How can the intricacies of legalism be considered in aesthically artistic ways?

Is Justice an imagined word?

I am thinking for instance of an #occupyNigeria portfolio featuring writings, photos, illustrations that capture the historicity of that week. Because Justice sometimes predicates on protest, on the meaning of Social Contract, and on revolution in sacrificial terms.

Our recent efforts show how dedicated we have become to placing chosen themes beyond local contexts; we work, like few other journals, with a careful mix of emerging and established writers. In welcoming entries for our 12th Issue, we are hoping that prospective contributions will intersect artistry with long-ranging speculation.

So, once again, we welcome writers and visual artists especially from Africa to send in their work.

The deadline for entries is May 20. Please review submission guidelines before submitting.

I want to be naked under your hand. Shiver under it.

I want to be had by you.

I want you to touch the inside of my legs. My waist. My arms.
I want to tremble under you and not be able to trust my legs to stand, nor my waist to keep me upright, nor my arms to feel the weather around me.

When I don’t trust myself.
I want you to take me, for granted. And don’t ask. Don’t ask. If.

I love you.

I want you inside me.

by Sophia Kanaouti

Errata: This poem appeared in a slightly different version in page 26 of the recent Issue. This, however, is the right version.

Submitted by Timidi Digha. Based on a true story; all names have been changed but the story is told using the words of the victim (with little omissions for protection purposes and with her permission).

My name is Adah, I live in Makurdi, Benue State, Nigeria. I am eight years old and in primary four. I was molested by my uncle.

My uncle, Uncle Andrew, is my father’s younger brother. He came to stay with my parents after they got married, so you will be right to say that I grew up in his arms, that he was a familiar face, that he was always around. Uncle Andrew is, was family.

Uncle Andrew helped around the house but mostly he took care of me. He was in charge of me; my parents put him in charge. He was always there at the school gate to pick me after closing time. He carried my bag, held my hands as we crossed the roads. He taught me my homework; you know how to calculate decimals and fractions. Uncle Andrew fixed my lunch, he even knew my best food “Indomie” and on special days, he cooked it my special way; with onions sliced in it with a little butter. He supervised my washing, made sure I washed the important parts of the clothes; the armpit region of my blouses, the crotch area of my pants and underneath my socks. He made sure I has siesta; he played and watched TV with me till my parents returned from work in the evening. Uncle Andrew was more than an Uncle, he was a friend, the big brother that I did not have.

My parents sometimes travel out of Makurdi. When they do, Uncle Andrew is my guardian. Mummy and Daddy were sure that he would take care of me. That’s what he has done since I was born; take care of me and the house. He took good care of me, and did some other things.

It all started when I was still seven. My parents had travelled early one Saturday morning leaving me with Uncle Andrew. I wasn’t feeling too well so Uncle Andrew had to bathe me. While bathing me, he put his hand in my private part. Cleaning my private part, the bending and washing below is not strange, The way Mummy does. This washing was different because he also put his finger in my private part. I didn’t think much of it because he was bathing me.

My parents were to spend ten days out of town. Two days later, he came to sleep on my bed. You see, we often sleep together in the same bed especially when we have guests who had to sleep in his room or whenever I sleep off while watching the television in his room. That night was different; my uncle touched my body; he touched it in a way that I felt was not right. He ran his fingertips through every part of me, then, he fumbled hard with my buttocks. Then he sucked my breasts; he bit my nipples. It was very painful because they are just growing. They were still hard like unripe lime. He left his spit all over my night dress.

That night I had many questions in my head, I did not have the liver to ask, not him or anyone else.

The next day, he repeated the same thing, with other painful things. He put my hand on his penis; it was big, strong and scary. He told me to rub it. I refused. I was scared. My Uncle Andrew kept saying he will not hurt me that I was his baby. He told me it was what ‘Uncles did to their babies they really love’. I believed him. He told to imagine that I was eating cucumber. Then, he forced my mouth on his hard strong penis. He begged me to suck it, lick it like Chupa Chops without the stick. Then, something came out of it. It smelt like JIK that mummy used to soak my stained white clothes. Uncle Andrew was just looking, breathing heavily.

He thanked me. He told me I was the best, that he will love me forever.

The next morning, he told me not to tell anyone because they will not understand; they will be jealous of our love. Uncle Andrew bought me things every time and sometimes stopped me from going to our neighbour’s house. Every day from the day he started, he did many things, many of them I cannot remember. All that I remember is my Uncle’s voice begging me and the pain.

When my parents came back, I told them I wanted to ask them a few things. To ask them if this was normal, if it was ok for Uncle Andrew to touch me the way he did, if it was normal that I did the things I did. They said they were tired, that I should wait till the next day. Next day came and they told me to ask Uncle Andrew. I could not do that. Anytime I try to ask, my parents especially my mother will tell me to wait till tomorrow, there was always an excuse. I have headache. I have to go to the market. I have to prepare your father’s delicacy. You see that I just came in. have you done your homework? You this child and your questions. When will you stop asking? Mother had an endless list of reasons not to listen.

Two days to my eighth birthday, it was a Friday, I remember. My Uncle repeated all he had been doing, BUT this time, he put his penis inside my private part. It hurt so much. I begged him to stop. I shouted and screamed but I don’t think anyone heard me. He covered my mouth with his palms. When he finished, he told me he loves me and that I shouldn’t tell anyone because no one will believe me.

That night, I became sick. Goose bumps all over my body. The heat came from inside my stomach and spread outside too. It was fever, my mother said. Fever caused by the fear of turning eight. My stomach, private part and legs hurt so much; I knew I was not growing older. It was Uncle Andrew. He was the one they sent to buy me drugs to treat my “fever”.

The next morning, I was still very hot. I couldn’t even stand well, it was as if his penis was permanently stuck in there. The pain was biting, like I was being bitten by many termites at once or that pepper was there. My parents didn’t travel because of my birthday, so they took me to the hospital. At the hospital, the doctor asked how I was feeling, when I started feeling sick and the parts of my body that ache. After I answered, the first question she asked me was if anybody touched my private part. Before I cold answer, my mother answered ‘No! She is well taken care of’. The doctor asked me to go to the laboratory for tests. The tests proved I had been molested, they found some whitish things (sperm) in me.

My parents cried! I cried!

The doctor asked me to remove my pants, when she looked at my private part, she too almost cried. I saw the tears right there on her eyelids, unable to fall. Just hanging there. She told my parents to come and look at it too. My mother screamed, she removed her head tie, put her hands on her head and cried. My father couldn’t look at it well. He looked once and turned away. The doctor was very angry with my parents; she said it was their negligence that caused it. My mother asked me who did it. I told them It was Uncle Andrew.

My parents shouted ‘ANDREW!!!’ and asked why I never told them. I told them I tried and reminded them of all the time I tried to get their attention to it. I reminded them of the many times they were too busy to listen, of how every time Uncle Andrew was around, of how he said that no one would believe me. I told them that I was afraid.

The doctor gave me some drugs and told me to rest, that she will come with a lady I will like to talk to. I got home tired but I remember my father crying and shouting at Uncle Andrew to leave the house that he didn’t want to have anything to do with him. My mother held me and cried, saying she was sorry for being too busy.

The next day, Sunday-my birthday was a sad day. I slept in my parent’s room. When I woke up, they were looking at me, I am sure they didn’t sleep. I am sure they cried throughout the night. Their eyes were swollen and red.
By 10am, our doctor came with a lady. The doctor says I will have an operation once the pain reduces. The lady talked to me alone (first). She said things that made me laugh. She asked me questions that made me cry. She told me to pour all the anger out on paper. She hugged me. She said that I was a strong girl, that I should not believe anyone who says “a girl is weak.” She then talked to my parents; then she talked to all of us together.

She said the first step to recovery was to let out what I feel (vent whatever emotions you may be feeling). I have cried, I am tired of crying. I asked Aunty Timi-that’s her name questions too. What did I do to Uncle Andrew for him to do that to me/

The second step is to talk about it. That’s why am telling my story.

Aunty Timi says, ‘Anybody can abuse/molest another, no matter the type of relationship between them.’

Please pray for me as I try to recover from this and protect a child next to you.

“Have no fear of perfection, you’ll never reach it.”
- Salvador Dalí

In the presence of readily inquisitive guests, in the heat of an ongoing conversation, Ginika abandoned me. But since the earliest days of her NYSC trips to the village, there had been signs of a different woman—steadily emerging—and warily securing its way into my mind. We had both known it for some time and quite clearly, that she preferred the serene remoteness of rural life to any sort of convenience that Lagos might stand for. I was never opposed to that. So it was hardly any surprise when she opted to serve out her one year of patriotic service to the country, as a lab assistant at the newly built maternal hospital—a short walk from our village home. But even so, it has remained an impossible task for her to be satisfied. And now she wants me there with her too! As though I had nothing seriously planned to achieve with my own life, rather than taking in the same repulsive, hospital odor with her—all day—and curdling-up malaria-shriveled children? Perhaps, the subtle ways of insanity is what she needs explained to her once again, if she’ll ever listen.

My father once had it painted boldly in bright-blue letters, above his solid bedroom door that: No one is responsible for your pain, if you fail to calmly bend in through the door. And for some odd, dire reasons, I have come to understand that he must’ve meant the same wisdom, also, in remedy to such cases as my wife’s. For though I would readily go any length in getting her to understand my grounds, I have found it aids nothing any longer. Partly, because she has grown such discourteous manners towards me and everyone else, who ever considered her approachable. And perhaps, it results from certain charitable tendencies that I once thought were natural to her person, but have revealed themselves to me at this point—as nothing but warped virtues.

Now I couldn’t enjoy a meal or two without someone murmuring behind my back, about some motherless child endangered by one ominous disease or the other. It would be on every body’s lips by dawn—of course, that I abandoned my wife to a measly life in Ajali, even if I stayed up all night thinking about it.

And who knows, soon enough some silly fool might even find guts to say things to my face—all because an insatiable woman wants to be pleased. She had merely returned this time to attend a book release party and because I promised to come along to an Enweonwu exhibition. I had voiced nothing about my seething disgust for such useless pass times as art exhibitions. Needless to say, she was aware that I felt all painters were nothing short of impractical whiners. Yet I never turned down her invitation. And rather today—in return for all that effort at leniency, she considered it a well-fitting act to storm out on me in the presence of our guests, Egbuna and his fiancée, Munachi.

Slowly, I had risen up from my seat afterwards, clearly stoned and speechless from the whole situation. From their still stoic faces, there was no question that Egbuna and his fiancée sensed the bitterness that was baring itself on my forehead; because I shortly began to smoothen it, as I was prone to do whenever discomfited. The dim-green light flowing through the room, further heightened the tension by casting a staid, bulky shadow of myself onto the brown marble table beside me; as I wondered right then, if I was really doing the expected thing.

It was fairly midnight. I still had to drive Egbuna and his fiancée back to their Lekki home, as promised. While I drank up the little spirit that was left in my glass, for some reason, Ginika’s mauve-colored purse caught my attention. Perhaps, it was how it lay carelessly on her favorite wool-couch, like a proud sleeping child, that netted my interest. Maybe, that was what I‘d meant to admire. But then I was steered off my thoughts by Munachi’s thin voice.

“So…what are you waiting for, Kaine? You have made me ask the question, so just spill it. What was all that supposed to mean?”

Our eyes nearly met. But then questioningly throwing open her palms towards me, she was speechless once again. Egbuna had been so busy with his phone for a while, that I could fairly guess he was doing nothing serious. I began to feel suddenly responsible for everything that had just happened, even as I battled myself for something else to say.

“Sometimes, I really wish I could say this was uncomplicated, Muna. But…you know better.”

Not knowing what else to let out, I had said what I said. My mind, at that point, was nothing short of an unintelligible space.

“I should drive you guys home. It’s late.” I said.

She knew better. Well enough, to know that I was merely trapped in a helpless throe of ego with myself, right then. She simply sighed and shrugged her shoulders, somewhat mechanically like a badly rehearsed act. I knew right then that I would have to explain myself someday, even if it was some months later. When we left the room, walking towards the garage, there was a heavy slam of the bedroom door—as it landed on its iron-panel. Our attention being seized, there was an eerie and trappable silence afterwards. In fact, for a moment no one seemed eager to move.

Then with some courage, after few seconds, Egbuna was able to mutter few words under his breath.

“Ginika has changed. I believe you should have something to say to her about all this, Kaine. At least, before she returns back to Ajali.”

He continued on as we slowly approached the garage.

“Maybe it’s time you went and witnessed for yourself, what has made your wife into a Red Cross of her own.” In my mind, I comfortably spat at the misery of those two words. What sort of people paraded themselves as life savers even at their own life’s risk?

Munachi had found a Majek Fashek album from the compact disc pile that lay in-between the two front seats. It was a signed copy by the artist from one of the last concerts he played in the late 90’s. I had forgotten I owned the album.
Soon enough, the car was possessed with Majek’s visionary voice as he sung “Send down the rain…oh…jah send down the rain.” Egbuna shortly began humming to the song, after he realized I wasn’t making any conversations. And then, it slowly occurred to me that Majek was reputed to have come up with that song, during a time when Nigeria reportedly suffered the worst drought in its modern history. It’s also remembered that following a notorious performance of the song at a Lagos stadium—after which it was rumored that the drought magically came to an end—the song had raked up staggering sales across the continent. It quickly became a national creed; to the point that certain churches incorporated its melody into their accepted hymnals, declaring it a prophetic mantra for all men.

As we drove past the German Cultural Center on Ozumba Mbadiwe street, I began to get a feeling that Ginika had been right about something. But just what it was, I couldn’t quite piece together. I might be a man of many stories. But certainly, mine would belong with the most probable stories of all stories. I drive a Mercedes Benz S-Class and live in a house of my own. Perhaps, it is the comfort that she has come to loathe. Or rather, it could be I who now loathes my own comfort. September will be making it yet another year, since we both began trying to conceive. And even though it hasn’t been the most wonderful thing to reflect on, certainly, I still stumble upon the idea at many mid-points in my contemplations.

Egbuna have long toned down his throaty humming and Munachi seemed quite relaxed, except for the sky-fixed eyes that appeared to be piercingly searching the night-sky for something deep—and almost giving off a philosophical image of her person. We were soon on Kayode Street. It was as usual, bathed and decked-out with a million bright lights, like the whole of Lekki was known for at nights. The shimmering rainbow of flower beds that neatly lined its entrance, easily brought to mind, the fabled gold-paved streets of afterlife utopias. Except, this was a very Lagosian vision of it. Perhaps, such an aesthetic order explained the popular belief throughout the country that a better number of the people who came to Lagos with their souls intact, would eventually end up losing it. I am yet to fathom what wisdom lie in those words, since Lagos itself, remains a city of the soulful. At least, I believe it to be so. For what could be more soulful, really, than finding oneself at the very center of the ubiquitous but unique energy of Lagos? Perhaps, the depth of the saying simply evades me.

I was about placing down my hat on the passenger seat to grab Egbuna’s extended hand, through my window, when I sighted Munachi yawning mindlessly into the breezy Lekki air. We both smiled childishly at each other as our eyes met. Then planting one of her arms onto her waist in a somewhat commandeering manner, she told me that I was so lucky she didn’t fall asleep in my house.

“Else, I would’ve brought you and Ginika to pious order, since you both think you’re still boys and girls…okwa ya, isn’t it?”

I smiled. It was easy to tell she needed a nap; she spoke with eyes that were rather too sleepy to be serious and like every other time, it felt funny listening to her speak. On my way back home, Ginika called. I impulsively found myself wondering if it was merely out of guilt, that she had called.

“When are you coming back home?”

A clearly wanton sigh followed the question. It was becoming harder, day after day, resisting annoyance from her growing desensitized manner of speech.

“I’m on my way home. Already.” I said “Is there any problem?”

Silence.

“Nothing!” She thundered back.

A crackling sound was emerging from her side of the phone. I knew she was bored already; curled up and salvaging her prized short-bread cookies, as usual.

“Ginika…are you there?”

Another long silence. And then the beeping sound jolted my ear.

Shortly before placing down the phone, it occurred to me that she had merely called to sense how annoyed I might still be from her earlier actions.

The rest of my drive home was ridiculed with thoughts of her; not merely from of all that took place earlier on. Rather, it was all resulting from a feat to understand a companion who spins numerous lives, yet never successfully became any of her cherished molds.

When I got home, she was childishly cupped into her favorite couch, heavily asleep and far away from all the misery that must’ve included myself.

Inspired by H., poet and friend

There is this tale men bear
that boys never hear

It really should be told
everyone old
enough to have learnt
the pleasure not usually taught
for which many of our souls in hell rot

An old friend told
of how the Creator
found perfection in made man
then angered somewhat
thought of a hex
and blessed man with sex

He smiled back heavenwards
the hunger and thirst sucking man up
the better
to drink of the pleasured well
of v’s heavenly hell

Urges to be heard
monsters to be fed
The rod
takes the place of our Lord

This is one grim tale you would never hear him
tell his child…

At the tale’s end, he smiled
the burden aging him somewhat sore
till the pleasure released him once more.

“He does men.” Syson said as he tapped Medius’s shoulder.
“No surprises, his looks tell it all”, Medius said. Jim, oblivious of Medius’s and Syson’s banter was involved in a different conversation. He threw his arms in the air as he spoke. When he laughed, his pitch reverberated with a wave that seemed to sweep his entire body off the seat like a nylon blouse hanging onto a drying line being blown here and there by a weak wind.

Medius wished she could hear the entire argument Jim was making. She could only catch a few words. Values, Utility, Originality, Difference, Exclusivity, a few more words, as Jim sometimes spoke a bit loudly; the breeze at The Lawns blowing the words in Medius’s way.

“Let’s go’, Syson was almost barking. As the two left, Medius could not forget the man who did fellow men, as she had been told – the man whose discussions had sounded and looked as emotional as profound. A spark of curiosity in her chest had lit a fire of interest and she thought that this man could be worth nothing. Something special about a person being different, unavailable, was gnawing adventurously at her.

Jim wore trousers like any other man. Normal shirts. His voice was softer than a typical masculine voice. His voice was weak without the movement of his arms and eyes, or so it seemed, for he never talked only with his voice. But he could communicate with his walk. He could indeed compete at a beauty pageant.

“The hearts have their own language,” Jim and Medius were flirting on Facebook. How witty. Cheeky. What an addictive flirt. Every line from Jim seemed loaded with testosterone. She did not know how exactly to react. Was he being real? How could he desire a woman as his lines suggested? He was being a flirt, an addictive and addicted one. That was all, she told herself, but found that she needed his attention more and more. Whenever the chat-window blinked with his presence, her heart skipped a beat, a ray of anxiety scurrying through her body.

“How about an evening at the Lawns by ourselves?” There was no will to resist. Why resist? Syson, her boyfriend, would have no problem with it because Jim apparently did men. No possessive boyfriend would mind such a harmless male friend around their partner. But risk-taking was not Medius’ art. She would not tell Syson in case his legendary insecurity had no boundary.

Out they went. Not once. The company was mutually rewarding. Great conversations, touches here and there, warm and long hugs, harmless pecks and lots of sweet nothings. Then one evening was swallowed by the night and The Lawns extended into his flat. The evening ended in the morning. He kissed her out of her sleep, and she woke to the reality of being naked in his bed.

As the reality sank, her mind became pregnant with a certain question. The question had always been there, always in the background. As he thrust his energies in her that night, the question had temporarily ebbed away. The question now returned from its hiatus with gusto. ‘Are you gay?’ She rehearsed the question several times in her head, wondering whether the three words were not rude. How else could she ask without sounding stupid? She was becoming pensive. Was he reading the question from her puzzled face? He kissed her on the lips and she felt embarrassed that he had. Courage eluded her.

That night repeated itself several times. Every innocent meeting for a drink always ended in the bed; and the morning after, she could not muster the courage to ask. Courage returned when Syson accused her of cheating after finding a suspicious message from Jim in her phone. ‘He is gay’, she said as she combed all her remaining belongings from his house.

Sometimes sex is a word, sometimes it’s not. Often it’s a question, an exchange, a protest, a dialogue. Often it’s a state of complexness. Sex is both body and soul, presented in visual and textual terms. In this issue, where we have succeeded in collecting mostly sex-themed writings, outlooks range from the vulgar to the pious, from the introspective to the blasphemous. And that’s because our reading of sexuality must necessarily transcend boundaries, whether visible or imagined.

Especially because we make Saraba within a socio-cultural context of silence. This silence is the fact of anonymity, the fact of name-swap, as we see in Adah’s horrific tale. How can we resent this silence, this pursed lips? How can we begin to talk about sex in defiant terms? How can choice in sexuality be read? Macharia and Hartman extend this complexity, even Bwesigye. What even, they ask, is sexual difference? There are certainly more questions here.

And what is a sexual body? What, in simpler terms, is a body? Kemi Akin-Nibosun jabs these considerations at us, presenting photos that utilizes the anaglyphic effects of 3D cinematography to create depth and form. When we commissioned her, it was with the knowledge that she is developing a way of seeing that tastefully intersects conceptual art, performance art and photography.

Each new issue of Saraba is presented with the feverish hope that there’s a reader in a small corner of the world who will recognize the fact of life in the art we present. And if sex – and a conversation about sex – isn’t a fact of life, a temerarious and indisputable one, we have published this issue on a woeful premise.

Emmanuel Iduma & Damilola Ajayi

Download

In this Issue:

Page/

5/We Have Chosen to be Gay/Keguro Macharia

9/Marebeta Ma Wamuyu/Nyambura Kiarie

10/Wamuyu’s Poem/

11/Size Matters/Ivor Hartmann

25/Tales One Shouldn’t Tell Often/Su’eddie Vershima Agema

26/Trust/Sophia Kanaouti

27/Imperfections/Chukwuka Nwafor

34/The Enemy Within/Timidi Digha

39/Notin’ Do U/Donald Molosi

41/To Mow: A Suburban Cautionary Tale/Kevin Rabas

43/The Goat That Eats Meat/Brian Bwesigye

46/When You Go Down on Me/Mel Thompson

47/The Prodigal/Ram Govardhan

55/Aling/
56/Night Fisher/Shayla Hawkins

57/Two Sides of A Coin/Ernest Alanki

65/Love’s Microtales/Lore Adebola

68/At The Suicide Galleria/Clifton Gachaugua
69/A Genre of Isolation

70/Collage of Sexuality/Publishers

1, 24, 40, 54, 66-67, 71, 72, 76
/Sex in Some Photos/Kemi Akin-Nibosun

73/Contributors

Download

To read Saraba on a PC, you will need the Adobe Reader or any PDF Reader.

IFEMED JOURNAL Club Presents THE 2012 NATIONAL PROFESSOR OLIKOYE RANSOME-KUTI MEMORIAL ESSAY COMPETITION titled 7 billion and counting: Global Implications, Challenges and Opportunities for Nigeria.

1st Prize: N100 000

2nd Prize: N60 000

3rd Prize: 40 000

and 7 Consolation Prizes Open to all undergraduates of MEDICINE, PHARMACY, DENTISTRY, PHYSIOTHERAPY, MEDICAL LABORATORY SCIENCE and NURSING in Nigeria. All entries must be submitted via e-mail attachments to: ifemedjc@gmail.com or ifemedjc@yahoo.com and also submitted via our website www.ifemedjc.com/submission For enquiries, contact: 08054658795, 08075721914 and 08051069293 INSTRUCTIONS The essay entry must:

1. Be typed with double-spacing and a maximum of 2,000 words.
2. Include the student’s name (in full) with university, course & year of study, contact address, e-mail address & Phone no.

Closing date for submission: 10th of April, 2012 Submit Entry now! Winners will be notified & Prizes will be awarded at a Ceremony in April 2012.

When I see you
Playing the notes of a passionate melody
I wish that you were my lover
and I your dear beloved
in whose eyes you can see
love, love and only love…

When I see you watching
an amorous and dreamy album
I want to get inside the idiot box
and dance with the music
wishing that you keep gazing at me…

Yeah, I do know that
our love is ancient, archaic and antiquated
but,
there is no time and place for love
Isn’t it?

- Neelam Chandra