BOOK REVIEW

Title: Sweet Sixteen

Author: Bolaji Abdullahi
Genre: Fiction
Format: Paperback
Number of page: 53
Publisher: TND Press Limited

REVIEW PROPER

The book is divided into 7 parts/sections

- The Letter
- The Divine
- Work
- The Gandhi Test
- Dating
- Stereotype
- Beauty

The central idea in this book sweet sixteen is a series of conversation between Mr. Bello and his
sixteen-year-old curious daughter Aliya about facts in the life of teenage girls or young adults
concerning sex education in a sixteen page letter.

Abdullahi painstakingly writes vividly how Mr. Bellow a veteran journalist took responsibility for
formal education as well as sex education of his ‘ ‘first lady’’ Aliya on the demons that torment
teenagers: peer pressure, dating bullying and stereotype to be guided by ethics and morals to avoid
pit falls in young adults such as unwanted pregnancy, STDS among others.

Mr. Bello surprised at some of the questions Aliya asked. She is exposed to things like kiss on the
lips and many more while the father is ignorance of.
INTRODUCTION

In Bolaji Abdullahi’s Sweet Sixteen, the protagonist, 16-year-old Aliya, whom her father
refers to adoringly as ‘My First Lady,’ bombards her father with questions, some of which
threw her journalist father off balance.
‘’Okay Daddy, what does HAK and KOTL mean?,’ ’Aliya asked. And when the father
expressed his ignorance of the acronyms, Aliya gleefully supplied them; ‘’HAK means ‘Hugs
and Kisses’ while KOTL means ‘Kiss On The Lips’.
And when she added that some students were caught on the school’s basketball court at night
having ‘’53X’ (s3x), Mr Bello almost fainted. ‘’But…how do you know all these?,’ ’ he
asked almost in consternation, to which Aliya replied: ‘’Come on Daddy, everybody knows
these things.”
In his debut fictional work, Bolaji Abdullahi, who has written extensively over the years on
politics, policy and development, laid bare in an absorbing page-turner, murky truths and
hitherto unspeakable issues in the ever-challenging world of teenagers and young adults.
Divided into seven sections; The Letter, The Drive, Work, The Gandhi Test, Dating, Stereotype
and Beauty, Sweet Sixteen’s central focus is a series of conversations between Mr Bello and
her 16-year-old intelligent and precocious daughter on the ‘facts of life.’
These are topics which the book’s editor, Molara Wood, referred to on the book’s cover jacket
as ‘’everything a teenage girl ever wanted to know but was afraid to ask.”
Another part of the book’s blurb referred to it as ‘’a parenting manual and a guidebook for
young adults.”
The above notwithstanding, sociologists, educationists and policy-makers, as well as parents
and guardians, are still divided on how much ‘sensitive’ information, especially on s3x
education, should be divulged to teenagers.
For example, in a recent UK survey, more than half of parents do not think s3x education should
be taught to children at school. According to a poll by baby product website babychild.org.uk;
‘’Many think it is inappropriate to teach children about s3x, whilst others think it should be a
parent’s choice to inform their own children.”
However, on the other side of the coin, it is believed that, just as Aliya put it in Sweet Sixteen,
most teenagers are already aware of what adults seem to be hiding from them.
According to one expert;‘’Comprehensive s3x education doesn’t encourage kids to have s3x.
Just like abstinence-only programmes, good comprehensive programmes teach students that
abstinence is the only surefire way to prevent pregnancy and STDs.
The difference is that these programmes also give students realistic and factual information
about the safety of various s3xual practices, and how to improve the odds.’ ’
In writing Sweet Sixteen, BolajiAbdullahi, a former Nigerian Minister of Youths and Sports,
among other previous jobs, must have critically weighed the above positions before taking on a
smorgasbord of young adult topics that ranged from bullying, dating, stereotype, ethics and
s3x education, among others.
In pushing out his themes, the author finds a good ally in Aliya Bello, a teenager with a curious,
fascinating and inquisitive mind and a devoted as well as a responsible father.
Mr Bello, as expected of any good father, took responsibility for the education of his daughter,
including the tricky but very important aspect of s3x education.
Aliya is, therefore, fortunate to have a father who does not leave her to struggle alone with the
demons that usually torment teenagers when awash in a flood of hormones and the pull of peer
pressure.
The result is a compelling tale, loaded with morality and textured with a rich lyrical prose and
young adult lingo…story-story, my bestie, OMG among others.
The storyline has an upper-middle-class flavour with luxuriant meals, leisurely Saturday drives
and a Mrs Bello, the nurse, often distant from father and daughter.
But in the hinterland between fact and fiction, the author is able to deftly sift the core values
from the emotion, the treat from the trick and for this, parents and guardians will forever be
grateful.
CHAPTER ONE

THE LETTER
My name is Aliya. I am the only child of my parents. I turned 16 last month, two days before my
end of term examinations. I had waited so eagerly for that day to come. When I was 14, I read a
book titled ‘Sweet Sixteen’, which made me realise that at 16, one is no longer a child but a
young adult.
For as long as I can remember, I had always hated to be called a child. To me, child
means the same as stupid. So, children’s stuff never interested me. Instead, I found myself drawn
to grown up things. I felt more comfortable relating with people who are many years older than
me. My father thought this was because of my size.
I am what you might described as plus size. If you like, you could say I was plump or
chubby; but never say fat. I started wearing bras at 10 and at 14, I was already a size16. My
father would say, ‘ ‘ Aliya, don’t be deceived by your size, you are still a child and you should
enjoy being a child.’ ’ To this, I would counter that I was not a child, but an adult trapped in the
body of a child. He would shake his head and give my mother a long stare, which I never
understood.
‘ young adult’therefore, sounded like a fair compromise between being a child, as
my father would insist, and being an adult, as I would insist.
My mother was a nurse. My father was, well, many things. At the time I was born, he
was a journalist. When I was in primary school, he was working in a Public Relations agency. He
then went on to work for an international organization that help poor people in Africa. When I
asked him that exactly his job in the organization was, he said it was still some kind of public
relations.
The very day I turned 16, I was still in school. Even if I was home, I knew better than
to expect any parties. My father believed that the only thing worth celebrating was a major
achievement. In his eyes, a birthday was not an achievement at all. My mother said she agreed
with him. I suspected she was just going along with her husband. For this, I have very strong
evidence in the form of several photographs I had seen of her, standing all decked up behind
birthday cakes. But to be fair, that was before she met and married Mr. Bello.
Whatever the case, birthdays were not a regular event in my home. My father even
hardly remembered birthdays , including his own. Mummy however, would never, ever forget.
She even remembered the birthdays of children in the extended family. But there would be no
parties. The closest to any form of celebration were the slightly more elaborate dinner and the
much more elaborate prayers. This is not to suggest that my parents were some sort of boring
people. Not at all. My father was actually very funny. Mummy would often joke that he should
consider another career in standup comedy. We also hosted parties and attended some, mostly
weddings. Birthday parties were just not our thing.
But something changed since I left home for the boarding school. My father, who
never remembered birthdays, would not fail to sent me greeting cards on my birthdays. I turned 12
when I was in JSS 1. The birthday card was handed over to me by the principal himself after the
morning assembly. ‘ ‘Happy Birthday, my First Lady. Remember that only God is greater than
you,’ ’ it made me feel very important, as if I was some kind of God’s deputy.
Sometimes, I wondered why he called me First Lady since I was an only child I didn’
t think you could have a first unless there was a second. Maybe he was hoping for a second. How
much I wished I had a sister though. And maybe a brother too. But my friends told me that
brothers could be very annoying. Well, that was not so difficult to believe. Imagined having a
brother like Akin in my class, who called himself the king of boys. Even though he was very smart,
Akin was the most unserious human being in the whole world. He specialized in making fun of
everything and playing pranks on everyone. I remembered what happened last term in the
Geometry class. The mathematics teacher wrote the topic, mensuration on the board, but Akin read
it aloud as Menstruation! Who does that? The whole class erupted in laughter. It was only the
teacher, Miss Salako, who didn’t find it funny.
‘ ‘ Quiet, all of you ‘’ she screamed. ‘ ‘ I wonder what was so funny. And you….’ ’ She
said, pointing at Akin, the culprit, ‘ ‘… must you always be a jerk’ ’ She asked menacingly.
But Akin stood up and answered calmly, ‘ ‘No ma, ‘’ and the class exploded in another round
of laughter. This got Miss Salako even angrier and she sent Akin to the wall. Still, Akin got an A in
Mathematics at the end of the term.
It was a Tuesday, the day I turned 16. I woke up expecting to feel different, to feel 16. But I didn’
t feel anything. In fact, I had slept off the previous night not thinking of my long awaiting birthday,
but about the examinations that would start later in the week. Well, maybe one was not meant to
feel anything. Or maybe it was the thoughts of the coming examination that was affecting
everything. I had always been a straight a student, until I entered the senior class and started
Chemistry. I still scored A in all the other subjects, including Mathematics and Physics which most
of my classmates struggled with , but I never scored higher than a C in Chemistry. As it happened,
it was my first paper in this examination.
There were two blocks of eight rooms in my hostel and there were four of us in each room. We
had ten bathroom cubicles, five for each block, so we took turns to have our bath. But this was not
a problem. Usually, you only had to wait for one person to finish up. I took a quick glance at my
bedside clock. I still had more than an hour before the assembly. Of my three roommates, one was
about my age, even though she was slightly older. Her name was Grace. The other two were junior
students.
They had all wished me a happy birthday that morning.
As I made my bed, Grace returned from the bathroom. She had a towel wrapped around her chest
and another one on her head like a turban. I turned to her and asked, ‘ ‘ Grace, did you feel
anything? I mean when you turned 16, did you like, feel different in anyway?’ ’
‘ ‘ No. It was like 14 or 15. Couldn’t feel any difference, to be honest, ‘ ‘ she answered with a
shrug.
Grace was not a great talker. It was as if someone was going to charge her for the number of words
she used each time she spoke. Many people thought she was snobbish. But I knew she was a nice
and generous person. I wouldn’t say she was my bestie, but we got along well enough, even
though we were not in the same class.
‘ ‘ But. . .,‘ ‘ I started to say, but changed my mind.‘‘ Never mind,’ ’I added. I knew Grace
liked to be left alone. In any case, I thought I should rather focus on my Chemistry. I had worked
harder this term. And this was reflected in my continuously assessment results. Still, I was more
than a little worried. The main problem was that time was never enough for me to answer the
questions and do all the practical tests. I had tried to improve on my speed by taking five minutes
off the time allotted to each question. On one occasion, I managed to finish about 17 minutes
ahead of time. But I still wondered how I would hold out in real examination conditions.
As we sang the national anthem that morning at the assembly. I was already looking forward to the
birthday card from my father. But when I walked up to the principal later, he only asked me to
see him in his office at break time.
‘ ‘ Ho-hope there – there is no problem, sir’ ’ I stammered.
‘ ‘Not at all,’ ’ the principal answered curtly.
Before I could say anything more, he was already talking to one of the teachers. He appeared
upset by something. I noticed he didn’t say a happy birthday to me. That also never happened
before. Usually, as he handed me the card from my dad, he would say, ‘ ‘ Happy birthday to
daddy’s angel and my superstar’ ’ And we would both laugh. I wondered what could have
happened this time. Maybe he was distracted by whatever had upset him that morning. As I
walked towards the classroom, I glanced back at him and I could see he was gesticulating wildly.
My mind raced through all kinds of possibilities. Or, did something happen to my dad? He
travelled a lot. Had he been involving in an accident? Now, I got really scared. I remembered a
couple of my classmates who suddenly lost their fathers and how they had struggled to remain in
the school afterwards. I even got my dad to help some of them. But my worry at that moment was
not about how to remain in school if anything happened to him.
I loved my parents, no doubt about that. But I was particularly close to my dad. I could even say
he was the only true friend I had. Even though he could be very strict on some things, he always
made me feel I could discuss anything with him. And in most cases, I did.
I recalled what happened earlier in February, on Valentine’s Day. A boy in my class gave me a
teddy bear and told me he liked me. Everyone called him Bobo, but his real name was Tokunbo. I
was walking back to the hostel from the school shop where I had gone to buy some toiletries. I
looked up and saw him coming towards me on the narrow concrete walkway. I held my shopping
tighter. I had a pack of sanitary pads among the newly bought items in my bag. I wouldn’t want
him to see that. He was also clutching a small, blue gift bag.
‘ ‘Hi Bobo, What’s up? Happy Valentine’s Day,’ ’ I greeted him.
‘ ‘Happy Valentine’s, Aliya.’ ’ He fidgeted a bit, looking rather nervous.
‘ ‘ Are you okay? I see you have a Valentine’s gift already. Did someone give that to you or are
you giving someone?’ ’
‘ ‘Actual… It’s actually for you,’ ’ he stammered.
‘ ‘Me? Oh, thank you. I took the bag from him.’ ’
‘ ‘You know, I have always wanted to tell you that… that I like you,’ ’ he said.
‘ ‘ you like me? Wow! I… I don’t know what to say.’ ’ It was my turn to be nervous. This had
never happened to me before. No guy had ever said he liked me. I didn’t even know how I was
supposed to respond. ‘ ‘ anyway, thank you,’ ’ I managed to say, and continued towards the
hostel. Not once did I even look back, but I could feel that he was still standing there, watching me.
I felt so conscious I even stumbled on something and wondered if he saw that.
When I got to the hostel, I opened the bag and found a red teddy bear. ‘I love you’ was written
on a heart-shaped embossment on its tummy. I liked the teddy, but I was not sure I did the right
thing by accepting the gift from Bobo. The following week, my dad came visiting. I look the teddy
bear with me to show him.
‘ ‘ A cute thing you’ve got there, he said as I hugged him.
‘ ‘Daddy, story, story,’ ’ I said in a sing-song as we sat on one of the concrete benches that were
arranged around a black and white chequerboard on the floor. It was not really a board, but a
raised cement platform on which giant black and white chess pieces mounted guards on opposite
ends as if waiting for their marching orders. This was where students, mostly boys, gathered to
play chess during the weekends. I told Dad how I got the teddy bear.
‘ ‘ This boy, what is his name?’ ’ he asked, smiling.
‘ ‘Bobo,’ ’ I answered.
‘ ‘Bobo, is that his real name?’ ’
‘ ‘No, his real name is Tokunbo , Tokunbo Alabi.’ ’
‘ ‘Okay. Where do you think Tokunbo got the money to buy this gift for you? Did his parents
give him a special allowance to buy Valentine’s gifts for girls?’ ’
I said no, I didn’t think so.
‘ ‘So, could it be that Tokunbo took part of his pocket money to buy the teddy bear’ ’
‘ ‘Yes, most probably,’ ’ I answered.
Dad got up slowly and walked towards the chess board. He picked up one of the pawns and
moved it two steps forward. Then, he turned to me.
‘ ‘You see, Aliya, there is nothing wrong in giving or receiving gifts. But usually, especially in
this kind of situation, when someone feels he has done you a favour, he would normally feel you
owe him something. Sometimes, he could even, maybe, expect you to return the favour.’ ’
He walked to the other end of the chess board and moved the knight. As he retraced his steps, he
asked, ‘‘So, this boy, what do you think he wants from you?’ ’
I said I didn’t know. ‘ ‘He said he likes me. Maybe he wants me to like him back?’ ’
‘ ‘So, do you like him back?’ ’ He moved another pawn.
‘ ‘Noo,’ ’I answered, drawing out the‘O’and shaking my head. The truth is I liked Bobo also.
He was every funny, so I liked talking to him. But that was all. I never thought of him as more
than a friendly classmate. He was not as smart as Akin, but certainly not as rascally too. In that
department, Akin was the clear gold medalist.
Dad smiled broadly as if he knew more than he was actually saying. Then he came back to sit
beside me. ‘ ‘You see, Aliya, maybe you don’t know yet what that question really means. But
that is not even important now. What is important is that you should never put yourself in a
situation where you would feel obliged to do anything because you feel indebted to someone.
Anybody who gives you something because he wants something from you in return is not good for
you. No money in the world, no gift in the world is enough to buy you; because you are
priceless.
In any case, the two of you are still too young to understand what that kind of relationship entails.
But I will want you to remember, Aliya, that no relationship between two people can survive if it
is based on material benefits. Do not give things to people with the expectation that they will like
you because of that. In the same token, when people give you things, it does not necessarily mean
they love you.’ ’
He got up again, and walked up to the other end to counter the move he made earlier as his own
opponent. He had tried to teach me to play chess. He said it would make me to think strategically.
He said the black and white pieces represent two armies ranged in battle, the mission being to
capture the opponent’s king. Well, I was not so interested in fighting any battles and certainly not
interested in capturing any kings. But before he gave up on me, I had already known the names of
all the pieces and how each of them moved.
I suspected he always chose this part of the school to meet with me so that he could play against
himself as he was doing now. A group of students walked past us towards the hostel and said good
afternoon to him. In my school, it was compulsory for every student to greet any adult they came
across. He returned their greetings and picked up another piece, a castle, from the board.
‘ ‘Do you know the kind of girls that most boys like?
‘ ‘No,’ ’ I answered.
‘ ‘Dumb girls. Boys like dumb girls.’ ’
‘ ‘Really, but I am not dumb,’ ’ I said, frowning.
‘ ‘Of course. But this boy, e-r-r, what’s his name, Bobo, does he know that? That you are not
dumb?’’
‘ ‘He should. We are in the same class and I always beat him in exams.’ ’
‘ ‘Aliya, it is not all about exams. You can score A in all your subjects and still be dumb.’
’
‘ ‘Daddy, I don’t understand?’ ’
‘ ‘A dumb girl, the kind of girl that boys like, is not necessarily the one who cannot pas exams. A
dumb girls is the one who thinks she needs to live up to other people’s expectations; a girl who
feels the need to ‘belong’; a girl who thinks she needs to have sex with a boy to prove that she
loves him, or who thinks that having sex and generally misbehaviour is the way to show that she is
a grown-up; a girl who is not smart enough to know when she is being manipulated or exploited;
that is a dumb girl.’’
‘ ‘Okay, well, that sounds really dumb to me,’ ’ I said.
He returned the castle to its position and picked up a queen instead. By then, the pawns on the
white side had marshalled out into some kind of triangular formation.
‘ ‘Daddy, do you think I should return the teddy?’ ’
He kept quiet for a while. Then he shrugged and said, ‘ ‘Well, that is a decision you would have
to make for yourself.’ ’ He looked at his wristwatch. ‘ ‘By the way, do you still have your
inhalers?’ ’
I knew this was his way. I still had my inhalers and the knew. I had been asthmatic since
childhood and the Ventolin inhaler had been a constant presence in my life.
Soon after, I took the teddy with me to the class with the intention to return it to Bobo. As I
entered the class, he saw me first and walked up to me. ‘ ‘I can see you like your teddy,’ ’ he
said, looking very pleased with himself.
‘ ‘Bobo, actually… yes, I like it,’ ’ I stuttered. Seeing how happy he was, I could not bring
myself to hurt him. He was probably just being nice. If only my father had told me what to do.
‘ ‘ I am glad to hear that, ‘ ‘he said still grinning from ear to ear.
‘ ‘But Bobo, can I ask you something?’ ’ I had regained my composure.
‘ ‘Yes, of course.’ ’
Do you want something from me? I mean like, you gave me the teddy and I know it must have
cost you some of your pocket money. Why did you do that?’ ’
‘ ‘Nothing. It was Valentine’s Day. Some of my roommates were talking about gifts for their
girlfriends and I don’t have a girlfriend. I could only think of you. So…’’
‘ ‘But I am not your girlfriend….’ ’
‘ ‘Yes, I know. I just…’ ’
Someone sighted the duty master coming towards our class and everybody scurried back to their
seats. After that day, something happened that involved another girl in my class. So Bobo and I
never had the opportunity to finish our conversation. True, my intention that evening was to give
him back the teddy, but when I realized I couldn’t do that without hurting him, I was going to
make it clear that if he expected anything more than a thanks you from me , he was in for a
disappointment. But somehow, I never got the opportunity.
When we resumed school the following term, I learnt that Bobo had relocated to Ireland with his
parents. I was surprised by how unhappy I felt when I heard the news from other classmates. I was
not even sure if I was unhappy or angry or both. He should at least have told me he was relocating.
Daddy was right after all when he said you should not believe that someone loved you only
because they gave you a gift.
That was the kind of relationship I had with my dad. How I had eagerly looked forward to turning
16, when he, of all people, would no longer consider me a child and formally recognize me as a
young adult. But here I was, with not even the usual birthday card from my father and the
principal acting all strange! The idea that something might have happened to my dad truly scared
me. Suddenly, I was no longer so sure that I was ready to be the grown-up girl I had always
wanted to be. Without my dad, I would be lost like sheep without a shepherd.
The moment the teacher signalled the end of the first period, I ran out of the class. I could hear
Bisi calling after me that I had dropped a pen. ‘ ‘Keep it for me,’ ’ I shouted back and continued
to run. Afterwards, she said she thought I was rushing to catch a flight or something. In actual fact,
I only managed to sit through the class. I could not even recall a word of what was taught that
morning; even though on a good day the Geography class could be terribly boring.
I ran all the way to the principal’s office and was still panting when I go there. To my pleasant
surprise, the principal’s face dissolved in a big smile the moment he saw me. He asked why I was
panting. ‘ ‘Did you run all the way here?’ ’
I said yes.
‘ ‘Well, happy birthday,’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘I guess your boyfriend has a special present for you this
year,’ ’ he said as he brought out a gift box with a pinkish wrap and a bright red ribbon that had a
full mult-coloured bow on top of it. When he said my boyfriend, I knew he meant my dad. The
two of them had forged some kind of friendship that I could not understand, especially as they had
little in common, or so I thought. My dad was much younger than the principal, even though I
didn’t know the principal’s exact age. The principal was Christian, my dad was Muslim. My dad
was Yoruba, the principal was Tiv.
‘ ‘Oh, my God!’ ’ I exclaimed as I collected the box. But it was not the gift that excited me so
much, but the utter relief in realising that all my fears were unfounded after all.
‘ ‘Why don’t you wait until you see what is in the box before you get all excited,’ ’ the
principal said.
‘ ‘No. Not that sir. I was so scared before I got here’ ’
‘ ‘Scared of what?’ ’
‘ ‘It was just unusual sir, me having to come your office to pick up the card. So, I was kind of
afraid that something terrible might have happened.’ ’
‘ ‘To whom? Your father? No. Nothing’s happened. I still saw him yesterday.’ ’ The principal
chuckled.
‘ ‘Thank you sir. Thank God.’ ’
‘ ‘You are welcome, and happy birthday!’ ’ he shouted after me as I practically hopped out of
his office.
The relief that I felt at knowing that my father was okay was quickly overtaken by curiosity. I
couldn’t wait to see what was in the beautiful box. I ran back to the hostel and tore the parcel
open. I almost felt bad with the way I ripped off the ribbon. Someone must have taken the trouble
to tie it so beautifully, I thought. Oh well, gifts are meant to be opened no matter how beautifully
the wrapped, right?
In the box was a portable digital camera , a birthday card that said ‘‘Happy Sweet Sixteen’ ’, and
a spiral bound document. But it was the camera that got me.
‘ ‘Oh my God… oh my God,’ ’ I muttered breathlessly as I fiddled with the camera. I loved
photography and had always wanted to own a camera. My dad had promised some months before
that he would buy me one. I thought he had forgotten, but I also knew that it would be a mistake to
remind him. He did not like being hassled like that. Now, I had my camera. He didn’t forget his
promise after all. I did not even bother to take a second look at the card. It used to be the main
thing on previous birthdays. But this year, it had been relegated to a mere add on.
The camera had all my attention. It was a compact digital camera with an LCD monitor. I loved it.
I was tempted to try it immediately, but I decided it was better to wait until I had the time to read
the manual. But what about the spiral bound document? It wondered what it was. It had a blue
cover that bore the bold inscription, ‘‘Letter to my Daughter’ ’. I once read a book with that
same title, written by Maya Angelou. I was not sure I understood everything that the author was
saying. But I wondered why my father would now make a photocopy to send to me when he could
have sent the book itself if he thought I needed to read it again.
I soon found, when I opened the document, that my father had only copies Maya Angelou’s title.
It was his own letter to me, his daughter.
He started by congratulating me on my 16th birthday.
‘ ‘How time flies.’ ’ He began.
He wrote of the joy he felt when I was born. He also recalled how my birth meant he had to take
life more seriously and live up to the task of being responsible for another human being.
‘ ‘For every day of the last 16 years, you have been a major reason for me to work hard so that I
would be able to give you those things I never had as a child, and make it possible for you to have
those things I never enjoyed. I have also tried to teach you those core values and the essential
character that I have inherited from my humble parents; my parents who had neither gold nor
silver to give to me, but taught me to be a real human being, an Omoluabi,’ ’ he wrote.
It was a 16-page letter. A page for each year of my life. Trust my daddy to do a thing like that.
CHAPTER TWO
THE DRIVE
In the letter that my father wrote to me when I was 16, he recalled an interesting outing we had
some years before. I was 12 at the time. I just returned home for holiday after my JSS1. Even
though we had had several of such outings since then, I remembered this particular one quite well.
It was a cool Saturday morning, not much doing. After a quick breakfast, I had climbed back into
bed, looking forward to another lazy morning of rolling around and listening to music. I was about
to plug in my earphones when I noticed a presence in the doorway.
‘ ‘Aliya, are you alright?’ ’ It was my dad. He was still holding the door and I could only see
half of his body.
‘ ‘Yes, Dad, I am fine. You want me to do something?’ ’
‘ ‘No. I want to drive around and was just wondering if you would like to come along.’ ’
‘ ‘Of course,’ ’ I said, dropping the earphone and jumping up from the bed.
‘ ‘Are we going anywhere in particular?’ ’ I asked as I tried to figure out if I needed a change of
clothing and what shoes to wear.
‘ ‘Not really. I think you are okay,’’ he said, gesticulating to indicate that my outfit was fine.
I was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a Chelsea Football Club jersey that had my nickname, First
Lady, printed on the back. It was his gift to me when he returned from London some months
earlier.
‘ ‘I think that’s fine,’’ he said, pointing at the pair of sandals I had just picked up from the floor.
I was actually divided between those and the Nike trainers on the shoe rack. By this time, he had
come into the room and sat on the bed. He watched as I stood in front of the mirror, trying to
arrange my hair.
‘ ‘You are going to be worse than your mother,’ ’ he said with a broad grin. ‘ ‘Come on, let’
s go.’ ’
Daddy, I am a lady, I have to look good,’ ’ I retorted with a smile as I applied some lip gloss.
‘ ‘ Where is the lady? You are a child’ ’
‘ ‘I am not a child. I am a lady,’’ I protested.
‘ ‘You are a child’ ’.
‘ ‘I am a lady’ ’.
We continued this way as we walked down the stairs and we soon started laughing. Mummy was
on morning shift. If she was at home and heard us arguing the way we were doing just then, she
would have said, ‘ ‘What are you two Tom and Jerry arguing about this time?’ ’
It was a pleasant drive. The traffic was light. The sun was bright. For me, who lived behind a
fence, any opportunity to go out and see other people was always a thrill. At the traffic light, a
lorry pulled up beside us with ‘No Condition is Permanent’ inscribed on its side in uneven
letters. Somehow, the first word had faded off, and at first glance it now read, ‘Condition Is
Permanent’. Two girls about my age scurried between vehicles and tried to sell oranges and
cooked groundnuts to us in transparent plastic bags.
‘ ‘You want some?’ ’ Daddy asked me.
I shook my head. The traffic light changed and we moved on.
‘ ‘You know, Daddy, I actually envy those girls,’ ’ I said.
‘ ‘Which girls’ ’
‘ ‘The girls that we saw by the traffic lights, selling things.’ ’
‘ ‘You envy them? And why is that?’’
‘ ‘I guess they must be having fun. I mean… the freedom to go anywhere you want and meet
different people.’ ’
‘ ‘Well, I don’t know if they are having fun of not. But I know they would not mind trading
places with you right now,’ ’ Dad said.
I reflected briefly on what he said. I agreed that maybe those girls too would look at me and wish
they were the ones sitting in an air-conditioned car. Well, maybe he was right. But I still wondered
why we had to stay behind those tall fences all the time. Grandma said the fence made our house
look like a prison. I guess that was why she would never agree to come and live with us, despite
several appeals from both Dad and Mum. My grandfather was long dead. So , Daddy worried a lot
about grandma. To make matters worse, and for reasons no one quite understood, she would not
accept to have a house help.
‘ ‘It looks to you like there are having fun, ‘ ‘Daddy was saying about the girls as he changed
lanes. ‘‘But if you had to stand in the sun for hours to sell what in the end amounts to very little
money, I doubt you would still consider what they’re doing to be fun. I know rather well, that
kind of life’’.
We ran into a pothole and he had to swerve quickly to avoid falling into another, much bigger one.
‘ ‘Sorry,’ ’ he said, casting a quick glance at me. ‘ ‘Do you know I was once like those girls?’ ’
he asked. But he was not asking a question. He had told me several times how growing up was
difficult for him. His mother was a petty trader. He and his elder sister, the one I called Big
Mummy, had to hawk some of their mother’s wares after School. Sometimes, it was the only way
the next meal could be guaranteed.
‘ ‘But it was in spite of that experience that I got to where I am today. Thanks to education. I
believe if those girls are able to get good education, they too can climb out of poverty and even
become important people in the future.’ ’
We got to a junction, he made to turn right, and then he changed his mind and turned left. The car
behind us blared its horn in protest and daddy raised one hand in apology. It was a pointless
gesture though, because the rear window of our car was tinted.
‘ ‘For you…’ ’ he continued. ‘ ‘You are of a different background. Your story is different. But
don’t ever take what you have for granted. Ordinarily, we should expect that you would end up
better than those girls at the traffic light. But you know what, darling? It does not follow. You also
have to work hard, if not harder, because it is easier to climb up on an empty stomach than a full
one. You know what that means?’ ’
‘ ‘ yes, I do,’ ’ I answered.
‘ ‘Sometimes, hunger is what you need to drive you ahead in life. I don’t mean food hunger
alone; I mean that deep desire to improve your condition in life and be a better person. That type
of hunger was what most of us, children of poor parents, had. Unfortunately, after we have
achieved success, we are not always able to pass the same hunger to our own children.’ ’
As we approached Aunty Gigis, a popular fast food place, he asked if I would like something to
eat or drink. I said I wouldn’t mind. We stooped and got ice cream and orange drink.
We returned to the car and continued to drive around. By then, the traffic had begun to build up
slightly. It was approaching noon, and I could see many elegantly dressed people, some of them
tightly packed in different cars, the number plates said, ‘ About to Wed’. It made you wonder if
all the people in those cars were the ones going to marry themselves. But then you would see
another car with ribbons and balloons flying around on the roof and you knew that was the one
carrying the bride and the groom.
I greatly enjoyed seeing all these, the hustles and the bustles. Daddy and I went on to discuss a lot
of other things. When we returned home shortly before one o’clock, Mum still hadn’t come back.
At the time, I didn’t think any of the things we talked about meant anything more than random
conversations. But here he was in this letter, telling me that the casual drive on that Saturday
morning was deliberately arranged by him just so that we could have some of those very
discussions I thought were random.
‘ ‘Can you imagine! I blurted out to myself as I sank further into the bed. I propped my head up
with a pillow and settled to read more.
‘ ‘A few days before the day we went for that drive, your mother informed me that you had seen
your menstrual period for the first time. I was not sure how a father was supposed to receive that
kind of news. I was a bit anxious as I wondered what responsibility this new phase of your life
imposed on me. I knew I had to have a conversation with you sooner or later, but I was not sure
how to approach it or even what to talk about.
After trying several approach in my mind, I decided that the best way to go about it was to make
the conversation as informal as possible. If I was able to make it look unplanned, there was a good
chance that you would be relaxed and be in a proper frame of mind to understand what I was
really going to say. Even then, I did not know how to start the conversation until we got to the ice
cream place. That was my opportunity.’ ’
I remembered everything now. When we stopped at Aunty Gigis, I had ordered a combination of
vanilla and chocolate ice cream. He ordered fresh orange juice. As we walked back to the car, he
asked me, ‘ ‘Do you know that sugar affects some women during their menstruation?’ ’
I had paused for a second, wondering what that was about. ‘ ‘No, I don’t’ ’ I answered
in-between mouthfuls of ice-cream.
‘ ‘Well,’ ’ he began, ‘ ‘what do you know about menstruation?’ ’
‘ ‘Mummy and our hostel mistress have taught me how to menstruate,’ ’ I answered, even
though I did not feel that was something I wanted to talk about. I was even taken aback when he
looked at me and burst into laughter.
‘ ‘Why, what’s… funny?’ ’
‘ ‘No, nothing,’ ’ he answered as he tried to calm down. ‘ ‘ I am sorry. It’s just that, no one
needs to be taught how to menstruate,’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘Mummy and the hostel mistress must have
taught you how to take care of yourself when you see your period.’ ’
I recalled feeling a slight embarrassment after that. Now, he wrote in his letter that the ice cream
actually provided him the opportunity he needed to start the conversation he had planned all along.
‘ ‘The ice cream helped me to break the ice,’ ’ he wrote.
I recalled that most of the conversation centred largely on issues around sex and things like that.
He said menstruation was normal and natural and it was nothing to be embarrassed about or
ashamed of. He said it was my body’s way of telling me that I was biologically ready to be a
mother. I remembered asking him if what my friend told me was true.
‘ ‘what is that?’ ’
‘ ‘She said her mother told her when she started her period that if a boy touched her, she would
get pregnant.’ ’
‘ ‘Your belt,’ ’ he said, pointing at my seatbelt as he fastened his own and started the car.
‘ ‘ Her mother told her that?’ ’
‘ ‘ She to me that her mother warned her to stop playing with boys because if they touched her,
she would get pregnant.’ ’
‘ ‘ Well, I think I understand what the mother was trying to say, but that may not be exactly
correct,’’ he explained. ‘ ‘ You don’t have to stop playing with boys just because you have
started menstruating. Also, no one gets pregnant from a handshake,’ ’ he said and laughed at
his own attempt at a joke. I didn’t find it funny though.
‘ ‘I know, Daddy. I am not stupid.’ ’
‘ ‘What do you know?’ ’
‘ ‘Daddy, I have heard ‘sex before,’ ’ I said and rolled my eyes at him.
‘ ‘What? You have had what…?’ ’
‘ ‘Come on, Daddy. I mean heard, as in beaaaard,’ ’ I said, pulling at my ear.
‘ ‘Phew!’ ’
We burst into laughter and he held his chest, saying he almost had a heart attack.
‘ ‘But… tell me, how did you know about…sex’ ’ he asked.
‘ ‘Of course, everywhere. On TV, from some of my classmates…it is also in some books,
magazines… whatever.’ ’
‘ ‘Well, like Cosmopolitan,’ ’ I answered as I bent to pick up the plastic bag to dispose of my
empty ice cream cup.
‘ ‘And where did you get that… Cosmopolitan?’ ’
‘ ‘ I found some copies in my Auntie Molara’s room after she lift for school,’ ’ I said. I
regretted this immediately. Maybe I shouldn’t have said it. I didn’t want to put anybody in trouble.
Auntie Molara was my mother’s younger sister. She was in the university, but she stayed with us
during the holidays. I liked her a lot and always looked forward to having her around.
‘ ‘But you know some of these things are meant for adults only and you should not really be
reading them,’ ’ he said in a low and sober voice. ‘ ‘ I will have to talk to your mother about
that.’’
‘ ‘I am sorry, Daddy. I will not read that kind of stuff again.’ ’
He did not say anything. He still looked upset.
‘ ‘Ha-Ha, Mr. Bello, I said I am sorry,’ ’ I tried to put an arm around his eyes on the road.
He seemed to like it when I called him Mr. Bello. I called him that whenever I wanted to get him
to do something. Mummy sometimes even got jealous that I was able to succeed with him where
she had failed to get him to do some things.
‘ ‘Daddy, I hope you’re not angry with Auntie Molara? It was not her fault. She didn’t even
know I took the magazine.’ ’
He shook his head and said he was not angry with my aunty. He would only tell her to be mindful
of what she lift lying around.
‘ ‘Sex is everywhere these days, sad to say,’ ’ he lamented. ‘ ‘All over the place. Even
commercials and advertisements do not appear complete nowadays without the trash… I heard
that even some children’s cartoon now contain reference to sex. Or even these things that you call
Hannah Montana, High School Musical or Whatever…’’
‘ ‘Hannah Montana? That’ s like, a zillion years ago. Besides, nobody watches TV anymore these
days ,’ ’ I said.
‘ ‘ What do you mean, nobody watches TV anymore? He asked, looking genuinely curious.
‘ ‘You can download and watch everthing on Netflix…’’
‘ ‘What is Netflix?’ ’
‘ ‘You don’t know Netflix?’ ’ I was surprised.
‘ ‘ No. Never heard of it,’ ’ he said.
‘ ‘Daddy, how would you not know Netflix? They stream videos online.
They were the ones who did House of Cards.’ ’
‘‘What? You have watched that? He sounded genuinely horrified.
‘‘Hmm, kind of,’ ’ I answered cautiously.
‘‘What do you mean ‘kind of?’ ’
‘‘Daddy, I know what you are worried about. But I don’t watch those things.
Whenever I see that it is getting like that, I just fast forward.’’
He looked frustrated and worried at the same time. ‘ ‘ This is on the computer in the
study? Or, do you have access to another one that I am not aware of?’ ’
‘‘No. It is just that,’ ’ I answered, wondering if I had not put myself in another
trouble.
‘‘You see, Aliya, your mind is like a beautiful room. You have to be careful what you
let in. and I am not just talking about sex. All sorts of vulgarity, bad language, violence, they are
all as bad. Watching those things is like dragging filth into your beautiful room. You have to
avoid them. I mean, your mother and I also have a duty to guide you, but we cannot be
monitoring you all the time.’ ’
He did not sound as upset as I feared. I hated to make him angry for any reason. I also
liked the example he gave about a beautiful room and dirty things. He reached for his bottle of
orange from the cup holder and gulped down what was left of it. Then he switched on the car radio
as if to signal the end of the discussion. He fumbled with the dial for a while. Then he switched it
off again.
‘‘ I also want you to be careful what kind of company you keep in school.’ ’ He
continued. ‘ ‘Some of these classmates that you said were talking about sex, who knows? It’s
quite possible they have started doing bad things with boys. Don’t emulate them, don’t be like
them. They may try to pressure you to join them. You should not do something simply because
other people are doing it. The majority can be wrong. They may even call you a ‘bush’ girl if
you refuse to follow their way. But as I have always told you, pressure from friends is never a
good reason to do anything. You also don’t need anybody to approve of you or the kind of person
that you are. You should never be afraid to stand alone as long as you stand for the right thing’ ’.
He reached for the radio switch again. Music streamed out this time, and he quickly
turned down the volume. The mood in the car had changed since the issue of the magazines and
television came up. I knew he was not really angry with me. It was possible that he was even
angry with himself.
He always wished he had more time to spend with me, especially before I went into the boarding
school.
‘‘And one more thing,’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘Please don’t allow anybody, and I mean
anybody, to touch you in your private parts.’ ’
‘‘Okay, Daddy.’ ’
‘‘And I believe you know what those are?’’
‘‘Yes, I do.’ ’
After that, we barely spoke until we got home. That was four years ago. He had
always tried to teach me things. Sometimes, my mother would even complain that I was too young
for some of the things he wanted me to learn about. The letter he wrote to me for my 16th birthday
was like a recap of everything he had taught me since I was old enough to understand what he was
saying. It was like a text a textbook on life. I recalled the story of the prophet, Lukman, who was
sent by God to teach his own son. Maybe he was my prophet.
Despite the coming Chemistry examination, I read the letter twice. I didn’t realize I
was crying until I saw teardrops on the paper in front of me. I dabbed at it gently, careful not to
blot the ink. At that moment, I felt nothing but pure love for my father. I was very happy with the
camera, but this letter was the greatest birthday gift I had ever received. I was day. Even after two
readings, it still did not fully understand everything he was trying to say to me. If anything, the
letter had actually raised a lot more questions in my mind. I resolved that after my examination, I
would read the letter again and underline those parts that I wanted him to explain further. For now,
I had to face Chemistry.

WORK
It wasn’t until a week after I returned home from school that I finally got Daddy to sit down with
me. I thanked him for the camera and the letter. I also told him that there were parts of the letter
that id did not quite understand and would like him to explain further. He nodded and said he had
expected this.
It was a Saturday morning. We just said our morning prayers. I went down to the
kitchen to makes tea. Mum liked to boast that she was the only one who knew how to make her
husband’s tea. I once challenged her and insisted on making Dad’s tea. He took a sip and said it
was really good. Mum took one look at the tea and said that couldn’t be true, that he only said
that to make me feel good.
‘‘Too much milk,’ ’ she said. It turned out that she was right. About an hour later, I
went to clear away the tray but the tea was still there. It had gone cold, with the milk congealed on
its surface to form a pattern that looked like the map of someplace. I doubted that he went beyond
that first sip he took in my presence. I asked him why he didn’t drink his tea, and he said exactly
what Mummy said earlier, that the milk was too much.
Even then, I didn’t give up. But all my subsequent attempts ended the same way. If
the milk was not too much, the sugar would be too much or too little, or the tea itself would be too
flat, and so on. One day, Mum took pity on me and said, ‘ ‘Aliya, you better stop wasting your
time and let me show you the secret.’ ’ I asked her to show me. She laughed and asked how
much I was willing to pay her for the coaching because she stood a great risk of losing her
husband to me if she showed me how to make his tea. I said I would ask my dad to pay her.
‘ ‘That one? He has Araldite in his hands. He won’t pay,’ ’ she sneered.
She said the first thing to do was to ensure that the water was gently brought to a
boiling point. She said it was always better to use the kettle, because if I used a pot, the water
would lose most of its oxygen, and oxygen was important. I wondered what that meant.
She said I would add two tea bags to the mug. Everyone had their own mug in our
house. Even though they were the same size, Daddy’s mug was blue, Mummy’s was red and
mine was orange. We had other colours and sizes, but those were for guests. I recalled once
Mummy and Daddy were standing in the kitchen, and Mummy was complaining about something.
Then Daddy held up her mug in response to whatever she was saying without uttering a word.
This got Mummy even more upset and she said, ‘ ‘Oh, you are saying it is my cup of tea, right?
They could be like that sometimes.
The tea bag would go in the mug first, then I would pour the boiled water over the tea
bags and leave it to brew for about five minutes to draw out the flavour. After that, I would add
two cubes of sugar. As for the milk, even though she did not need any measurement to get the
quantity right, she said I should add only five teaspoons. After three attempts, I became an expert
in the chemistry of making Daddy’s tea. If I got it right, the tea would have a golden colour and it
would taste almost too strong for me. But that was how he liked his tea. Since then, I had taken it
upon myself to make his tea whenever I was home.
That Saturday morning, I made his tea and made lot chocolate for myself. When I got
to his door, I shouted for him to open up. As I walked in, he grabbed his tea from the tray. A small
glass table sat between two single chairs. He hurriedly cleared the table, but there was still a
remote control on it, which tipped the tray to one side as I set it down on the table, almost
upturning my beverage. He reached swiftly for my mug and lifted it off the tray.
‘ ‘Thank you,’ ’ he said as he took the first sip at his tea. ‘
‘You have now mastered
this thing,’ ’ he said.
I grinned and said thank you. The two chairs at the foot of the bed normally faced the
television screen on the wall. He had rearranged them that morning to face each other.
‘ ‘Yes, I am ready for the interview,’ ’ he said jovially as he sank into the chair.
‘ ‘That reminds me. Daddy, I don’t think I want to be a doctor anymore. I think I
want to be a lawyer,’ ’ I said as I sipped at my drink.
If he was surprised, he did not show it. When I was about to enter the senior class, he
asked me what career I would like to pursue in future. At that time, I was so sure that I wanted to
be a pilot. I like their smart uniforms and the freedom to travel around the world. Then there was a
plane crash that killed so many people and I didn’t want to be a pilot anymore. I thought I should
be a musician, a songwriter. I loved music. I still had a big notebook where I copied the lyrics of
different songs and some of my own. Soon after, I could not think of a better occupation than
fashion designing. I made Daddy pay for an App, which enabled me to create different designs.
Then one day, after a particularly serious attack of asthma, I resolved to be a doctor. I wanted to
be able to help children who suffered asthma. But now, I didn’t think I wanted to be a doctor
anymore. I hated the sight of blood. Then, I found John Grisham’s books in our library. Since I
started reading them, I began to think that maybe I should be a lawyer.
‘ ‘ Is that a way of solving your Chemistry problem?’ ’ he asked
‘‘Nope,’ ’ I said. ‘ ‘Oh, you not seen my results?’ ’ I set down my mug and ran
to my room to get my third term results. He hardly bothered to check my results. I believed he just
took it for granted that I would do well.
‘ ‘Guess what I got in Chemistry,’ ’ I said as I got back the room.
‘ ‘Well, I can guess that it was much better this term giving that you look all excited,
‘’ he said.
I handed the results to him
‘ ‘What? How did you do it?’ ’ he said, obviously impressed.
‘ ‘I just worked harder, that’s all,’ ’ I said, feeling good with myself.
‘ ‘I told you. I always tell you. There is nothing you cannot do if you set your mind to
it. You see now?’ ’
Even I was surprised when I got my and I saw that I got an A in Chemistry.
He studies the results closely as if he was looking for something. Then he put the
results sheet on the tray. ‘‘Good job. Welldone.’ ’
‘ ‘Thank you, Daddy. But it was difficult. Just like Further Maths.’ ’
‘ ‘Well, you have proven to be up to the task. Like I have always told you, there is
only one way to success, and that is the way of hard work. There are no shortcuts. I am proud of
you. I am delighted that you finally got the results that you deserve. But I am more impressed with
the efforts that you have put into it; the determination, the hard work. Sometimes, these are more
important than even the results.’ ’
‘ ‘Thank you, Daddy. You know, when you said there is no short cut, you reminded
me of a girl who cheated in Physics. I saw her coping from a piece of paper.’ ’
‘ ‘What now happened’ ’
‘ ‘Nothing. It’s like I was the only who saw her. Of course, it was none of my
business. She got away with it. That’s her luck.’ ’
‘ ‘That was not luck. My father would say that it was better to die in poverty then to
be a prosperous thief. I guess the same thing applies here. It is better to fail and fail and fail and
keep on trying than to cheat and pass. Sooner or later, her dishonesty will catch up with her.
Passing an examination is never enough in life.’ ’
‘ ‘She knew I saw her. After the paper, she came to me looking embarrassed. She
thanked me for not exposing her and said she was not proud of what she did. I asked her why she
had to do it. She said her parents would be mad at her if she didn’t do well. She said they were
always comparing her with her younger sister, which makes her feel bad. I wonder If she cheats in
other subjects too”.
“Well , that still did not justify what she did.”
“Of course, it didn’t and I told her that. But Daddy, I also think that her parents were
wrong to make her feel that way. I mean, it is not nice to be comparing people like that… well,
thank God that I don’t have a sister.
Yes, and why that?”
“Why what?”
“I mean, why don’t I have a sister, or… a brother?”
“ Well, God knows I love you so much and He doesn’t want me to share the love
with anyone else, that’s why,” Daddy said and laughed. “ I mean…,”he started to say again,
then his phone rang. He picked it up and peered at the screen. ‘Hey, how you dey now?’ He said
in pidgin.
Whoever was on the other side must have said something quite funny to which Daddy
laughed so loud, showing all his dentition, which had been missing a canine since I was born. I
could see a remnant of something he ate had been caught between his teeth. It must be the reason
he had been working his mouth in a particular, funny kind of way, hoping the thing, whatever it
was, would come off. A simple floss or toothpick would have solved the problem. But I know
Daddy could be like that sometimes. And I liked him whenever he was like that. Ordinarily, he
seemed to be incapable of doing anything wrong. Instead of admiration however, his perfection
only terrified me. But when he had food particle stuck between his teeth, or he missed a belt hole
on his trouser, or spilled tea on his caftan, evidences that he was not perfect after all, I felt more
comfortable with him.
“Aba, what was I saying?” He asked as he flung his phone on the bed.
“Yes, I mean, we tried. But it didn’t just happen. And, with a daughter like you, I wouldn’t have
asked for anymore.” He laughed again. The particle was still there, helplessly wedged between
his teeth, looking like some caries. I was tempted to tell him. But no, I won’t. No one had the
right to be so proper all the time. Instead, I thanked him for his compliment, covering my face
with my hand in mock embarrassment.
“But I agree with you. No parents should make a child feel that way. We all have
different abilities. So, it is wrong to use one child as a standard for another. Besides, when a child
is not doing well at all, or not doing well in a particular subject, that is when the child needs all the
support he or she can get.”
“ I really feel for her. I think she regretted what she did,” I said.
“You see, once a child believes there can be an alternative to hard work in achieving
anything in life, then there is a problem. I mean, where do you draw the line? Today, it is about
cheating in an examination to pass Physics, but life is full of all sorts of challenges way tougher
than merely passing an examination. What other fraudulent devices would she come up with on
encountering those other challenges? I am really worried for the young girl. It is even worse that
she did that because she wanted to impress her parents. That’s bad.”
He looked visibly worried. He peered into his mug, then picked it up and put it to his
mouth. Sometimes, he got so engrossed in whatever he was doing that he would have to do that to
remember that he had not finished his tea, by which time it would have gone cold and thick,
looking more like mud water.
“No one likes to fail,” he continued. “But failure is not always a bad thing. There
is a redeeming side to it. Failure can actually empower us in ways that success cannot. Failure can
teach us humility, strength and perseverance. It can also teach us to ask for help. All these are
qualities that can be applied to all other aspects of our lives even when we are no longer in school.
That is why quite often, people who struggled through school tend to end up doing better in real
life than the super bright students.”
He picked up his tea and took a very brief sip. I didn’t think he was still interested in
the tea; it was just a reflex action.
“That reminds of me of one of the greatest poems ever. Ulysses, by Alfred Lord
Tennyson, an Englishman. It says, ‘That which we are, we are; one equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will. To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield”. He
punched the air with his mug. “Never to yield, that is the key.”
“Never to yield”, I repeated.
“Exactly. You would find that you probably learnt more from your struggle with
Chemistry than any other subject that you passed easily. ‘To strive, seek, to find, and not to
yield’. That is it. You know, this poem was actually adopted as the motto for the 2012 summer
Olympics in London.”
I really liked that line myself. And I quickly wrote it down. It could also be my
personal motto. With each passing day, I became convinced that my heart was actually in the arts
subjects, especially Literature and History, than the sciences. There was a way these subjects made
me feel that sciences were not doing for me.
“So, Daddy, you don’t mind that I want to be a lawyer?” I asked. “Now that you
know it was not a way to avoid Chemistry.”
He smiled. He removed his eye glasses and polished it with the edge of his caftan,
more out habit than necessity. “My dear, it does not really matter what career you choose,” he
said.
“it does not matter whether you’re a doctor or a journalist, a lawyer or an accountant,
an architect or even a painter. The most important thing is that you must do only that which has
your heart in it. It you love what you do, then your work becomes easier. Look at footballers and
musicians, the first thing you notice when you watch them is that they enjoy what they’re doing.
When you have passion for what you do, the passion would drive you to success in your work. It
is important also that whatever you do, you should strive to be one of the best in it, if not the
absolute best. Even if you are a cleaner, let it be said that anybody looking for a very good cleaner
should come to you. As a father, I can only guide you. I cannot choose your career for you.
“But a boy in my class, Sogo, said his father wants him to be a lawyer like himself,
but he did not want to”.
“It is normal for parents to want their children to follow in their footsteps, I suppose.
However, it is important that parents allow their children to choose. It Sogo wants to be a lawyer
like his father, there’s nothing wrong with that. But if it is just because that’s what the father
wants, then the son would only be pursuing his father’s dreams, not his own. His heart would not
be in his work. He may eventually, abandon his father’s dreams to pursue his own. That would be
a waste of everybody’s time, you know?”
“But, I thought you said children should always obey their parents”
“Yes, it is important that children should always obey their parents because the
parents have more experience about life and they would always want what is best for their
children. However, we parents also have a duty to listen to our children. We need to realize that
the reason we send you to school is so that you would learn how to think for yourself. Do you
know what Kahlil Gibran taught me about children?
“Kahlil Gibran, he taught you? I asked and learned forward. I knew there were
several books by Kahlil Gibran in the library downstairs, even though I had not read any of them.
“Yes, in a way. But not exactly… I mean, I never met him. Gibran was a Lebanese
poet who died in 1931.
Almost disappointed, I sat back in my chair. I recalled that this was not the first time
he would be balking like this. He had this habit of talking about authors or musicians, some dead
even before he was born, almost as though they were his personal friends or teachers.
“But why do you talk like that, Dad?”
“Like how?”
“Like you knew this… this Gibran guy,” I said. “You know you have this way of
talking as if you know some of these people, when you’ve only read their books or listened to
their music. Sometimes, I just wonder…”
“Well, in a way, I knew them,”he replied.“A book can be a window into the writer’
s mind. Every book in an invitation to a relationship from the writer. And it is personal.”
I shook my head, more in admiration than disagreement. “Mr. Bello, I am not sure I
understand you, sir. But… anyways, what did Mr. Gibran teach Mr. Bellow?” I asked.
He chuckled as he got up and walked over to a massive wardrobe that was ranged
against an entire wall of the room. He had a neat row of books on the upper shelf. The wardrobe
maker might have intended this part of the cabinet to be used to store shoes or other personal items,
but Daddy had it converted to a book shelf. I remembered Mum jokingly complaining on many
occasions that one of her misfortunes in marrying Daddy was that she had to compete with books
to find space in his bed. He would counter by saying that the reason he did not want to share a
room with her in the first place was that he did not want to compete for space with all her shoes
and bags that seemed to be increasing by the day as if she was Imelda Marcos, the former first
lady of Philippines, who was said to have owned more than 3000 pair of shoes. Mum would insist
that she was better than him, after all she didn’t clutter herbed with her shoes and bags the way he
did with his books. Even that morning, Daddy had a couple of books open, face down on the bed.
He was the only person I knew who read several books at the same time.
“By the way, it is time you read this book,” he said as he returned to his seat with
Gibran’s book, The Prophet. When I first saw the book in the library, I thought it was about
Prophet Muhammed. But Dad said it was not, and
That I should read it myself someday.
He ruffled brought the pages slowly, his eyes darting left and right. He soon found
whatever he was looking for. “Here, read, from ‘Your children….’ ” He pointed out the spot he
wanted me to read from.
I read aloud, slowly.
“Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come brought you but not from you,
And thought they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts
You may house their bodies, but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not
even in your dreams.
 You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.”
I flipped the page to continue, but he stopped me.
“That will do, for now. But do you understand what he is saying?” he asked.
“This Ka-Hl-il Gibran is a very wise man,” I said, struggling to recall the first
name. I had to quickly check the cover again, to get it right. “I think I now understand why you
always sound like you know everything. It must be these books that you read.”
“Aww, c’mon, Aliya, nobody knows everything,” he said, laughing as he
waved off the compliment. “In fact, the more you know, the more you realized what you don’t
know. But you are right. There is so much wisdom in books. Through a single book, you could
experience many lifetimes and many worlds. When I think of the generation of my parents, I feel
sorry for them. Most of them did not have the opportunity to go to school, so they never learnt to
read. Can you imagine, so much knowledge everywhere, yet some people cannot access them.
This is why I even fear for your generation. Most of you can read, but you do not read. Very sad.
Instead, many of you waste your time liking up yourselves on Facebook instead of reading real
books. I shouldn’t be surprised though. Many years ago, Albert Einsterin predicted this moment.
He said a day would come that technology would surpass human interaction and the world would
have a generation of idiots. I think we are there now.
“But I am not an idiot,” I protested.
“Of course, you’re not. And that is why we are having this conversation. But you
must never stop reading and learning. That is the point.”
“Yes, I understand,” I said with a nod. “But what did Gibran mean by ‘For their
souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams’?”
I think he meant that parents should not try to determine the future of their children,
much of which they will not be a part of. He also seems to be saying that life keeps changing and
the world that out children would live in would be very different from our own in a way that we
cannot even imagine.”
“Is that the same thing he meant by “You may strive to be like them, but seek not to
make them like you’?” I asked.
“Yes, in a way. It could also mean that even we parents have so much to learn from
our children. Young people look ahead with hope, they see opportunities that they could explore.
On the other hand, many adults look back with regrets, they see opportunities that have been
missed. We have a different way of seeing the world. Certainly, it would be better for us if we can
see the world more from the eyes of young people.”
“I get it. But why did Einstein say technology would turn us into idiots? Isn’t
technology supposed to… like… make life easier for everyone?”
“You are quite right. Look at the amount of knowledge available on the internet, for
example. It is almost impossible to even contemplate. Yet, many young people nowadays cannot
even spell words correctly on their own. Social media was invented by young people who
re-imagined the world out-thinking everyone else. Unfortunately, many of our own young people
found the social media and they stopped thinking. That is the problem”.
“That is it!” I said and snapped my fingers. “In that case, we cannot blame
technology. We can only blame people who use it in the wrong way.”
“Exactly! I knew you would get it.”
I picked up the book again and flipped through. My eyes caught a couple of other interesting
things. Even though it was written like poems, they were not so difficult. I saw something the
author said about love:
“When love beckons to you, follow him.” That sounds nice.
“I think I should read this book,” I said.
“Of course. I want you to read it. It’s certainly better than ‘Twilight’,” he said,
referring to the vampire populated romance novels by the American author, Stephenie Meyer,
which he knew I liked to read.
I feigned embarrassment and covered my face with my hands. “But those books are
good too, you know. It is not all the time one must read all this serious stuff.”
“I agree.” He burst into laughter.
“I know you don’t agree,” I said, wagging a finger.
“No, I agree,” he said, throwing up his hands in surrender.
“Anyway. Those books are more interesting. Let me ask another question,
Daddy.”
“Be my guest. Ask as many questions as you want.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE GANDHI TEST

Two bright orange sofas and two green single chairs formed a semi-circle against a large window
that could easily pass for a door if it had been downstairs. A big television screen perched on the
opposite wall in permanent sleep. Even though it was called the family living room, it was the
most underused part of our house. Hardly anyone ever sat there. The house was another reason I
had suspected that my parents did not plan for me to be an only child. Why would they build a
house that big otherwise?
Certainly, five bedrooms and three living rooms could not have been originally intended for a
family of three.
On one side of the wall was a huge mahogany cabinet with decorated glass doors. It
held tiny memories of Dad’s many travels around the world.
A young Arab boy riding a camel and a crystal Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world, from
Dubai; a Maasai couple from Nairobi; Eiffel Tower from Paris; Ijambulo, the lion cub, from South
Africa; two hand painted ostrich egg shells from Tanzania; the pyramids and the Sphinx from
Egypt; the Tower Bridge and the bright red telephone booth from London; the Statue of Liberty
from New York and several others. For every country he visited, Dad ensured he brought back
something.
Mum and I had also made important contributions to what Daddy called his museum
of mementos, even though we did not travel as much. Mum was responsible for the decorated
plates, which she got from China; and I, the soft camel with a jingle bell that I bought when we
travelled to Dubai some years before.
Daddy had suggested we moved to the living room. Mummy peeped in about an hour earlier to
say breakfast was ready. He did not like to eat in his room. He said it would leave the place
smelling of food. He also said he did not feel like going down to the dining area. I followed
Mummy down to the kitchen to bring some of the food upstairs in a tray. It was a simple meal of
akara, bread and a bottle of Coke. That was his favourite weekend breakfast. He would tear open
the loaf of bread and stuff two or three akara balls into it. He would close it back and squeeze tight
to crush the balls into the bread. He would say he was making an akara bugger. Mummy would
tease him and say, “You can take the man out of the village, but you cannot take the village out of
the man.” He would respond with an indifferent shrug and say, “Na you sabi, city girl.”
Mummy was of a different background from Daddy. Her parents were middle class
and relatively comfortable. She attended a Federal Government Girls College, while he attended
the village secondary school. She had a degree in Nursing from a University in the UK, while he
went to university in Nigeria. They met when he was writing a story on road accident victims as a
cub reporter. She was a young nurse working in the Accident and Emergency ward of the hospital.
He told me that at the time they met, he had only a pair of jeans and two shirts. She also earned
more salary than him. But even the meager salary he earned would not be paid, sometimes up to
three months. It was however, a case of love at first sight for the two of them. They got married
about a year after they met.
“Now, what were you saying?” Daddy asked in-between mouthfuls of akara burger.
Crumbs of akara and bread fell on the floor and he bent to pick them up into the tray.
“In your letter, you said I should always try to do the right thing.
And… you also said if I was ever in doubt about right and wrong, I should apply the Gandhi test.
So, what is the Gandhi test?”
“Have you ever heard of Mahatma Gandhi?” He asked.
“Yes, he was once President of India; he had these Harry Porter glasses,” I said and
formed two zeroes around my eyes with my hands. “I wondered why he went around in a white
bed sheet though. Was he so poor?”
Dad laughed. “Gandhi could have made all the money he wanted if he was so
inclined. But he chose to live a life of poverty to demonstrate that a human being does not really
need much to survive. A contented person is a very rich person. Also, Gandhi was never a
President. He fought for his country to gain independence from Great Britain.”
“Oh yes, I forgot that in India they only have Prime Ministers not Presidents. Was he
the Prime Minister?” I asked.
“No, that would be Jawaharlal Nehru, the father of Indira Gandhi, who also became
the prime minister. Nehru was India’s first Prime Minister after independence. Mahatma Gandhi
did not want political power for himself. But he was a great leader of his people and a thinker. He
said so many wise things. He was the one that said you can tell that what you are doing is good or
bad if you want other people to know about it or not”.
“I don’t understand”.
“What Gandhi meant was that if you’re doing something and you don’t mind other
people knowing about it, then it’s likely that what you’re doing is good. But if you’re doing
something and you would not want other people to know about it, then it’s most likely that what
you’re doing is bad.”
“Ah, I get it now. Of course, if I tell a lie or cheat in an examination, I would not want
anybody to know about it.”
 Daddy took a quick sip of his Coke, which he drank straight from the bottle. He said
the gas was better retained when you drank from the bottle.
“Exactly. But why? Why wouldn’t you want anyone to know?”
“Because I would be ashamed.”
“Exactly the point, my darling. The question we should always ask ourselves, if we
are ever in doubt, is: this thing I am about to do, would I be proud of myself if other people knew
about it? Would the people who love and respect me be proud of me and still respect me if they
found out what I did?”
I understood what he was trying to say and I nodded several times to indicate this. But
Daddy would not stop. Sometimes, he tended to over explain things. I thought he would make a
good teacher.
“I must say though, that I think Gandhi must have had in mind only people who have
a sense of shame.” He threw up his hands and shrugged.
“You know, some people are shameless. They can do anything, without minding what
others would think about them. Do you know what I call people like that?” He asked.
“What?”
“Animals; they are animals”.
“Yes, they are animals. Because only animals behave anyhow they like, guided only
by their instincts. No morals, no ethics.”
“Ethics and morals, Daddy, are they not same thing?” I asked.
“They are closely related. Ethics have their foundation in morals. Ethics are rules that
guide a person’s behavior based on moral principles. Ethics are principles of right and wrong that
guide the way we behave. Although there are general rules that apply to everyone, but a group of
people or even individuals can develop their own standards of ethics. But in the end, they are all
based on the same universal notion of right and wrong, on the same moral principles. What is
considered to be cheating may vary from one society to another. But I cannot imagine that there
would be a society where cheating is considered a good thing.”
“So, what is considered as stealing may not even be the same everywhere. But every
society considers stealing a bad thing.” I added, to show I understood what he was saying.
He smiled. “You are a smart girl.”
“Thanks Daddy, I am my father’s daughter after all,” I said and we both laughed.
CHAPTER FOUR

DATING
Daddy had finished his Coke now and was lying on the sofa, his head propped u with one of the
throw cushions.
“You, are you not going to eat? Madam Lawyer.”
“I am okay with the chocolate for now, I will eat later,” I answered. At that moment,
I had something more important on my mind than food. All the other questions I had asked him
were easy enough and straightforward. This one, I didn’t even know how to start.
“Daddy, you know I am 16,” I said matter-of-factly. It was a rather foolish way to
start. Of course, he knew I was 16.
He was trying to turn on the TV on the wall with a remote control. The TV refused to
come on. He turned the remote control over in his hand, slapped it against the other hand and
pointed it towards the television again. When it refused to come on still, he opened the battery
case of the remote control and took out the two batteries.
One of them dropped and rolled towards me. I picked it up and handed it to him. He
muttered a thank you, re-inserted the batteries and replaced the cover with a noisy clap.
“Now, I command you to come on,” he said to the TV as he pointed the remote
control at it again, like a magician waving his wand,. But still the TV refused to yield, looking
black and dead like those television sets I once saw at a market in Lagos. Big Mummy said they
were called‘No Testing’. Even though they were very cheap, you were not allowed to test if they
actually worked before you buy them. She said, sometimes one might get lucky. But more often
than not, one would have ended up paying to bring a piece of junk into one’s house. I couldn’t
see the sense in that.
“Maybe the batteries are dead,” I volunteered, trying hard to hide my irritation. Here
I was, about to ask the most important question of my life. Yet, all that this man cared about was
his television.
“I hope it is just that,” he said. “Anyway, what were you saying? He said as he laid
back on the sofa, placing the remote control on his chest. “I should have some batteries in my
room. You know we have a match this evening.”
By “we”, he meant Chelsea. He was a devout fan of the English Football club. One
evidence of his devotion was the fact that all the bibs that I used as a baby were branded with the
club’s logo. Mummy would often joke that she was surprised he did not name me Chelsea. In
addition to the bib, almost all my first belongings on earth were blue and bore the club’s logo.
And this included my feeding bottle. Mummy said she complained vehemently at the time that
blue is a boy’s colour, but Daddy would not be deterred. All of the artefacts of my Chelsea
childhood were still held in a box in the pantry.
I had come to like Chelsea myself. Perhaps, that was inevitable. Mummy would say I
was a Chelsea fan by genetic engineering. She was not really keen on football. I was also not so
emotionally committed like Daddy. But we would always pray for Chelsea to win so that Daddy
would remain in good mood. I recalled on one occasion, he actually refused to eat because they
lost a game. I remember, it was a Champions league final against Manchester United. Several days
after the match, Daddy was still bemoaning his team’s defeat, talking about how Drogba would
have scored a penalty if he didn’t get a red card for slapping an opponent. I prayed that Chelsea
would win that day so that Daddy would still be in a frame of mind to answer my remaining
question. Especially, this very burning question:
“Daddy,” I said, “you know I am 16.”
“Of course, how can I possibly forget that you are no longer a child but a young
adult,” he answered and laughed.
“Daddy, be serious now,” I said, squeezing my face at him.
“But I am”.
“Okay, I mean now that I am 16, I am old enough to date, right?”
“Date. What is that?” He asked and sat up slowly. He scratched his neck and
suddenly became interested in the remote control again. I knew my father. I was sure he
understood exactly what I was asking him. But if he didn’t have a ready answer to your question,
he would pretend not to understand, so as to buy himself time.
“I mean, like… a boyfriend. I can have a boyfriend now, can’t I?”
“Boyfriend? What does that mean? He asked, looking straight into my eyes.
Now, it was my turn to look away. I suddenly notice some dirt under my nails and
began to pick at them.
“But Daddy, I thought you said I could ask any question.”
“Of course, you could. I just wanted to be sure I understand you, that’s all. Okay, let
me put it this way. You said dating first, then you said boyfriend, right”.
I nodded.
“Okay, what I would like to know is that when people say they are dating or someone
is their boyfriend, as in your own case, what do they do together? What does that kind of
relationship entail?”
 “Well I am not sure. But I know, like, they hang out together and stuff like that,” I
replied.
One thing I learnt about my father over the years was that you should never take anything for
granted. Whatever you wanted, you had to be able to justify. And you could not do worse than
telling him that the reason you wanted to do something was that other people were doing it. He
taught me what he called the ‘five-why’ test. He said by asking ‘why’ five times, any issue
could be clarified and seen for what it really is. I prayed he wouldn’t remember that now. If he did,
I wondered how many whys I would be able to answer. I think I should have a boyfriend. Why?
Because I am now a young adult. Why? Because most young adults have boyfriends. Why?
Because… because it makes them feel good. Why? Because…Silly.
“What does ‘hang out’ and ‘stuff like that’ mean?”
“Daddy, why now? I am sure you know what I mean.” I said with some agitation, if
not irritation. But I knew I had to answer his question. “I don’t really know, but I know they do
things together, like talk and spend time together.”
“That’s all, talk?” he asked, feigning ignorance.
“Okay, Daddy. Maybe also… like HAK, KOTL and stuff like that,” I added. I was
so embarrassed, talking about these things with my Dad, of all people.
“What are those? HAK and … what did you call it?” He looked genuinely confused.
He sat up and leaned towards me.
“You mean you don’t know? I said, genuinely surprised.
“No, I seriously don’t. Tell me.”
“HAK means, like, Hugs and Kisses. KOTL means Kiss On The Lips.”
“But…how do you know all these?” he asked, almost in consternation.
“Come on Daddy, everybody knows these things, dub!”
“Everybody knows what?”
“As in … It’s kind of the way people speak now. People don’t have time for
long talk anymore.”
“You call talking in acronyms a way of speaking? Anyway. So, how much of HAK
and KOLT have you been up to?”
“Me? No, I don’t have a boyfriend. And it is not KOLT Daddy, it is KOTL.”
“KOTL. Okay. Now, are you telling me that everyone your age knows the meaning of
these things you just said?”
“Well, most. It is like social media language. Yes, I think so. I mean everybody is on
social media.”
“Well, we’ll come back to that later. So, you want to have a boyfriend so that you
would be doing KOTL and what was the other one?”
“No Daddy, that is not…,” the rest of the sentence got stuck in my throat. I began to
feel hot despite the air conditioner and my armpit began to itch.
“You see, Aliya, dating, boyfriend or whatever you call it, are not bad in themselves.
But… okay, let me even start by saying that I appreciate that we are having this conversation.
Okay?” He looked sort of nervous himself. He gripped my hands, gently but firmly. His touch felt
reassuring and I could feel myself calming down. He went silent for a brief moment as if he was
thinking of what to say. Then he continued.
“At your age, relationship between a boy and a girl is mostly ruled by one thing,
infatuation. You know what that means, I suppose?”
“Of course, I know the meaning of infatuation. Like you have a crush on someone,
you think you love the person, but it is not really love.”
“You are right. That’s largely what it is. To add to that, I would say that infatuation is
when you have exaggerated feelings towards someone in a way that is almost foolish. But such
feelings are also often short-lived. While they last however, you would find that you were willing
to do anything to satisfy the object of your feelings. You would want to be with that person all the
time, and nothing else would seem to matter to you.”
“Wow, but that sounds like some kind of sickness.”
“Not exactly. It is just that matters of the heart can be emotionally challenging for
everyone, even adults. But it is even worse at your age; with hormones running riot, and you still
trying to discover yourself. I seriously doubt that any teenager could enter into that kind of
relationship and not be distracted from their studies. And anything that could distract you from
your studies at this stage of our life brings your entire future into jeopardy. Do you know that?”
I nodded.
“Okay, let me ask you…” he continued. But I was already thinking about what he
was saying. Was I infatuated with Bobo? A couple of times after I tried to return the teddy bear
and failed, I caught myself thinking about him. But I told myself that I only wanted an opportunity
for us to finish the conversation we started that day during prep. I also with I knew what he had
wanted to say before we were alerted that the duty master was heading towards our class. That
was after I had told him I was not his girlfriend. Was he going to agree with me and just walk
away? Or would he have persisted and tried to make me change my mind?
After I learnt that he had relocated to Ireland without telling me, I was even angrier
with myself that I did not shove his stupid teddy in his face back then and warn him never to talk
to me again. However, after a while, I was not so angry anymore. In place of anger, there was this
sadness, this loneliness that I felt, which I never knew was possible. For a while, I actually felt like
he dumped me.
One day, I waited till everyone had gone for lunch and the hostel was quiet. I brought
out the teddy and threw it in the waste bin by the hostel gate. Almost an hour later, when I was
going to class for the afternoon prep, I had to walk past the bin. I could see one of the teddy’s legs
sticking out, the rest of its body obscured by some stale bread, torn papers and a box of cornflakes.
I looked away. But at that very moment, the teddy came alive in my heart. I couldn’t just leave it
there, discarded and helpless. It was the first gift I got that was not from my parents and that I did
not win as a prize from school. And the person that gave me that first gift was Bobo. Even though
I disliked him now, it would not be fair to punish the teddy for what Bobo did. I walked back to
the bin and glanced around to see if anyone was looking. I did not see anybody. I hesitated for a
while; trying to convince myself that it was just the teddy that I liked and not that I still cared for
Bobo. Just then I heard footsteps approaching the gate. No more time to waste. I would save the
teddy. I was sure this had nothing to do with Bobo. I dragged the poor thing from underneath the
pile of rubbish and ran back to my room. I chucked the teddy inside my wardrobe, promising
myself I would give it a thorough wash on my return from prep.
“Aliya, what are you thinking so much about?” Dad’s voice jolted me back to the
moment. He had been talking all along. It must have taken him a while to realize that I was lost in
my own thoughts. “No…nothing. Just thinking about what you were saying.” I stammered in
response to his query.
“I asked you a question earlier thought?”
“Yes, sir, you did. I am sorry, I must have…. Trailed off.”
“That’s all right. So I said, let’s assume you had a boyfriend. Let us say… what was
the name of that boy again? The one that gave you the teddy bear?”
Oh my God! I knew what he was trying to say. I wished he wouldn’t do that. Did he
know what I was thinking about only a few minutes ago?
“I know his name reminded me of that thing; that drink… Bobo, yes, Bobo…yes
that’s what you called him. Right?”
I refused to confirm. I was still wondering what on earth he was driving at.
“Let’s assume Bobo was your boyfriend and you liked him a lot.” He paused and
gave me that mischievous smile of his.
“Daddy, Bobo was not my boyfriend. And I don’t like anybody, not in that way,” I
protested vehemently.
He laughed. And I wondered why he was laughing like that.
“I know. I know. He is not your boyfriend. But let us just assume he was your
boyfriend for the purpose of the question I am asking you. Bobo is your boyfriend and you like
him a lot. Then one day, you see him with another girl, walking around the school? How would
you feel?”
“Well… to be honest, I think I would feel bad.”
“You mean, you would be jealous?”
“Yes, Jealous, maybe.”
It had actually happened before. Shortly before the end of the term, I saw Bobo once
with another girl from our class. Morayo. They were walking to the refectory together. I felt so
bad. Morayo wasn’t as smart as me. But she was slim and tall, with big eye balls that she had a
way of rolling around and around so you couldn’t help but notice them. I could not eat. To make
matters worse, Bobo saw me and he did not even act as if he did. When I got back to the hostel
that night, I swore never to speak to either of them again for the rest of my life. I eventually slept
off and I had a nightmare about Bobo and Morayo kissing each other.
Dad’s eyes were looking directly into mine. “You would be jealous, right? That’s
exactly what I am getting at. A jealous mind is a distracted mind. Yet, distraction is what you
cannot afford at this stage of your life. You now understand me?”
I understood him very well; after what Bobo did to me. Even though it was almost a
year before, I still felt bad each time I remembered him. Recently, one guy, Zak, passed a note to
me as we were leaving the assembly. Even though he was not in my class, everybody knew him
because he was in the school football team. It was a very stupid note. It Said, ‘Do you know any
cardiologists, because my heart skips a beat every time I think of you.’ I am sure he must have
copied it from somewhere. I just tore the note to shreds and threw it into the bin in one corner of
the class. Zak was handsome and very popular too. Every Girl would like to have him. But that’s
exactly the reason I did not want to have anything to do with him.
“You see, Aliya, there is time for everything. Relationships come with a lot of
emotional issues that you may not be able to deal with at your age. And if you were a boy, I would
tell you this same thing. You will have plenty time for all that. But at this stage of your life, you
can hardly afford it. If you are to be the best, you have to stay focused. Have you heard the term,
derailment before?”
“Yes, you mentioned it in the letter,” I answered, trying to hide the turbulence going
on in my mind.
“Of course, I did. And what is your understanding of it?”
I explained that it was a like a train moving in a particular direction. No matter how
long the journey was, the train would eventually get to its destination as long as it stayed on the
tracks. However, once it derailed, that would be the end of its journey.
“You are right. The point is that we human beings are also like the trains running on
our tracks. Once we go off our tracks, we may never come back.
The question is, why do people derail? Why does it happen so often that very intelligent people,
people that everyone would agree were destined for greatness, just fall by the wayside? Do you
know why?”
I shook my head.
“Gratification!”
“Yes, I remember that one too. You said if one does not learn to delay gratification,
one may be derailed by gratification.”
“Absolutely. I am so glad you remember that point,” he said, grinning broadly, his
missing tooth, standing out by its very absence and looking like an unlit passage to somewhere.
“People have desires for different gratifications. It’s quite natural,” he
explained. “Cars, big houses, expensive jewelry or wrist watches, girlfriends or boyfriends…”
He paused to point at me. Then he continued.
“Sex, alcohol, drugs, designer clothing, expensive handbags and shoes, and so on. I
doubt it anyone would consider most of these things as bad in themselves. Except for drugs,
maybe alcohol for some people. Most of them are actually very good and naturally desirable.
However, they all come with huge price tags. And by this, I don’t mean the money alone.
Sometimes, the price we may be required to pay for some of these go beyond money. It may be
our emotional balance, our self-respect, our integrity, our career, and sometimes our very life
itself.
The question therefore is not whether you are willing to pay the price; the question is
whether you fully understand the price you may be required to pay for the gratification and
whether you can actually afford it. This may sound daunting, but you know what I have realized?”
“No.” I shook my head.
“What I have realized is that for most of these things, the price you may be required
to pay is just the time you have to wait. The time you have to wait, denying yourself these things
until such a time that you can truly and honestly afford them, financially and emotionally.
However, if you try to gratify yourself with any of these before you are ready and able to afford
them; they may end up derailing you. I pray that your life would never be a warning to others, but
a good example.”
“Amin, Papa. Thank you.” I got up and gave him a hug. I hardly called him that. But
in situations like this, I realized he was more than just a father to me. He was my teacher and my
BFF too.
“One moment please,” he said, and went into his room. He emerged few minutes
later with a pack of AA batteries. He picked up the remote control and replaced the batteries.
Before replacing the cover, he pointed the remote control at the TV was on Supersport 3N. There
was a live game on, but it was not the one he was waiting for. He left the TV on all the same.
“Daddy. You know what happened in our school last term?”
“What? Tell me.” He leaned towards me in eager anticipation.
“I mean, many things happened,” I said, throwing up my hands to confirm that I
knew what I just said was meaningless. “But there was a particular incident.”
“Yes, what happened?” My father liked to hear stories. Maybe it had to do with his
background as a journalist. We would be in the car; he would see something and just shout, “Can
you see that? Now, that would make an interesting story.” Mummy would laugh and say, “Mr.
Journalist, you are still looking for stories up and down.” He would pat her lovingly and say,
“Well, see what looking for stories got me.” And they would both laugh heartily. If
you wanted my father’s full attention, just tell him you have a story.
“Some students were caught in the basketball court at night, during prep. They said
the school security caught them.”
“Caught them, doing what?”
“53X,” I said, wondering whether this was something I should actually be telling my
Dad.
“53X, what is that?” He looked genuinely lost.
“They were doing bad things… like, they were having sex.”
“Is that what you people call it now? Is this another social media language?” He
threw up his hands and shook his head. “Anyway, so, what happened?”
“They got called out at the assembly the next day and were suspended indefinitely.
The boy tried to put a brave face on it, but the girl was so distraught. She was so ashamed. Even
me, I felt so embarrassed. You would think I was the one.”
“I can imagine. But you know what happened to that girl was more than the
humiliation of being called out on the assembly?”
“Daddy, what could be worse than that?”
“Well, let me ask you. Even if they were not caught? Do you think that boy would
ever respect a girl that he could have sex with in a basketball court? Do you think he would be
proud to take that girl home as his wife in future?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“So, she has lost her self-respect and presented herself like an easy girl, a mere
plaything. That single incidence would probably follow her for the rest of her life. As far as the
boy was concerned, she was probably just another conquest. I’m not saying it’s the right thinking,
but that’s how it goes.”
“OMG! I can’t even imagine.”
“Aliya, I don’t know what OMG means. But I am not sure I want you to be speaking
this so-called language of yours in this house. That is why you people cannot spell anything.”
“Come on Daddy, you are so old school! OMG means ‘Oh My God’.”
“Seriously, I am getting really worried about this new language of yours. The way
you people are reducing everything to acronyms and abbreviations. What’s that? How would you
kids learn to speak or write good English? That is why a majority of you are failing WAEC.”
“Daddy, it’s nothing to worry about. They are just slangs. I can even teach you.”
“Me, I don’t what to learn that nonsense. Teacher don’t teach me nonsense,”he sang.
Daddy liked Fela’s music. But his favourite was the Malian singer, Ali Farka Toure, even though
he did not understand a single word of the man’s song. I once asked him how it was possible to
enjoy a piece of music he did not understand. He said I should not confuse the song with the music.
Besides, he said, music is a universal language that speaks to your soul and not just your ears.
Whatever that means.
“Okay, what does KPC mean?” I asked in defiance.
“K-P-C. I beg, leave me, I have a match to watch,” he protested. But I could see he
was thinking of the answer.
“Daddy now, we are only playing,” I said, pretending to sulk. I folded my hands
across my chest.
“Okay, cry-cry baby. I know PC means Personal Computers. But what is the K?”
I tried to suppress the laughter that suddenly seized me like a sneeze but I failed. I
was soon rolling on the ground, holding my stomach. I laughed so hard that I could feel tears
rolling down my eyes as I coughed repeatedly.
“You better be careful. You asked me a question and I answered to the best of my
ability, so what’s this?”
“Daddy, you are so wrong.”
“Okay, I am so wrong. Tell me, what is the meaning?”
I tried to suppress the onset of another burst of laughter by coughing repeatedly.
“KPC. Keep Parents Clueless.”
“Keep what!” He shouted in consternation. “Keep Parents Clueless.
Can you just imagine? Wahala dey o”.
I heard my name. it was Mummy. She was complaining that I had not eaten.
“Anyway, go answer your mother. We can continue after the match,” he said, still
wondering at what I had just told him. “Keep parents clueless.
Can you imagine,” he said to himself as I got up.
I left my books and other things on the floor beside my seat, truly hoping to continue
the discussion after the match. I prayed Chelsea would win. Otherwise, that could be the end of
our conversation for that day.
CHAPTER FIVE

STEREOTYPE
Chelsea won their match. Daddy was happy. But we could not continue our conversation because
he had to go out. I did not even know the time he returned home that night. I tried to wait up for
him by reading the book he gave me in the morning, The Prophet. It turned out to be a very good
sleeping pill. I should have known.
I was never a night person. Once the sun went down, my brain also shut down. I think
I was solar powered. During examinations, some of my friends would stay up all night to study. I
couldn’t do that to save my life. I tried it once, and it turned out to be a serious waste of time. I
couldn’t even go through a chapter and I spent half of the following day sleeping or sleepwalking.
Thank God it was a weekend. Since I realized this, I tried to study as hard as I could during the
day and free myself up for a good night’s sleep. I once read somewhere that God created the day
so we could work and night so we could rest. God probably had me in mind.
My favourite sleeping position would remind anyone of a full grown foetus that was
reluctant to be born. Even after I woke up, I just lay there motionless, booting up slowly like an
old computer. When I eventually opened my eyes, I was hit by blinding sunlight streaking through
the space between my pinky curtains. I jumped up, rushed for the door, locked it and rushed to the
bathroom. The easiest way to get into trouble with my father was for him to know you had not
said your morning prayers when the sun was already up.
After the prayers, I slipped into my soft slippers, the ones Auntie Molara gave me,
which looked like rabbits. They even had two long ears. I knocked on Daddy’s door, but he
answered me from downstairs.
“Morning, sleepy head,” he shouted.
I sauntered down the stairs to find him on the dining table with mummy. They were
both nursing their cups of tea. I knelt on the ground to greet them.
“Ekaaro ma; ekaaro sir.”
“Kaaro o, oko mi Ajike. Se a ji daadaa?” Mummy said in response. She was
especially fond of the Yoruba morning greeting.
“Adupe ma,” I answered.
“Have you said your prayers?” Daddy asked. I nodded yes. Thank God he did not
ask me what time I said the prayers. That would have started the morning on a bad note. With my
Dad, if you said your prayers on time and did not tell a lie, you could almost get away with
anything else. I went into the kitchen to make my own tea and joined them at the table.
I listened as they chatted away about all sorts of things. Mummy was talking about
something that happened at the hospital where she worked. I had not taken more than three sips at
my tea when Mummy asked with we wanted for breakfast. After considering a couple of options,
we settled for yam and fried eggs. Mummy and I then left Daddy at the table to get the breakfast
ready.
As we ate our breakfast, I asked Daddy with he would be ready for us to pick up
where we left off the previous day. He said we should wait until Mummy left for work. Mummy
wondered if we were plotting against her.
“What are you two planning that you had to wait until I go to work?” she asked.
“Don’t worry Mummy, we are not plotting anything,” I answered.
“Whatever; too bad for the two of you, I am off today.”
“Well, we can still execute our plans even in your presence,” Daddy said and
laughed.
As I watched them continue with their banter, it occurred to me that mum was the
luckiest woman in the world; to have found a husband like Daddy. I used to wonder if they ever
quarreled at all. But I soon found a way of knowing when they were having any issues.
While Daddy would carry on as if everything was okay, especially if I was around,
Mummy was like an open book. She would become irritable and angry about everything. She
would even start to look physically sick. Whenever she was like that, I knew better than to
approach her for anything. I would safely tuck myself out of her gloomy way, unless she called for
me. In which case, I would try to put on my best behaviour and do whatever she asked. Even then,
I could hardly escape her tongue lashing. “ You are spoilt. You don’t know how to do anything.
Kii se ejo e. It’s because you are the only child I have. Nonsense.” I dared not even as much as
cough. Similarly, you knew that the storm was over when you heard Mummy singing around the
house and calling Daddy “Babe”. Luckily, the bad days were very rare. Most of the time, they
were as thick as thieves.
The TV was on in the adjoining living room. Even though I could not see what was
on the screen from where I sat, the volume was high enough for me to hear everything that was
being said. It was a news channel. Another Boko Haram bomb attack was being reported. Several
people were said to have died in the attack, which happened at a local market.
“I wonder when this madness will stop,” Mummy said in a weary voice.
“Yea. This one happened yesterday. I heard it on the radio as I was returning home
last night. Quite sad,” Daddy Said.
“But Daddy, is it true?” I asked.
“Is what true?” He asked this without looking at me.
“A girl in my class, Rebecca, said all Muslims will go to hell, because
Muslims do not believe in Jesus and they like to kill people. So she said.”
“Really? And what did you say to that?” Mummy asked.
“I told her she was stupid. I was so upset I felt like sapping her.”
“Well, thank God you did not,” Daddy said.
“Maybe I should have. She was so rude! How could she even say a thing like that?”
I felt a new wave of anger rise in me as if my argument with Rebecca Just happened. I
recalled that day. It was a weekend and we were all in the hostel common room when someone
started a conversation about the kidnapped Chibok girls. Rebecca was not even part of the
conversation.
She was standing by the door, reading something on the notice board. And then she
just turned and said, “It is Aliya’s people now.” I think it was Sade that asked, “What has Aliya
got to do with this?” And the rest of us chorused, “ Exactly.” I was the only Muslim girl in the
room. It was then that the stupid girl said that nonsense about Muslims going to hell because they
kill people and worship Allah instead of Jesus. I stood up to challenge her, but I was held back by
the other girls, who said I should just ignore her. Rebecca had a reputation for being mean and she
didn’t have many friends. Even though I was upset by what she said about Muslims killing people,
I also found myself wondering if what she said was true. After all, how come almost all the
terrorists were Muslims and they all claim to be fighting a Jihad for Islam.
Daddy finished his food and pushed the plate away. He grabbed the roll of paper
towels on the table and tore off some of it. He wiped his mouth and dropped the crumbled towel
on his plate.
“You see, Aliya,” he said almost in a whisper, drinking the water straight from the
bottle, even though there was a glass on the table for him.
“In all circumstances, you must learn to control your emotions. Only animals respond
to provocation with a fight. If you had slapped those girls, what you would have achieved was to
confirm her notion of Muslims as violent people. I remember, sometime ago, when a Danish
cartoonist portrayed Islam as a violent religion. That was quite provocative. But the reaction of
some Muslims, who launched attacks on the basis of that and even got some people killed in the
process, only served to confirm what the cartoonist was portraying, rather than deny it. You see the
irony? Now, to your friend Rebecca.”
“She is not my friend!” I protested and gave him a disagreeable look, then smiled.
“She is just plain Rebecca.”
“Okay. Rebecca said Muslims will go to hell because they do not worship Jesus and
because they like to kill people. Right?”
I nodded. “Yes”.
“I wonder where she got that from,” Mummy said with a frown.
 “Let’s take the first one,” Daddy continues. “To start with, it is wrong to judge or
criticize other people’s belief or faith. So, she was wrong on that score. The same way you would
be wrong if you criticized her religious belief. You know of Muhammad Ali, don’t you?”
“Of course, everybody does, I said.
“Ali said, ‘hating people because of their colour is wrong. It does not matter who does the
hating. It is just plain wrong. ‘I believe he could have said the same of religion. Everybody is
entitle to his or her faith. If God had wanted, he could have made all of us Muslims or Christians,
but He did not. Why? Because God knows that the most beautiful garden is the one that has
different colours and different types of flowers. So, the beauty of our country, like the rest of the
world, is in the diversity of our people.”
I like what Daddy said about flowers in a garden and wanted to write it down. I
excused myself and ran to the study. I took a pen out of a Chelsea mug that held several other pens
and pencils and peeled a sheet of A4 paper from the printer. As I resumed my seat, I scribed on the
paper, “The most beautiful garden is the one that has different colours and flowers,” repeating to
myself and I wrote.
“Good. Now, to the second point, that Muslims like to kill people…”
“That’s actually they one that annoyed me. How could she generalize like that?” I
retorted.
“That kind of generalization is called stereotype. You know what that means?”
“I think I have an idea. But I can find out,” I said. I picked up Mummy’s phone and
pressed the button at the bottom end. A tiny blue microphone appeared on the Google page. I
tapped on it and said, “ Okay Google, what is stereotype? ” it answered with a beep.
“Stereotype-a set of ideas that people have about what someone or something is, especially an
idea that is wrong: racial/sexual stereotypes,” I read out from the phone.
Daddy smiled broadly. “Your generation is so lucky. In our own time, we would have
had to wait until we found the Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary”.
“Or Michael West,” Mummy added, and they both laughed.
“Anyway, now we know what ‘stereotype’ means,” Daddy said, all serious again.
“Like you just read, it’s usually based on a wrong notion or idea. It is absolutely wrong to
ascribe to all people what some people do just because they belong to the same tribe or religion. A
Muslim who kills another human being would have done the same if he was a Christian or a
believer of any other faith. No religion approves of killings. Therefore, a killer is a killer, not a
Muslim, Christian or Hindu.”
“But Daddy, all these terrorists, Boko Haram, ISIS etc., they are Muslims…”
“Well, Hitler was Christian, and I have not heard anyone blame Christianity for his
evil,” Mummy interjected.
“Well, that is true,” Daddy said. “There are about 1.6 billion Muslims in the world.
The majority of us just want to do our thing. We cannot kill anybody. It is only a small minority
with their own political agenda that are doing these things. They may use Islam to justify their
crimes, but just like our mummy said, people have also used the Bible or the Torah to justify all
kinds of evil. I believe that no true religion of God supports the killing of innocent people.”
“Another point to note also is that Boko Haram has been bombing mosques too, and
killing Muslims as well. These are just mad people,” Mummy added.
“Exactly,” Daddy agreed. “They probably have even killed more Muslims. Like
those ones that exploded a bomb around the Prophet’s mosque in Medina…”
“O-oh! Are those ones Muslims too? These are just bloodthirsty maniacs,” Mummy
interjected, almost angrily.
We all kept quiet for a while. Mummy stood up and pulled her chair away slightly, so
as to heave more room.
I wasn’t done. “But why do Christians think their religion is better than our own?”
“There you go, Aliya. Now you are also talking like Rebecca,” Daddy said.
“But how? How am I talking like Rebecca?” I protested.
“You said Christians think their own religion is better than ours. But Christians do not
think their religion is better. Some Christians you have met think their religion is better.”
“Oh, okay, I see,” I stuttered, slightly embarrassed that he caught me out so easily.
“Not, you can see how easy it is for anyone to fall into the stereotype trap. So, Aliya,
you need to guard against it. Don’t make up your mind about people before you have had the
opportunity to meet them and assess them fully. Chances are that you might be wrong.”
“I understand. But I am not like Rebecca.”
“I didn’t say you were like her, I only compared what you said with what she said.
Besides, I don’t think this Rebecca girl is a bad person as Such. How people think is mostly a
result of the kind of thinking they have been exposed to. Maybe if you engage her, you can help to
correct her misconceptions about things like these.”
“Oh, that one? She will not even listen.”
“Come on, don’t be so dismissive. You see, in this life, you will meet all kinds of
people. Some people we think they are bad, but it may actually be that they need our help.
Sometimes what we need is to rise above our personal feelings and sentiments so that we can help
others to see another way of looking at the world.”
“It is not always easy though,” Mummy said.
Daddy placed a hand on her shoulder. “I am not suggesting that it is easy. That is
why it requires us to rise above ourselves. Okay, I will tell you a story.”
“Story Story,” Mummy hummed as she grabbed her phone from the table and made
to rise.
“Sit down now,” Daddy told her. “I thought you said you were not going to work
today.”
“Yes, I am not. But I want to go to the hairdressing salon.”
“Sit down, there is still time. It’s not even twelve yet,” Daddy cajoled her and
glanced at his wristwatch.
“Okay. Let me listen to story,” Mummy said and sat back down. “Aliya, make sure
you clean up the kitchen before I come back from the salon o.”
“Yes, Mummy.”
“Okay, Mr. Bello, Let hear your story,” Mummy said as she leaned back and folded her arms
“Many years ago, during the ear of the slave trade. A group of European slave traders
attacked a village on the coast of West Africa and grabbed all the inhabitants, men, women,
children, and made away with them on their ship.
Inside the ship, the women and the children continued to wail, the slave traders
descended on their captives, beating them mercilessly into submission. Those that had the courage
to challenge the slavers were killed and thrown overboard. The chief of the slavers was
particularly mean. He appeared to derive sadistic pleasure in humiliating and abusing his victims.
Not even women and children were spared from his acts of cruelty”.
Daddy picked up his bottle of water and took a long, slow sip. I wondered where the
story was going.
“The slavers continued to rape, torture and kill. The ship continued to sail away on its
miserable way.
Then one night, in the midst of the unfathomable darkness of a vast ocean, a terrible
storm began to rage. Thunder clapped and rumbled, sending long lashes of terrifying electricity
across the black night. The sea roared and roiled like giant anacondas, squeezing the life out of
their victims. The women shrieked, the children cried. And the slavers panicked with terror. Then,
in one terrible moment, one anaconda wave just seized the ship and tore it into shreds, as if it were
not thicker than a piece of paper. Every single one of them died – captives and captors alike.
Every one, except two persons – the white chief of the slave traders and one of the enslaved
black men.
Somehow, the two found themselves on an isolated island in the middle of nowhere.
The chief slaver had broken an arm and a couple of other bones. He was in such a bad state that he
could barely move a finger. The black man on his part, was hale and hearty, apart from the wounds
inflicted on him by the white man, who had now become his companion in misery,
Daddy paused to ask us, “You know what the black man did afterwards?
We said no. He then pointed at me and said, ”Aliya, if you were him, what would you do? This
was a man who enslaved and tortured and committed all manner of atrocities against other men,
women and children that you knew and cared for. Now he was at your mercy; what would you
do?”
“Well, I guess that would be a great opportunity for me to revenge,” I said.
Then he turned to Mummy, “What of about you?”
“He would soon be dead anyway. So, I would just leave him there and fined my way,” Mummy
answered.
“That’s what you two would do? Well, I guess that is what most of us would do. But do you
know what the black man did? He nursed his enslaver back to health. And every single day that
they were in that unknown island, he would forage for food and ensure that they both had
something to eat. One day, when the white man had recovered enough to fully understand the
misfortune that had befallen him, he asked his companion, ‘Who are you?’
‘I was one of your captives,’ ‘the black answered.
After that introduction, the two men did not speak to each other for days. They ate whatever they
could find, mostly wild fruits and some rodents, but each one generally minded his business. Then,
one day, the white man asked his former captive, ‘but, why did you decide to help me? Why
didn’t you just kill me, after all the evil things I did to you and your people?’
‘It is not my place to punish you for whatever sin you may have committed. But it is my duty to
help another human being who needs my help.’
The white man went silent for a long time. Then, he said ‘That makes you a better human being
than me. ‘To which the black man answered, ‘I am who I am. You are who you are.’
Soon after, they were rescued by a merchant ship. When the ship arrived its destination, they
both went their separate ways, never to see again.
When the white slaver returned to his country, he resolved to dedicate the rest of his life to
fighting against the evil of slavery and slave trade. That is the end of my story.

CHAPTER SIX

BEAUTY
After Daddy’s story, Mummy went to the salon and I stayed in my room. As I lay in my bed, I
couldn’t stop thinking of that black man and what he did for his captor. Was that really possible? I
wondered if I could do that. I wondered if anybody could do that. I knew what Daddy was trying
to teach me with that story, but I was not sure I could be like that.
Shortly after afternoon prayers, Daddy knocked on my room door. He was still in his grey
caftan. Even though he was in his early forties, his hairline had receded significantly, and his hair
was almost evenly speckled with gray. I also noticed a small paunch that was beginning to form.
 He took the chair by my reading table and turned it towards me no the bed. He dropped into it
rather heavily and said he wanted us to round off our conversation because he was going to travel
the next day. I had a copy of Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations on my desk. He picked it up,
flipped through and dropped it back on the table.
Daddy, I have been thinking about that story,” I said as o braced my back against the wall
and pulled a pillow across my chest.
“What did you think of it?”
“I mean, what the black man did; was that possible?”
“Possible? Yes. Easy? No. Aliya, I told you that story because I want you to understand that
we can actually influence and change people in a significant way by reacting to them differently.
The idea of showing kindness to people who have been unkind to you, well… I think we can set
that as a standard, as something to aspire to. It would be great to be like that. I think that is the
essence of all religions. But the important thing to remember is that it is possible for you to change
people simply by not behaving like them.”
I thought of all the people who had done nasty things to me, and I wondered if I could bring
myself to be nice to them. Maybe I would achieve that someday. But each time I remembered
some of those things, they still hurt badly. For instance, how would I ever become friends with
that teacher that practically humiliated me in front of the whole class? Or the idiot, Bunmi, who
had made it her life mission to always pick on me? How?
‘ ‘Daddy, you know a teacher once called me Fatima.’ ’
It was a Monday morning. I had raised my hand to answer a question he asked. It was Biology
class. He pointed at me and said, ‘Yes, you. Fatima’. At first, I thought he was confusing me with
another girl in the class who went by that name. I tried to correct him by saying that my name was
not Fatima. Then, he went like, ‘Oh, you are not Fatima, maybe you are LatiFAT then? He even
put a heavy stress on the last syllable. At that moment, I understood what he meant, just like the
rest of the class. Everyone started laughing and also jointed.
‘ ‘ Daddy, as if that was not humiliation enough, he was actually teaching about body types,
ectomorph, mesomorph and endomorph. After drawing the body types on the board, he then called
out students that he thought illustrated each one of them. When he got to endomorph, he asked me
to come out, meanwhile, you needed to see the every ugly and round drawing he had on the board,
which he said I illustrated. So, how can I…’’
‘ ‘A teacher did that to you?’ ’
‘ ‘Yes, he did. I felt so bad.’’
‘ ‘That was very irresponsible and quite insensitive of him. No one has the right to do that, not
to talk of a teacher. What he did is called body shaming, making negative comments about
somebody’s weight or size. Highly inappropriate. It is wrong,’ ’ he said.
‘ ‘He is not the only person. There is this girl, Bunmi, in SS3. Whenever she sees me, she
would say, ‘Hey you, how do you even fit into that dress?’ She is so mean. After all, I did not
make myself this way.’ ’ I felt a lump in my throat and I tried to fight back the tears that were
beginning to swell in my eyes.

‘‘ Come on, on need to cry.’ ’ He leaned across and placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘
‘Don’
t cry. I don’t want to see any tears on that beautiful face,’’ he said softy.
‘ ‘Daddy, you cannot understand.’’ I sniffed and rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand.
 ‘ ‘ I do understand. I understand. How long has this been going on?’ ’
‘ ‘Since the beginning of SS2,’ ’ I answered, almost in a whisper.
‘ ‘ I wish you had mentioned this to me much earlier; I would have taken it up with the
principal. But it’s not too late. This kind of thing should not be happening.’ ’ He tapped his own
knee and looked very disturbed.
I got up and went into the bathroom. I blew my nose and turned on the tap. I washed my face
and grabbed a towel from the rack.
‘ ‘Are you okay?’ ’ Daddy called out.
‘‘Yes, Daddy,’ ’ I answered as I walked back into the room, still wiping my face with the edge
of my cardigan.
He stood up from the chair and came to sit beside me on the bed. He grabbed my hand and
squeezed gently.
‘ ‘Are you okay now?’ ’
‘ ‘Yes, I am… fine. I am fine,’ ’ I said and managed a smile.
‘ ‘Aliya, I want you to listen to me. I had no idea this was happening, but I totally understand.
I’ m with you on this and I promise you, I’ll deal with it. Thank you for telling me.’ ’
I sniffed and looked at his face. Sitting so close to me, I was struck by the resemblance between
us. It always came as a bit of a surprise. For a moment, I almost felt like I glimpsed my own face
in ta moving mirror.
‘ ‘Thank you , Daddy.’ ’
He drew back a little, so he could look directly at me. ‘ ‘ I remember another Gandhi quote:
‘Nobody can hurt me without my permission’. That’s what Gandhi said. ‘Nobody can hurt me
without my permission.’ ’’
‘ ‘Nobody can hurt me without my permission,’ ’ I repeated after him.
‘ ‘You see, my darling, no matter what you do, you would not be able to control how other
people behave towards you. But you know what? You can control how they make you feel.’ ’
‘ ‘I hear you, Daddy, but it’s so difficult when people just pick on you that way.’ ’
‘ ‘I know. But I want you to know something else; how you feel about yourself is more
important than how other people make you feel. You need to develop confidence in how you look.
For me, you are the most beautiful girl in the world,’ ’ he said with a big smile.
‘ ‘I know you said that just to make me feel good,’ ’ I said, shyly.
‘‘Well, I guess that’s miles better than saying something that makes you feel bad. But seriously,
when I said you are the most beautiful girl in the world, that is in a manner of speaking. But there
is no doubt that you are a very beautiful and exceptionally intelligent girl. Do not allow anybody
to make you think any less of yourself.’ ’
‘ ‘But sometimes, I think maybe they are right. How come all the beauty contestants and the
models are always like that? As in, tall and stick-thin? I mean, I have never seen a model that
looks like me.’ ’
He sighed and seemed to be thinking of what I just said. ‘ ‘Well, Aliya, I want to assure you
that what you see in the media is the media’s representation of beauty, which is also rooted in
some people’s narrow idea of beauty. Reality often differs from what the media likes to present to
us as standard. The only place I have seen everyone looking the same is in a can of sardines.’ ’
I actually found that funny.
‘ ‘People come in all shapes and sizes,’ ’ he continued. ‘ ‘Fat, slim, tall, short, dark, fair,
round , square. They are all beautiful. Everyone needs to embrace the way they look and should
not allow anyone to define them. If you feel good about yourself, feel confident about yourself and
carry yourself with pride, for me, that is beauty. You know what I’m thinking?’ ’
‘ ‘What?’ ’ I asked.
‘ ‘I may be wrong. But I suspect that somehow, you have also accepted the standard definition
of beauty as tall and skinny. You may not even be aware of this. That is what the media does to
you.’ ’
I pushed further. ‘ ‘Hmm... maybe you’re right. But that’s what everybody thinks. How come
that on TV, for example, clowns and stupid people are always fat? Also, I’ve never heard anybody
say’ ugly slim girl. It’s always ‘fat and ugly’ that go together.’ ’
‘ ‘Aliya, listen to me. I have told you before, everybody can be wrong. Everybody. Secondly,
the examples you’ve given are just some of the ways the media promote stereotypes while
presenting some people’s culture as not true. I know some cultures where the norm is for women
to put on weight in order to attract suitors for marriage.’’
‘ ‘No, Daddy, that cannot be true!’’
‘ ‘Yes, it is. Do you know that in Mauritania, they used to have what is called ‘fat-farms’,
where girls were force-fed to fatten them up, because in that society, an attractive women is the
one that is plump? I guess it’s not that different from the fattening rooms’ among our own Efik
people of Calabar, where girls are held in seclusion and fattened up in preparation for marriage.’ ’
‘ ‘Wow. That’s quite interesting,’’ I said.
‘ ‘It is, isn’t it? The point here being that different cultures have different definitions of beauty.
In some cultures, a beautiful woman has to be curvy. In some, a woman is not beautiful unless she
has a long neck. In others, she must have full lips, sometimes referred to as ‘thick lips’. This
even extends to skin colour. In some cultures, the beautiful unless she has a long neck. In others,
she has to be dark brown. Yet, in others, the most beautiful woman is the one that is ebony
black.’ ’
‘ ‘So, Daddy, which one do you like?’ ’ I asked mischievously.
‘ ‘You are a silly girl,’’ he said, and we both laughed. ‘ ‘If you want to know which one like,
just look at your mother.’ ’
‘ ‘But seriously, Daddy, why do some girls bleach their skin?’ ’ I asked.
‘ ‘I guess, it boils down to lack of self-confidence. Girls who bleach their skin are obviously
trying to fit into some people’s definition of beauty as light skin. But it is a dangerous thing to do.
The chemicals used in bleaching creams and other concoctions come with long term health risks,
including skin cancer. They can even cause damage to internal organs.’ ’
‘ ‘Don’t the users know this?’ ’
‘ ‘Don’t the users know this?’ ’
‘ ‘Self-hatred can be an overwhelming thing. Some people just hate the way they look,’ ’ he
said.
‘ ‘But the women who bleach their skin, I guess they do so because they want to make
themselves more attractive to men.’ ’
‘ ‘Well, I have also seen men who bleach. So, what are we to say to that?’ ’
‘ ‘Yuck,’ ’ I grimaced.
‘ ‘ I know. But the bottom line is, people have to accept who they are. You have to be
comfortable in your own skin. If you accept who you are and you are proud of yourself, other
people will love and accept you for who you are.’ ’
‘‘ I would hate to change who I am because of a man,’ ’ I said, almost defiantly.
‘‘Well, I definitely would hate to see you change who you are because of anybody. Whoever
likes you must accept you the way you are. For me, the way you are is just so beautiful,’ ’ he said
and we both laughed.
‘ ‘But on a more serious note, Aliya ,’ ’ he said and sat up as if he just remembered something
very important. ‘ ‘Beauty is total. Physical beauty, however it is defined, is very important.
‘ ‘But you see, a truly beautiful person is one who is beautiful in character and comportment. If
you speak kindly to people, you treat everyone with respect, you are not vulgar, you carry yourself
with grace and self-confidence and you are generous. To me, these qualities are even more
difficult to find in people than the physical beauty.’’
‘‘ Is this what is meant by ‘beauty is noting, but character is needed’?’ ’ I asked.
‘‘I suppose so. I think the intention of that expression is not to say that physical beauty is not
important. I mean, you have to like someone and find them attractive before you may even have
the opportunity to see all these other qualities. But physical beauty alone is not enough. A truly
beautiful person is someone who is a real human being.’’
‘‘Daddy, when you said ‘generously’ do you mean… like, giving people things?’ ’
‘‘Yes, to a large extent. It means going out of your way to make other people happy without
expecting anything in return. Sometimes, this may not be more than just a smile, you know.’ ’
‘‘A smile’ ’
‘‘Yes, a smile maybe just what some people need to make their day.’ ’
‘‘Well, I really don’t smile a lot. Maybe it’s something I need to improve on. Smile, smile,
smile, I hummed to myself.’ ’ And he smiled.
‘‘That reminds me, Daddy. You remember what you said in your letter, that I should expect to
be treated with respect by everybody? I read somewhere that Ali said the same thing to his
daughter, even though he did not put it in exactly the same words.’ ’
When I read what Ali told his daughter, I felt that was exactly the kind of thing my father would
say to me.
‘‘How did Muhammad Ali put it? Daddy asked.
‘‘Yes, Ali was right. Every girl should expect to be treated like a queen.
But you know why a queen is treated like a queen?’ ’
‘‘because she is… powerful?’ ’

“Not really. A queen I treated like a queen because a queen behaves like a queen. Respect can
only be commanded by self-respect. If a queen behaves like a tramp, she would be treated like
one.”
“I guess you are right. I didn’t think of that,” said.
“You see Aliya, if you bought a new dress and throw it on the floor, people would be
justified to use it as a rag and mop the floor with it. But if you have a dress, even though it is not
so new, but you keep it clean and bang it in your wardrobe, no one would treat it like a rag, or dare
to clean the floor with it. That is why the Yoruba say, ‘Bi onigba ba se pe igba re, bee naa la maa
ba pee”,
I was still thinking about this when he said, “That girl, the one that you said was
picking on you, what’s her name again?
 “Bunmi, that’s her name,” I replied.
“Bunmi, yes. That’s it. Why do you think Bunmi would be picking on you like that?”
“I don’t know. We are not even in the same class. Yes, we are in the same hostel, but
we are not in the same room. I can’t remember ever doing anything to offend her,” I said.
I had also asked myself the question several times. Once, I even toyed with the idea of
confronting her to hell me how I might have offended her. But I did not have the courage to follow
through. The closets I came to understanding why she kept picking on me was when she said one
day that I was rude because I thought I was better than everyone else. True, I had finished almost
every term with the best overall results. Everyone knew this because my picture was always on the
notice board in front of the administration building. But I never thought I was better than anybody.
Most of the time, I just kept to myself and did my thing.
After a few minutes of silence, Daddy said, “You know, when people bully other
people, it’s usually because they think those people are better than them in some ways or have
something they cannot have. Come to think of it, can you pull down something that is beneath you?
No. you can only pull down something that is above you. Bullies are mostly driven by jealousy
and a deep sense of unworthiness, an inferiority complex. They only feel better about themselves
when they make you feel bad about yourself. So, back to where we started earlier, you must not
give them that pleasure. Ultimately, what they do to you says more about them than about you.”
“Well, thank God she is gone now,” I said, heaving a sigh of relief.
“Gone? Where did she go?” Daddy asked as he stood up, stretching a little.
“She has graduated now. You forgot I told you she was in SS3.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot that. But now that you are going to be a senior yourself, you have to
use your own experience to stand up for other children who may become victim to bullies.”
“You know, Daddy, I am going to be a perfect.”
“Really? I didn’t know that? Which prefect?” he asked almost excitedly.
“Head Girl,” I said.
“Wow. That’s good. Now, you would even be in a better position to help other
students.”
“Of course. Daddy, I even want to donate something to the school clinic.”
“Like what?”
“The Nebuliser. We don’t have any in the clinic, and there are so many asthmatic
students many of them don’t have inhalers. One girl in our hostel nearly died last term because
she suddenly had an attack and she didn’t have an inhaler. She was lucky that I had one to spare.
But I think if we have the Nebuliser, it can be used for everyone when that kind of thing happens.”
“That is very thoughtful of you, my darling. Now, that’s what I call beauty –
making a meaningful impact in the lives of others”.
I laughed heartily, feeling very pleased with myself.
“Daddy.”
“Yes, my darling.”
“I just want to thank you for everything you have taught me. I have learnt so much.
You are the greatest father in the entire universe”.
“Universe? Not even world?” He laughed. He walked towards me and gave me a big
hug. Then, he gently pushed me back. “Sit down, I want to tell you another story,” he said as he
also sat back on my reading chair.
 “Okay Daddy, I am ready.
“Once upon a time…”
“Time, time, time,” I chorused and we both laughed.
“Once upon a time, there was a hunter who lived in a remote village somewhere in
Africa. One day, as it was his wont, he went on a hunting expedition, promising his family that he
would come back with assorted game, so they could have a feast.
However, after stalking the forest for several days and several nights, there was no
game in sight. He thought that perhaps, if he went farther into the forest, he would get lucky. But
the farther he went, the more tranquil the forest became, not a rumble or a stir. He did not even
glimpse a rodent. He ran out of food and water. He soon began to starve. But lack of food did not
worry him as much as lack of water. Yet, he kept pushing on deeper into the forest. Hunting for
game was no longer his priority; he was desperately in need of water, and, maybe food. But he met
with no luck. Soon he began to hallucinate and he feared that he might die. Well, given the
circumstances he found himself in, dying would not be such a tragedy. However, if that was his
gate, at least he should find a cave or somewhere little concealed to lay his head and die so that
wild animals would not feast on his body.
As he stood, swaying on one spot, drunk with thirst and hunger, he suddenly saw a
narrow path that he did not notice before. He thought perhaps he was still hallucinating. But he
followed the path. Overhead, tree branches formed heavy canopies that shut out the sky. He
trudged on, still hoping to find a spot hidden enough to hold his body. He had not gone beyond a
few metres when he came upon an open field that looked like the courtyard of somebody’s house.
When he managed to look up, lo and behold, what did he see? A signboard that said,
‘Food is Ready.’ As if that was not exhilarating enough, underneath this advertisement was
written, ‘All you can eat for free, your ancestors have paid for your food.’
With the last energy he could muster, he trudged towards the direction that the
signboard pointed and he soon found himself in a big compound. Everyone he saw appeared busy,
dedicated to the affairs of the stomach. Some were pounding yam, some were cooking the soup,
some were fetching rice into a large pot, and some were busy skinning freshly killed game of
different stripes.
As the famished hunter stood bewildered in the middle of all the frenetic activities of
cooking and frying and cutting and pounding, he wondered what to make of the whole scene.
Could it be that he had died and had ended up in heaven? He was still trying to make sense of
everything when he saw two ladies walk towards him with two crystal jugs of what looked like
milk. In all his entire life, he had never beheld such enchanting beauty.
One of them handed him the jug she was carrying. He frantically grabbed and downed
its entire content in a jiffy. He collected the second one and drained it as well. He felt a new surge
of energy and became even more aware of his environment. He had no doubt that this was the
heaven he had heard so much about.
The two ladies led him to a room and sat him on a cushion, so soft, softer than any he
had ever sat on. They asked what he would like to eat. Even in his excitement, he had a major
concern. He had no money. How would he pay for the food and the drinks? He could not be sure
now that he actually saw what he thought he read on the signboard outside, that the food was free
because his ancestors had paid. He had no idea that his ancestors ever wandered that way. So, the
signboard may be intended for a particular individual, rather than general guests. He summoned
the courage to ask the ladies. ‘Is it true, what I saw outside, that food is free because my
ancestors had paid?’ They confirmed that it was true. He could eat and drink as much as he could
for free, because his parents and parents’ parents had paid for everything.
All glory to his ancestors! He asked them to give him anything they had. They soon
returned with a mountain of pounded yam, assorted game meat and chilled juices of different
fruits held in sweating crystal jugs. The hunter pounced on the food and the meat. It was the
most delicious meal he ever had. He at his fill. He drank the juices, the taste of which did not
belong to this world.
When he finished, a new wave of tranquility swept over him and he did not know
when he slept off. He could not recollect for how long he slept. But when he woke up, the two
angelic ladies were still waiting on him.
He thanked them profusely and informed them that he would like to be on his way.
They asked if he enjoyed the food. He said he did and actually he wondered if he could take some
with him for the road. They said he could take as much as he liked. Whereupon, he proceeded to
stuff his hunter’s bag with as much fried meat as it could carry. He also filled his water bottle with
the juice. He thanked them once again, and set to be on his way. However, as he was about to exit
the room, a voice, deep as it was omnipresent, flooded the room, jolting him back.
‘Gentleman, you have not paid.’
What was this He wondered? ‘But, I was told that I could have anything for free
because my parents had paid.’
‘Yes,’ the voice answered. ‘And you have done just that. But the reason you were
able to enjoy the free meal that you just had was that someone else had paid. You too must pay, so
that your children coming after you, would also enjoy a free meal, someday, like you just did.’ ”
I waited with bated breath to find out what became of the hunter, but Daddy got up
and made for the door.
“Won’t you finish the story? What then happened to the hunter?”
“The story is finished. If you think it is not finished, then you are free to finish it.
How the story ended is not important. What is important, Aliya, is what the story is telling you.
With the letter that I wrote to you on your sixteenth birthday, and the conversations that we have
had over this weekend and even before now, I believe that I have paid my own dues to you, just
like my parents did to me. You must pay yours too, by passing these teachings to your own
children. When they learn from you, the must pass it on to their children, who must in turn pass it
on to their own children. Till the end of time. It is the price that every generation must pay, so that
future generations would live better and more fulfilled lives.”
After he left the room, I lay back on my bed and cried for a long time.
After that, I said a long prayer for him, “God bless you, my father, my teacher, my
prophet.”

SUMMARIES

Chapter 1
Aliya, Bello’s first lady as foundly called by her father, in aniticipation of maturity at 16 thought
of the freedom to gained as young adult is not a child. It down on her that there is no special
feeling of new age. That 16 is not synonymous with maturity, child with stupid, the only thing
worth celebrating is achievements not birthdays.
Mr. Bello would not failed to sent birthday card to his daughter because of the profound love for
his only child, he did same as she clocked 16 this time, a sixteen page letter. Each year focused on
Aliya ’ s life, everything a girls-young adult ever wanted to know but was afraid to
ask-sex-education.

Chapter 2
The experience of the outing is an opportunity for the father to continue their conversation on the
life of teenage girls from different
background, a middle class family; luxuriant meals, house setting achieved successes through hard
work and good morals.

Chapter 3
As a young adult, Aliya is thought to be humble, learning domestic chores the father explained
some of the things she did not understand
in the letter. Career imposition on teenagers is wrong success comes from hard work and
determination.

Chapter 4
Abdullahi figuratively described interior setting of Mr. Bello’s house, full of art works, artifacts
awards, traved wide and exposed. Always try to do the right thing do not mind other people
talking about it, then it is likely that what you are doing is good only the bad thing that you don’t
want people to know Gandhi was an Indian nationalist, he fought for the liberation of and
independence of his people without amassing wealth for himself. Ethics and morals should be
guiding principles for teenage girls, not infatuation and gratification.

Chapter 5
Peer pressure, internet new technology social media exposed wrong values alien to our culture to
teenagers. Bello is lost to hear HAK KOTL
HAK-Kiss KOTL-Kiss on the lips. Young adults are exposed to things adults are afraid to discuss
with children hence, the need for sex education.

Chapter 6
Young adults girls should be guide against stereotype: it is wrong to judge people or criticize their
belief or faith, religiously belief, hating people because of their colour is wrong it does not matter
who does the hating usually based on wrong notion or idea. Helping people in need, this act can
change people in remarkable ways.

Chapter 7
Abdullahi concluded that, teenage girls have great expectations, they are deceived by beauty.
Self-esteem and confidence in how you look. Self worth not to allow them think less of
themselves beauty is not in models and media representation, it is in character parents should
make it a duty to inculcate good morals in their children who will pass it on to their offsprings.