online, familiarizing myself over and over with the requirements and the materials.

More importantly, I connected with others who had gone through the process before me, and learnt from their experience.

What is your area of practice and where do you work?

My area of practice is International Commercial Transactions. I practice in-house in a global consulting company, and advise clients (and the firm) on private investments in public infrastructure development, as well as assist in negotiating cross-border commercial deals.

Any advice for new immigrants going through the licensing process?

Yes!!!

1. Do your research. Most of the basic information is online. After your own research, streamline your questions/areas for clarifications, then share these with predecessors/mentors. Ask them about different exam strategies. Identify early what works for your kind of person, and stick to it. Invest in past questions. If you can, purchase online Bar Prep videos from reputable sources.

2. Be prepared. Some may see that I wrote my exams between 2017 and 2018, and got called to the Bar in 2018, and just think it was “luck”. Truth is the actual preparation started in 2015, and when I wrote all NCAs in October 2017, I started studying February of that year. Other than my job in Nigeria at the time, I abandoned every other activity, and studied like my life depended on it.

3. Please don’t give up. Moving here can be quite a handful, especially because you’re going through culture shock, changes in weather, leaving your community in Nigeria, applying for part-time jobs, looking for an apartment and all. But place your eyes on the goal. Remember always that there is room for you at the top; we need more of us up there. Even if you fall once or twice, don’t give up. Others before you have done it. You too will do it!

Paz,

Meg.

2 Comments

Dear August... (and maybe September)

Our Nigerian #MeToo: Finally Breaking the damn on pain and silence

The truth of When They See Us

Lessons on Sliced Bread, and failing forward

MEG CHINELO EGBUNONU

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