Still on Child marriage: Naomi's story.

Naomi Lucas, a renowed writer and  blogger writes of the experiences of her childhood friends in the hands of paedophiles. Truly, tears nearly made beeline on my face when i was done reading it. Let me hear your reactions when u done... Cheers.

Mid-Late 80s

This is how we used to play the
game: We stand in a semi-circle, all 10 or more of us. One person stands in the middle. We sing a song and clap in unison as the girl in the middle falls backwards, giggling. We catch her by the arms and throw her back and clap and sing. Everyone takes turns until we get tired and move on to our next mischief.

It was fun and interesting growing
up in Kaduna. Our houses had no
fences. When it was time to play, all we did was scream our names from the comfort of our different homes until we all gathered smack in the middle of the street - Muslims, Christians, Igala, Ishan,
Hausa,Yoruba; my playmates all.
The muslim girls followed me to
church. I performed ablution at
home (Our parents didn't know
though...) When they applied lali
leaves, I joined in. When they
topped it with taki, I did too.

During Sallah, we didn’t cook, their pearly white tuwon masara and stew made with dry tomatoes always showed up. Frankly, it always tasted better than anything cooked in my house; maybe because I ate it only once or twice a year. At Christmas, it was fun taking food to each and everyone of them as I got to showvoff my christmas clothes :)

Early 90s

By primary four however, things
began to change. We heard
Tambaya was getting married in a
few weeks.
"Married?" We giggled, "Baa ta da
nono. Me yaron ta zai sha" She
doesn’t have breasts, how will she
feed her baby?
Tambaya didn’t have anything to
say when we asked about her
husband though an uneasy smile
seemed to tug at her lips. The D-day came and I peeped through my bedroom window as they took hercaway covered in a dark, silky veil. I found the ululation of the women who coordinated the event very disconcerting.
After her wedding she stopped
going to school. I saw her husband
the very first time I paid her a visit; his hair was a dirty shade of grey and he looked old and unkempt. I remember it feeling strange then, like something wasn’t right.
Sensing that she missed school, I
would stop by her house as often as I could and bring her up to speed about what was going on - Zainab and Seun fought at the playground, Zainab won. Ugochuckwu stopped bringing milkshake to school and now eats dan wake like the rest of us during break. They drove Titi home because of school fees; again. Mr. Gabriel gave Tarfa the conk of his life during P.E and Tarfa didn’t cry; stuff like that.

And then she got pregnant. I noticed her bulging tummy, her dry lips and her pale, sick eyes. She didn’t look pregnant; she looked like she had kwashiorkor. We never talked about the pregnancy or her personal life. I didn’t know what to say and she looked as surprised by her bulging belly as I was.

When I was told she had died during childbirth, I cried. Her burial and the rapid sequence of events afterwards will always remain etched in my memory. I watched it all through my bedroom window.
They brought her out in a wooden
box, coffin...I don't know what that
thing was; covered in a fancy
Superprint I’d seen her mum tie a
couple of times. Seeing her husband at the end of the burial procession made my blood boil. He killed her!
If he hadn’t married her she
wouldn’t have died... Then I saw he
wasn’t walking properly because he was crying so hard and my heart softened a bit.
When Sabuwa told me he was
getting a new bride two weeks later, I could have strangled him myself. How could he? She just died!
"Shege! Mugu! Dan iska!" She spat.
"Gaskiyan ki" I concurred. We felt
better after that, sort of.

Mid 90s

By the time I left Kaduna to further my education, we couldn’t play the game anymore because we didn’t have the numbers needed to form a decent semi-circle. There were only four of us left, an Igala girl, two ishan girls and myself. The rest had gotten married...

Recently

I stopped by the kiosk protruding
out of my neigbour's fence to buy
some things. Hajia, the owner’s
wife, is more my friend than my
neighbour; being from roughly the
same part of the country, we find it easy to talk about anything.
"My sister dey marry. I say make I
tell you now before I forget again"
"Marry? Which one?" My eyes must have looked like saucers becausecshe laughed and patted my arm gently.
"No worry, no be Halima, na my
other sister" I exhaled audibly.
"I don try gaskiya. You know since
wen I don dey fight my parents
before dem even allow her grow
like this? Na me say by force she
must finish secondary school. At
least she don reach 17 years. E no
too bad now, abi?" I nodded.
"As me and you dey here so, them
done send 3 people to come carry
Halima go back; say the person wey go marry am don dey ask. I tell them say she no well, if she well I go send her but I just dey use style make Halima too finish secondary school".

I was more than impressed.
I drove by earlier today and saw
Halima sitting on a bench, reading;
completely unaware of the running battle her elder sister endlessly fights on her behalf.

I remembered all the clamour for the rights of the girl child and muttered a silent prayer for her and her brave sister, Hajia, who is all that stands between her and harm's way.

©Naomi Lucas
from: naomilucas.blogspot.com

Below pix: how they played the game.........