FREE SLAVES

“The most important kind of freedom is to be what you really are. You trade in your reality for a role. You trade in your sense for an act. You give up your ability to feel, and in exchange, put on a mask. There can't be any large-scale revolution until there's a personal revolution, on an individual level. It's got to happen inside first.” ― Jim Morrison

Saw the movie "12 YEARS A SLAVE" recently and I couldn't help but shed a tear for the black race. The suffering, psychological trauma and hatred all because they were black. It’s so degrading a race felt it was a smart move to turn fellow humans into slaves, just because of difference in skin colour. The fight for freedom by great, brave, selfless black men gave birth to freedom.

Looking at present times, makes me wonder if the fight fought for freedom is really worth it. We had been made to believe they were far better than us. Why? Because they are whites! Duh.  This old belief has stuck with us and is being passed from one generation to the other. We now wander on the streets as free slaves. In our freedom we chose to embrace slavery willingly.

"Do the whites poop?" I asked my father one night, still a kid. "Do they eat?” he replied sarcastically. At that moment I began to wonder, what then the difference was.”Is it because they live in the skies?”My naive mind wondered again. "No! They do not live in the skies, they live on land like us, and the sky is just a means of transportation for everyone of us. Black or yellow or white or anything/anyone that can afford it “I later realized.

Why then have we allowed this free slavery? I pondered as I grew. We keep washing down ourselves and praising the whites. We believe everything they say, whether right or wrong. Even when our inner mind says it’s wrong, we make our head believe it is right, just because it is from the whites. We are so drunk in low self esteem; we don't trust ourselves to do the right thing anymore. We trust the whites over our own people. I hear that most of our planes are flown by whites; people trust them better than our indigenous pilots. We prefer goods from overseas over our locally made goods. Even as a kid I always cherished things gotten overseas over things bought here. It just seemed normal“It’s always better”I was made to believe. “O quality gan” mother would say. We have this everything-from-overseas-is-always-better mentality. Is this the freedom our forefathers fought for?

Our inner mind is in chains, it seeks freedom daily but we choose not to let go. We know the right thing, but we'd rather indulge in the wrong thing, so far it’s 'cool'. We have given up on us. I still remember the way we rejoiced when we heard the whites were going to #bringbackourgirls. We had our hopes high. But we all know the story now. I’m not trying to down wash the whites or anything. They are awesome trust me. But they didn’t get there in one day; it took a lot of hard and smart work to get there. We can get there too and be fully independent; but we have chosen to be parasites and copy cats. We have a lot of hospitals here, but our leaders would rather fly out for medical services than use the ones we have. One thing that baffles me is they don’t even mind if the doctor treating them is a Nigerian or not, so far he is overseas they are cool with it. Our land is blessed with so much green yet people still go overseas to find greener pastures because they don’t believe our land is green enough. We are blessed with so many good things, but we choose not to see them. We would rather be parasites. Remember "there can't be any large-scale revolution until there's a personal revolution, on an individual level. It's got to happen inside first.” IT BEGINS WITH YOU.  

ALIVE but DEAD

Just because they say education is important for the girl child as well. Uwa as I fondly call my mother, made sure I went to school. Not like I didn’t enjoy school. I enjoyed every bit, the classes, my friends and life at the boarding school. Uwa insisted I stayed at the boarding school, in order to prevent thirsty men from lusting after me and to avoid distraction. Uwa was the strict kind, she believed strongly in formal education even though she didn’t have much of an education. She always lamented about how she really craved to be educated but her father didn’t have the means. She was determined all her children will be fully educated; she worked hard day and night to ensure that. I was fortunately and unfortunately the only child; lesser expenses on Uwa though I wanted a sister or brother badly.

School friends made up for my lack of a sister, we treated ourselves like sisters. There were many nights of fights, and days of malice but at the end we always forgave ourselves and continued the friendship. I and Hauwa my bunkmate and best friend had just finished one of our usual quarrels. “Good night!” I spat angrily. “Snitch!” I cursed silently. She ignored and dozed off. Hauwa is the type that sleeps once she’s on something comfortable. We often teased her about it.

At exactly 10.00pm, I heard the call of nature, this time the sounds directed me to the rest room. I took my little lamp and tiptoed to the toilet. It was lights out already. Most students were already asleep, some were reading with their lamps, and also being alert in other not to be caught by the house Mistress. Mrs Matthews was a strict dark in complexion woman, with tribal marks resting at the corners of her mouth. She always wore a stern look making us dread her. As I found my way to the toilet, I saw figures. Thought it was probably Musa the gate man, so I quickly went to ease myself. As I went back to my room, the figures transformed into whispers, I got really scared. Not just a whisper, whispers. They were already many, entering rooms. What is happening? Where's Mrs Matthews or Musa? Before I could figure out an answer, they were already on my floor. I wanted to scream for help; before I could even start I felt a hand over my mouth. Amidst all these chaos, Hauwa didn’t even stir. One of the bad men had to drag her on the floor. Where are they taking us to? I heard Fatia my roommate murmur. How did they enter? I thought. With all Musa’s bragging that he had a Bsc in security ...whatever he called it. They ravaged all the rooms in my block and carried us away. Our cries were welcomed with slaps as they carted us away like rams and cows. I saw Musa at the security post, lying in his cold blood. Fear gripped me, is this how I will end? The tears came forth hurriedly.

 I thought of Uwa and the sacrifices she made for me. I always dreamt of being a great writer and making millions from writing books so I can repay her and make her happy. Will I ever see Uwa, my jewel? All these thoughts brought forth tears. The journey was a long one. I woke up and felt something salty in my mouth, my tears. “Where are we?” I asked Hauwa. She didn’t sleep all night, she cried and cried praying they don’t kill us like they killed Musa. “I don’t know, but I hope they don’t kill us”. “What do these men want from us?” “Do they want to marry us?” I waved that ridiculous thought away. We were too many for these men.

I thought of my mother again. How would she react upon hearing her one and only daughter is missing. Imaginations of her wailing brought tears to my eyes. Her desires and dreams shattered in one night? My dreams of being a great writer also shattered. This place looks far away from home, thoughts of an escape clouded my mind. What if they caught me and slaughtered me like they slaughtered Musa? Images of Musa lying in his cold blood flashed. Bad idea!. For how long are they going to keep us here?

Seconds rolled into minutes, to hours, to days and months. It is 100 days now and I’m still here. Alive but dead. Still hoping someone would just come and take me back to my mother. I miss my Uwa. I cry everyday when I think of her. I miss school. I wake up every morning  praying and hoping someone comes to rescue us. I live everyday in fear of tomorrow. Who knows what will happen tomorrow. I hate this place, I miss school, I miss life, I miss happiness and worse of all I miss being free.