The story of my Lagos will be incomplete without my Lagos woman. As a metaphor, she is a Nigerian Bobsledder in the winter Olympics; a daring spirit, braving all odds to make extraordinary impact in so many ordinary ways. She often rises early from the inner city just as she might have risen from her rural origins, like the proverbial woman of virtue to seek out a better life for herself and her kin. Doubtless, we have those who were raised in Lagos and other urban centers; they also are my Lagos women and part of the story; in the real sense, my Lagos woman is everywoman.
Her determination in the midst of changing times is legendary but only to the discerning. One could easily take for granted how far she has come from the days when heroines like Flora Nwapa and Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti had to fight for her right to vote and be educated. Today she can be found in any boardroom or executive office holding sway over any position. And how she makes such noiseless progress is a wonder. From the first interview where no one really saw her as serious completion until nothing gets done without her, she remains unaffected, and folksy.
Navigating the inner streets of Lagos at night and in the wee hours of morning can be dangerous and daunting even for stout hearted young men. I remember a particular route then through the heart of Obalende where several of my colleagues were attacked going home from work. But now it dawns on me that even in those days we had female colleagues who also had to walk the same roads home; who also had to show up for work just as early the next day, and who eventually stayed on the job long after some of the more rugged guys had given up the struggle, deeming the grind unrewarding. They stayed come rain or shine, rising through the ranks. They still had love stories to tend, relationships to nurture, and hopes also of settling down to build a family with the man of their dreams.
Some of these dreams however could not survive the battle for a place in the corporate world. Romantic fires were snuffed under the biting winds of a demanding corporate climb. Other relationships were ruined by the misplaced priorities of an amorous boss and an insecure lover. Hard choices had to be made between capitulating to the whims of a lover and paying an unfair price in the market place, especially in industries that exploited gender advantages for gain. Some were forced to make those hard choices in order to ascend the corporate ladder hastily and lost out on the softer sides; on the romance and the happy thereafter. Others had the amazing dexterity to manage both a demanding personal life and a hectic career successfully, taking a good shot at each in a city that waits for nobody to catch up.
My successful Lagos woman still faces a lot of shallow stereotyping from narrow minds who presume that one size fits all. She is to such prejudiced minds, either a person of low virtue, especially if she is single or domestically irresponsible if married, tending to neglect her husband and children. These presumptions can bear scrutiny only in a few cases. In other cases, it is unfounded, as most of these hard working are the most principled, organized and attentive wives and mothers one can come across. But then labels don’t give one a second chance to make a first impression. They are just that; labels – the premature conclusions of an unschooled mind. And my successful Lagos woman must bear the burden.
Her accomplishments are many though understated. In trade and commerce she is a rainmaker, from Balogun to Ebute-Ero, from ketu to Mile 2. She is the middle man bringing the supplies home; the human catalogue that knows exactly what the family needs; the entrepreneur that comes up with the innovation and delivers on sales with an irrepressible smile, all the while swapping stories with fellow combatants. In administration and management she is a multi tasker, with an eye for boring but crucial details. The backbone of order and processes long conceived and abandoned by others less focused. She is everywhere, my Lagos woman, learning, growing and taking control, and doing all without that chest thumping male bravado that is hooked on adrenaline. She is patient and will not be taken for granted. She will have what she wants and that is a bit scary.
And the west with its lost moral backbone and in a bid to recode belief has found her space, and has crept in to tell her story for her- tall tales of woes and a gender warfare more imaginary than real. But my Lagos woman is deep like the Atlantic Ocean. She is of the stock of mothers who watched their sons and daughters carried away by the same slavers and therefore know instinctively that an alien cannot identify one’s enemies, especially if those enemies are now daily depicted as the sons nurtured beside her from the same mother hearth. She is strong, independent and visionary – the sky and beyond her destination. But hostility and that alien western coldness that has left in its wake desolate families and patrimonies is not one of her attributes and she holds with disdain any ism that suggests that as the way forward.
Every Lagos woman is a mother, whether single or married. On her rounded and smooth shoulders she carries the dreams of siblings, family or lover. She has often provided for them the place to stand from where they could leap into the world. Many big boys of Lagos would have ended up back in the village had it not been for the love and support of a Lagos woman. And besides her sacrifices, you will also find her scares. It could be the cost of a compromise too dark and disturbing but made for the benefit of loved ones, or the scars left by a taker who took all and gave nothing in return, jumping ship at the earliest point of convenience. Sometimes in our worship sessions, one wonders whether the passionate tears shed by my Lagos woman are not drawn by the memories of the bloke who proved so false in sharp contrast to the man of Galilee who is ever true.
Nneka means mother is greater, but true greatness is neither comparative nor patronizing. It is unique and authentic. There will be many other women rising from other cities and climes, but there would never be any other like my Lagos woman. In the fresh red and green colors of her cousin, together with the oriental aromas from her kitchen, in her sensational moves on the dance floor, in her amazing focus and dexterity at work, she more than any other captures the raw energy and creativity of the African continent; an energy which has been raped, sapped and is now being plagiarized by neo colonial forces. We must tell our own story and celebrate our women in our own words. We are elated and not threatened by their potential. And there will always be enough space beside us for them and vice versa. No gender wars here….this is Africa!
