Quizzes

Stacks

Shows

Podcasts

Newsletters

Naira Life

Love Life

Hustleprint

Love Currency

Sunken Ships

What She Said

My Bro

So You Don’t Have To

Interview With…

Zikoko Memes

Jollof Road

Cholera Outbreak Update

Follow our socials

  • 51 years ago, the former Eastern Region of Nigeria unilaterally declared independence from Nigeria as the Republic of Biafra. Millions of lives and 30 months later, the war ended with a Nigerian victory. The Nigerian military adopted inhumane tactics such as food blockades and genocide, leading to the widespread death of civilians through famine.

    Many people are ignorant of that era of our country’s history. Deliberately removed from schools’ history curriculums, many people had to learn about the war through second-hand recounts from older people affected by the war and reading about it on the internet. The lack of knowledge about our history has repeatedly thrown us into regrettable situations. The continued maltreatment of Igbo people in Nigeria that led to the war has continued until today.  In remembrance of the declaration of the Republic of Biafra, here are 7 things you should know about Biafra.

    1. Geography

    The area which was referred to as Biafra comprised of Ebonyi, Enugu, Anambra, Imo and Abia states. It is named after the Bight of Biafra, the coastline flanking the south-eastern states.

    biafra map

    2. Biafran Languages

    The official language of the Republic of Biafra was English. There were 100+ languages from the regions that became Biafra, with the major populations speaking Igbo, Anaang, Efik, Ibibio, Ogoni, Ejagham and Ijaw.

    Top Five Traditional Dances from Eastern Nigeria - allAfrica.com

    3. Biafran Agency for Research and Production (RAP)

    At the beginning of the Biafra war, Biafra had no formidable supply of weapons and ammunition. The Biafran Agency for Research and Production (RAP) was formed by prominent scientists from the University of Nigeria, Nsukka (then known as the Republic of Biafra). The agency produced bombs, rockets, missiles (collectively called Ogbunigwe), as well as ammunition, armoured vehicles, telecommunication gadgets and petroleum refineries among others for the Biafran Armed Forces. According to Biafran government claims at the time, the flying Ogbunigwe was the first rocket to be wholly designed, developed, mass-produced and launched in Africa. It first saw combat in 1967, over one year before the launching of the first indigenous South African rocket in December 1968.

    biafra soldiers with ogbunigwe

    4. Biafran Currency

    The currency of Biafra had been the Nigerian pound until the Bank of Biafra started printing out its own notes called the Biafran pound. The Biafran pound was the currency of the breakaway Republic of Biafra between 1968 and 1970. The first notes denominated in 5 shillings and £1 were introduced on January 29, 1968. A series of coins was issued in 1969; 3 pence, 6 pence, 1 shilling and 21⁄2 shilling coins were minted, all made of aluminium.

    biafra coins

    5. International Relations

    Biafra was formally recognized by Gabon, Haiti, Ivory Coast, Tanzania, and Zambia. This gave the young country a claim to statehood. Other nations, which did not give official recognition but provided support and assistance include France, Spain, Portugal and Norway. Others include Rhodesia, South Africa, and Vatican City.

    Pope Greets Pro-Biafra Activists at the Vatican During Angelus Prayer

    6. Biafran Politics

    The Republic of Biafra ran as a unitary republic administered under emergency measures. It consisted of an executive branch, in the form of Chukwuemeka Odumegwu Ojukwu, and a judicial branch in the form of the Ministry of Justice. Its legal system was based on the English Common Law. The capital of Biafra moved three times during the course of the war from Enugu (1967) to Umuahia (1967–1969) to Owerri (1969–1970) and finally to Awka (1970). 

    7. The Biafran Flag

    The colours of the Biafran flag were green, black and red with a rising yellow sun in the middle black strip.

    Read: 5 Roles Of The Nigerian Vice President You Should Know

    [donation]

  • What does it mean to be a man? Surely, it’s not one thing. It’s a series of little moments that add up. Man Like is a weekly Zikoko series documenting these moments to see how it adds up. It’s a series for men by men, talking about men’s issues. We try to understand what it means to “be a man” from the perspective of the subject of the week.

    Check back every Sunday by 12 pm for new stories in the Man Like series. If you’d like to be featured or you know anyone that would be perfect for this, kindly send an email.

    Today’s “Man Like” is Imoh Umoren, an indie filmmaker. He talks about losing both his parents at the age of 15, surviving a tough divorce and fathering his nephew and his son.

    When did you realise you were a man?

    When my mum died when I was 13 and my dad followed at 15. 

    Before then, growing up had been fun but religious. My mum was a university lecturer while my father was a businessman. My mum made me read a lot of books from the library to keep me out of trouble. Then my parents died.

    After they died, my siblings and I grew up rough and learned things the hard way. We had to live with relatives who weren’t the best people to grow up with and adjust to a certain lifestyle we weren’t used to. You can’t complain about things to your relatives the way you would with your parents. They didn’t take kindly to rebellion. I remember one argument I had with my aunt which led to her throwing me out of the house when I was in the university.

    I was quite rebellious. I think a lot of it came from losing my parents and not knowing how to deal with grief. Our society doesn’t treat grief properly. I didn’t know how to deal with it and my relatives didn’t either. So I became a very cold kid.

    How did you deal with the grief, eventually?

    Did I really deal with it? I don’t think so. Now that I’m an adult, I still struggle with it because I later lost my sister and brother within three months of each other in 2010. 

    I’m sorry.

    It’s life. You just deal with it. God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers.

    At what point did you realise you were responsible for yourself?

    I got my first apartment when I was 16 from money I got working with my cousins. I realised I had to make money and stop depending on my relatives, so I talked to some cousins . My cousins in Port Harcourt used to drill boreholes, lay interlocking stones and other construction jobs. I’d help them out at the sites and they’d pay me. But my biggest break came by chance. I was in a bar having a drink when I overheard two South Korean expatriates talking about how they needed to drill some boreholes for their company. I seized the opportunity and jumped into the conversation, telling them I drilled boreholes. They asked me to send a cost quotation the next morning. Mind you, I had never drilled a borehole by myself.

    I ran to my cousin, Alex, and told him everything. He helped me draw up a cost quotation and followed me there, though I fronted as the “main guy”. We landed the contract and I got the lion’s share of the proceeds. That was how I made my first million at 18.

    How did you get into filmmaking?

    Growing up, my mom used to make me read a ton of books. I also watched sitcoms like Cheers and decided I wanted to be a sitcom writer. I wrote a few scripts and somehow that evolved into me directing. I did a course on television and film and that cemented me as a director and producer.  I made my first film in 2009. It was called Lemon Green. I was 26.

    There weren’t a lot of experts in Nigeria producing shows, so there was a demand for Nigeria TV producers. I produced an MTV show, Malta Guinness Street Dance and a bunch of other shows.

    What was your relationship with your dad like before he passed?

    He had a heart attack when I was 15. We weren’t very cool because I think I reminded my dad too much of him — stubborn and headstrong. We also looked very much alike and talked the same way. 

    My mother’s family were more well-to-do than my father’s family. He was a tough guy who roughed it up and single-handedly made his wealth. He always felt some type of way so he was constantly trying to prove himself and get some respect. There’s a certain disdain for people with new money. People will still ask you, “Who is your father?” No matter how successful you are.

    I wasn’t cool with my dad. Perhaps because I looked just like him, he used to talk and treat me like I was an adult. Still, I regret that I wasn’t able to spend enough time with him. I think the cold aloofness comes from the tough upbringing men went through in his generation. So perhaps I shouldn’t judge him too harshly. He had his odd ways of showing affection, like telling me to come and sit beside him or give me a piece of meat from his plate. 

    How did you handle your mum’s passing?

    Oh man, I was broken. I didn’t speak for three days.She had been dealing with diabetes, and we knew she was dying. On the day she died, I was coming back from school with my siblings. I felt something strike me and I fell. Immediately, I knew something had happened and I told my siblings, “Mum is dead.” We continued home in silence, and the news was broken to us by an uncle.

    My religious faith was affected by her passing, which I think she saw coming. Before she died, she asked me, “If I die, what are you going to do about your faith?” We had prayed and prayed and she wasn’t getting any better, so I didn’t even know what to believe in anymore. After she died, there was a disconnect from God and everything else. I just went cold.

    How’s your relationship with your son different from the one you have with your dad?

    My son will be seven this year. He lives with his mother in the UK, so most of my parenting is done via video calls. He looks exactly like me and I’m so proud of that. Sometimes, when he’s frustrated, he reacts the exact same way I would.

    Tell me about getting married.

    We were married for about three years before we split. We grew up together and were very tight friends before we got married. 

    What went wrong?

    There’s enough blame to go around but on my part, I think I was too hyper-focused on my work to pay much attention to anything else, including her. Things deteriorated and the marriage ended. We’re still very good friends..

    There’s a mentality among African fathers that once you’re providing for your family, that should be enough. When we don’t provide, we feel like we’re not responsible enough or deserving of love.

    I didn’t know the importance of spending quality time with the people who loved me. I’m learning now that providing for the family, as important as it is, isn’t all there is to be a husband and a father. Paying for family vacations or buying new cars are important, but so is making time for your loved ones. 

    I had always dreamed of having my family. So it was a rude shock because I thought everything was going great till it all came crashing down on me. When we got divorced, I became suicidal.

    I think people need to cut men some slack; we’re working so hard trying to make a good life for the family.

    How did you handle the divorce?

    Man, I was devastated. After the marriage ended, I lived in a hotel for a year, talking to myself. I was barely functioning. I loved her very much. I wished it didn’t happen. I thought my life was over at that point. My work suffered and I had to be laid off from some projects I was working on.

    I had always dreamed of having my family. So it was a rude shock because I thought everything was going great till it all came crashing down on me. I was suicidal.

    How did you get past it?

    It was women, bro. Women got me through the toughest times. I was getting affection from women, being nursed back to life, bringing me food at the hotel and cheering me up.

    How did the divorce affect your son?

    He was three at the time, so he wasn’t aware of everything going on. It wasn’t until recently that he asked me why I wasn’t married to his mom and why I was always alone. Imagine your own son taking shots at you. It really be your own blood.

    LMAO. What do you tell him?

    I tell him to focus on his dinosaurs.

    LMAO. What’s it like parenting from a distance?

    It’s hard as fuck. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone. I can’t see my son often enough. I can’t help him with his homework as I would love to. Due to COVID-19, I wasn’t able to go see him for almost a year and that was so hard for me. There’s also the disconnect between our accents, him with his UK accent and me with my Nigerian one. We’re always saying “come again?” on our calls because we’re both struggling to hear each other’s accents. Parenting like this isn’t easy but it’s something you must do. I’ve not been the best at it but I try.

    Interesting. Tell me about your biggest fear.

    My biggest fear would be not doing anything I intend to do with my life. I have really big dreams, and I’ll be very pissed if I die before I fulfil them. I don’t want to die early because there’s so much I want to do. My art is improving as the years go on and dying without getting to that god-level of creativity will pain me o.

    You’re really all about your work.

    That’s my Achilles heel. I’m obsessed with filmmaking. I was blessed with that talent so that I can improve myself and go further.

    How’s your romantic life now?

    It’s been a difficult time for me dating. I’m very focused on my work and hardly have time outside of it. Ideally, I’d want to date someone who’s just as ambitious so they don’t feel ignored. Iron sharpeneth iron, not wood.

    People want someone who’ll be there all the time, but that’s my weakness. I’m still trying to 

    work hard and focus on my career, which might take a lot of time and that could lead to different issues. I really can’t say that working all the time is a problem. I was poor. I don’t want to ever experience that again. That’s why I work the way I do. I’m not going to compromise my hustle because of love. When everyone leaves you, all you have left is your hustle. I don’t want my kids to go through what I went through. I want to create a very soft life for them, and if that involves me working my ass off 24/7, so be it. 

    Do you think you’ll have a family again?

    Definitely. This hoeing life is not for me. Do you know how hard it is to talk to ten women a day? It’s too stressful. Seriously though, the whole family-in-the-suburbs-with-the-white-picket-fence idea has always been my dream. Hopefully, I get to settle down soon. 

    When was the scariest moment of your life?

    There are several moments in my life I’ve been scared to shit. When my brother and sister died, I thought I was going to die. There was a time my son was ill during a trip to Portugal. I was scared to death. I’ve already suffered so much loss. I can’t bear anything happening to him. I still get scared sometimes when my nephew, who I’m raising, goes out and doesn’t come back on time. 

    Oh, you’re raising your nephew? How’s that like?

    I’ve been raising him for 10 years and being a father figure is a struggle oh. We always have big fights because he doesn’t pick up his phone. He also has that young teenage arrogance and is just as rebellious as I was when I was his age. Teenagers are just weird, man. I’m worried every time he goes out whether he’s going to come back alive because of the current security climate. I have a constant fear he’s going to get in trouble with the police or something.  I’m definitely not looking forward to my son becoming a teenager.

    Check back every Sunday by 12 pm for new stories in the Man Like series. If you’d like to be featured or you know anyone that would be perfect for this, kindly send an email.

    Are you a man who would like to be interviewed for a Zikoko article? Fill this form and we’ll be in your inbox quicker than you can say “Man Dem.”

    Check back every Sunday by 12 pm for new stories in the Man Like series. If you’d like to be featured or you know anyone that would be perfect for this, kindly send an email.

    [donation]

  • I’ve often heard of men who gave regular allowances to their girlfriends but had never met one (that I knew of). A friend prompted me to talk to men who “paid salaries” to their partners so I put a call out. I got some pretty interesting responses from six men. Here’s what they said.

    Patrick

    She’s looking for a job so I decided to give her something monthly for her upkeep till she starts working again. It’s about 7% of my income although I couldn’t send her the full amount last month because of some financial commitments I had and she understood. I try not to let it affect the dynamics of our relationship. When I first started giving her, she felt she had to be submissive to me and agree with everything I say. I had to make her understand that I didn’t want that.

    Sucre

    I provide bi-weekly support for my girlfriend. I did it because she’s a student and it’s hard for me to watch her struggle with mundane expenses. I want her to be able to focus on her studies so she can graduate in flying colours. It’s never about the money, it’s about the void it fills for her. I’m comfortable and she should be comfortable too. I’m hoping we’ll be married next year.

    Jack

    I used to give my ex $50 weekly, which was 10% of my income. She’s unable to get a job and I work 3 jobs. We lived together and I paid for the groceries and other expenses as well. I suggested the allowance but she wasn’t comfortable with it. She even beat it down to that amount because she didn’t want to be a burden. 

    I can’t be comfortable knowing I can help and decide not to. I didn’t tell people because I didn’t want them to think she was taking advantage of me like my best friend did when I told her. It’s important to me that my partners have their allowance, so they don’t have to rely on me. Money is always made back. Imagine a situation where she needs money but we’re fighting and can’t ask for money. 

    Wondering how to support Zikoko’s work? You can click here to make a donation.

    Seyi

    I started paying my ex an allowance to help her financially and also seem to portray myself as responsible because she thought I was making a lot of money. When I was in love, it made sense. Eventually, she started feeling entitled and we’d get into huge arguments when it wasn’t constant. She also wanted to determine and control how much I spent and saved from my salary. She also started being entitled too.

    Williams

    I’ve been with my woman since 2017 but only started sending her monthly allowance in 2019. I already see her as my wife so it’s no big deal. She takes care of me and goes out of her way to do stuff for me so she definitely deserves it. I give her a minimum of 100k on the same day every month but more if I know there’s something she wants to buy, like a gadget.

    Tosin

    About 60% of my salary went to my ex and her child (she’s a single mother) but I ended up regretting it. We broke up two weeks ago when I found out she was cheating. I caught her when I read her Whatsapp. She was apologetic but later became violent when I refused to take her back because this isn’t the first time I’ve caught her cheating so I know I had to leave her. I’d spoken to her mother and her best friend to talk to her to stop the cheating but that never worked. The problem is, I miss her so much and I’m angry with myself for not being able to survive without her.

    Read: 6 Nigerian Men Share Their Struggles With Fending For Their Families

  • We all had grand dreams of what we’d be when we were kids. Doctors, lawyers, scientists, Pulitzer-winning journalists — a child’s imagination is truly boundless. For Children’s Day, we asked 14 Nigerians what they wanted to be when they were young and what they do now. The answers ranged from hilarious to “God when”.

    Aphrodite

    I wanted to be a neurosurgeon after reading Ben Carson’s Gifted Hands. Then I wanted to be a pilot because I was obsessed with planes. I still am. Sometimes, I take flights to Abuja just to buy kilishi. 

    Now, asides being a crisis manager and travel agent, I date rich men for a living.

    Ann

    I wanted to be a TV reporter so bad! Now, I work in business development and do a damn good job at it. 

    Sophia

    I wanted to be a nurse. Now I’m the head of finance in a company in Lagos.

    Rotimi

    I first wanted to be a doctor, then a pilot. Now I just catch cruise for a living, doing any work I see from IT to photography. I’m waiting on my big break.

    Koromone

    I thought I was going to be a theatre actress. I’m the editor-in-chief of Tech Cabal.

    Tomiwa

    I wanted to be an aeronautic engineer and then a pilot in the United States Air Force. Alas, I couldn’t pass chemistry to save my life so now I’m the CEO of a media company.

    Deborah

    I wanted to be a lawyer so bad. I remember acting as a lawyer in a drama when I was in primary school. When university admission came, I was given History and International Studies .

    Now I teach in a primary school; the primary school I attended. I’ll start my Masters in Human Resource Management by September. You see this life, it’s a pot of beans.

    Virtual Learning: Little Einsteins Science Camp – KenyaBuzz LifeStyle

    Edward

    I wanted to be an engineer but my parents wanted me to be a doctor so I  ended up studying medicine. Soon as I left Naija, I got my masters, worked in research for three years then started trading in stocks and futures. I like it. Gives me free time and not much effort with good money. So I’m not complaining.

    Victoria

    Wanted to be a banker as a child but I’m currently on a nursing path.

    Favour

    I wanted to be a TV broadcaster. Now I chase clients to buy adverts in media. Not so far off, right?

    Kiishi

    I wanted to become a journalist, the kind that travels all over the world telling stories about people and their culture. Also going to war-torn countries to tell their stories to the world. Now I’m a product manager.

    David

    I wanted to be a banker, then a pilot, then a scientist that worked with chemicals and then a secret agent. Now I just survive.

    Abdulazeez

    I wanted to be a virologist to find the cure for AIDS (yes, at that age I had an idea what virology was). Before that, I wanted to be an inventor. I have always had a vibrant imagination. Now, I’m finding my feet and trying out so many things because I realised that the options are limitless and it is a daily process to actually find something to commit to and for how long.

    Itohan

    I wanted to be the youngest female Chief Justice of Nigeria. Now, I want to set the Nigerian judiciary on fire.

    [donation]

  • As told to Femi

    Nigeria’s Lunacy Act of 1958 is long overdue for repeal and here’s why. It describes any person living with a mental health condition as a “lunatic”. It strips such a person of all decision-making rights and resigns them to depend on decisions made for them by relatives and guardians. According to the Act, a magistrate can determine who a “lunatic” is and order them to be committed to a psychiatric hospital, stripping them of any decision-making rights.

    The rights of people living with psychosocial disabilities should be recognised, as stated in The United Nations Convention on the Rights of Persons Living with Disabilities. It grants persons living with disabilities their fundamental human rights such as the provision to make decisions based on free and informed consent, equal recognition before the law, freedom from stigma and discrimination, and others. Nigeria ratified this law in 2009 and partially adopted it through the Disability Rights Act in 2018, but it is yet to be implemented in the country. Thousands of people are still being stripped of their rights to make their decisions. 

    Charles* is one of such people. He talks about how his family mistook his behaviour for a mental condition and forced him to be admitted into a psychiatric hospital where he witnessed abuse, poor living conditions and heavy-handed treatment from the staff.

    It all began in June last year. One afternoon, bored and in need of something to occupy my time apart from writing and doing voice-overs, I called my sister and asked her to give me a “seed”, which could have been anything — a car, a sum of money or a house — and I promised to triple the seed before the end of the year. I wanted to test how industrious I could be with resources, but my sister didn’t see it that way. She thought I was talking strangely and spoke to my family about my request. Her report to my family threw them into a panic. They already were concerned I was spending time by myself. 

     ***

    I guess it didn’t help that I had spent some time in a psychiatric hospital the previous year due to a drug addiction problem. Depressed and unemployed in 2018, I had developed the habit of using marijuana often. One time, I ate too much and was knocked out for three days. My family admitted me to rehab in a psychiatric hospital in Abeokuta. My time in the ward was harrowing. I witnessed hospital staff regularly assault patients who didn’t do what they asked. I returned home after three months with a fear of psychiatric hospital wards.

    ***

    I was alone in the house I shared with my brother, listening to music when my brother and sister came in to tell me they were taking me to a psychiatric hospital. Feeling like they were overreacting, I refused. The argument became heated, and I left to lock myself in my room. To my surprise, they broke down the door. I was worried about how violent the scenario was getting, so I tried to fend them off. My sister, who’s also a doctor, held me down alongside my brother and injected me with sedatives. I yelled weakly that I was fine and didn’t need to see a psychiatrist as I faded out of consciousness. 

    Sometime later, I became conscious again, groggy and with a heavy cloud in my head. My hands and feet were bound behind my back, bending my body in an uncomfortable position. I was in a car speeding through a busy road. A rage I have never felt before washed over me. I asked why the fuck my hands were bound, yelling at them to untie me and take me home and insisted that I was fine. I jerked at the knots, but they were tight. They didn’t respond to my angry questions, driving on in silence along Lagos roads.

    We arrived at the psychiatric ward of the Lagos University Teaching Hospital. I was enraged and exhausted, but I thought it was wiser not to struggle in the presence of the hospital personnel to avoid making them think I was violent and getting sedated again. The doctor examined me and told my family that I seemed fine. However, because they mentioned that I used marijuana, he insisted I had to be admitted. That was the last time I saw my family for the next three months.

    The daily routine at the ward went something like this: we were woken up at 5.30 a.m., we’d shower, get our vitals taken and then eat breakfast by 7 a.m. Morning pills were served at 10 a.m. After that, we watched TV or slept till 1 p.m., when lunch was served. You could hardly find someone to talk to because we were pumped full of medication that left us dull.

    My drugs made me very sleepy and groggy throughout the day. I was unable to think properly and had an increased appetite, making me gain a lot of weight. After breakfast, I was resigned to staying in bed the whole day with no activity whatsoever. A lone TV constantly tuned to one channel droned above my bed. We were never allowed to step outside.

    The sleeping conditions were another problem. Mosquitoes flew through the poorly installed net to sing in my ears every night as I tried to force myself to sleep in the sweltering ward. For some reason, there were no fans installed.

    After some time, I decided to stop taking some of the medications I was prescribed because they always made me sleep through the day and night. I was feeling a lot less sharp and unable to do things I did easily, like songwriting or recalling things. I would put the drug under my tongue and spit it out as soon as the nurse left. The nurses began to notice that I was more active and alert. I became more interested in playing table tennis on the table in the recreation room by myself, and they suspected that I was no longer using my medication. They reported to the doctors, who decided to prescribe a much more powerful antipsychotic. I hated every minute of it. I’d seen them force-feed patients with tubes through their noses, and I didn’t want that to happen to me so I cooperated. 

    I was also cut off from the outside world. With no phone or computers, I couldn’t reach out to my friends to ask for help. I was able to contact one friend when my sister let me log into Twitter during a visit. He visited me in the hospital. He was shocked and couldn’t understand how I could be confined there despite the fact that I was fine. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much he could do because he wasn’t my registered guardian. I told him to try to help me get a lawyer, but there was no means to access my funds and I had no secure means of communication with the outside world. 

    Another close friend came looking for me and told my sister that there was no reason why I should be confined in the ward. My sister said there was nothing she could do until the doctors discharged me. Being a medical doctor, she didn’t support discharging me against the psychiatrist’s advice.

    After three months, I was finally allowed to go home. My family came to pick me and I was taken home. I could hardly do any of the things I used to do like writing or doing voice overs. It just seemed like my head was full of noise. It took me a while to adjust back to normal life. I started writing and reading again, slowly beginning to feel like my old self. Eventually, I got better.It was really good to see my friends again after such an ordeal and I promised myself to never take the simple freedoms in life for granted.

    Read:  2 Nigerians Discuss Attempting Suicide And Expensive Mental Healthcare

    People living with mental health conditions and psychosocial disabilities in Nigeria continue to be subjected to varying levels of human rights abuses across state-owned and otherwise owned facilities. Zikoko, in partnership with She Writes Woman is documenting and amplifying the lived experiences of these victims in a bid to hold the Nigerian government accountable to ensuring a human-rights-respecting mental health legislation in Nigeria.

    If you’d like to get confidential support for your mental health, call the She Writes Woman, 24/7 toll-free helpline – 0800 800 2000.

  • Modern-day fatherhood is no mean feat. Have you met children? Raising daughters is doubly difficult because of a culture and society that’s mostly unfair to women. Still, being a father to girls has its rewards in the small, unexpected moments. I discussed with five young fathers about their favourite things raising daughters.

    Ken

    Daughters aged 2 and 4.

    My favourite part about raising them is observing them play and listening to the conversations they have with each other. I love reading with them because I like to teach.

    My babies are young so the hardest part about raising them right now is settling their incessant squabbles when they fight over toys, getting them to eat and lulling them to sleep, which is the hardest. On a broader level, it’s difficult raising children right now because they need to play outdoors and with other children but can’t right now because of the pandemic. I don’t think there’s a significant difference in the challenges in raising girls compared to boys that can be pinpointed on their gender.

    Zaid

    Daughters aged 5 and 6.

    They were born so close together, they look like twins. I’d always wanted daughters because I grew up without an older sister. Raising them has been fun and I have a very tight bond with them. They’re thoughtful, inquisitive and always need attention, like their mother. I’m only afraid of bad habits they might pick up when they’re older.

    Tex

    Daughters aged 13, 11 and 7.

    It has to be the hugs, kisses and “I love you’s”. It’s warm, open and expressive. I also love when we spontaneously gather around the piano to sing together. It’s really cute.

    I feel like the world is kinder to boys and men so I feel a constant tension between letting them be and feeling like I have to make them tougher for the challenges ahead.

    Bruce

    Daughter aged 2.

    I love the fact that having daughters has given me the chance to understand women’s growth and dynamics from the onset. It’s been a powerful and insightful experience. Girls are forced to grow up too fast. Their childhood is cut short earlier than boys’ because, from an early age, we have to teach her not to trust strangers. I’m avoiding forcing adulthood on my baby by being part of her growth as possible to ensure we can always talk about anything. I run a community of Dads who are looking to exchange ideas on how best to navigate fatherhood.

    Osas

    Daughter aged 2

    My daughter likes to talks a lot and very well for a two year old. She’s always making conversation with me at her young age. She loves music and is very vocal about her choice in music.

    There’s this unadulterated, raw feeling of love in the eyes of my daughter when she looks at me. There’s absolutely nothing I won’t do for her when she looks at me that way. It’s difficult to disappoint them. It is very difficult keeping up with daughters. What they want is what they want and they won’t let you be until they get it.

    If you enjoyed this, you’ll love this too: 4 Nigerian Men Tell Us What It Is Like Being A Single Dad 

    Want to disappear down a rabbit hole of men-focused content? Click here.

    [donation]

    [donation]

  • What does it mean to be a man? Surely, it’s not one thing. It’s a series of little moments that add up. Man Like is a weekly Zikoko series documenting these moments to see how it adds up. It’s a series for men by men, talking about men’s issues. We try to understand what it means to “be a man” from the perspective of the subject of the week.

    Check back every Sunday by 12 pm for new stories in the Man Like series. If you’d like to be featured or you know anyone that would be perfect for this, kindly send an email.

    Today’s Man Like is Leo Dasilva, a former Big Brother housemate and an entrepreneur. He talks about having to find his feet by himself in the United Kingdom, coping with grief when he lost both his parents and surviving an abusive relationship.

    Was there any defining moment where you realised, “Oh shit, I’m now a man”?

    In December 2009, while in university in the UK, I received my last monthly stipend from my dad. I got a call from him shortly after and he said, “I’ve sent your final allowance. From now on, you have to fend for yourself.”

    I had to make a decision — become creative or do the easier thing, fraud or sell drugs, which were quite commonplace in the UK. Fortunately, I had a healthy relationship with money. I’d never been greedy nor did I see money as a do-or-die affair, so I wasn’t inclined to get into selling drugs or defrauding people. My mom was also strict and religious, and I guess she passed some of her personal values to me. On the other hand, I knew I had to be creative if I wanted to make enough money to fend for myself. He sort of pushed me into the ocean and I learned how to swim. I was 17.

    How did your creative journey begin?

    There was a crew who organised Nigerian parties in the town, and I noticed they were lacking in a lot of areas, so I started mine. I started organising Nigerian nightlife parties in Hertfordshire. I guess it also helped that I was quite popular from running a show on the campus radio, so the party was a huge success. I made £5000 pounds from my first party, after investing £1500. 

    Getting involved in nightlife kind of affected the normalcy of what my life could have been. I met all kinds of people — drug dealers, fraudsters, dangerous characters. You end up running in similar circles, which wasn’t the most ideal for me. Once, I met someone who drugged me and held me hostage for days in her house.

    Wow. 

    Yeah. I’d been talking to her for a while and she’d been inviting me to her place. I gave in eventually and decided to visit her, unknowingly stepping into a trap. That was it for me. 

    Tell us about your dad?

    I didn’t quite grow up with him because my parents weren’t married, but we had a relationship. My dad was Leo Babarinde Dasilva, former Secretary to the Lagos State Government. I didn’t really connect with him because we only met a couple of times a year. But this changed when I was almost in the university, when he retired. We started relating closely until his death in 2015. He always made sure that I knew the son of who I was. He always made me feel like I was a big deal because I was his son, like Mufasa from Lion King. Because of him, I’ve never felt inferior in my life.

    How about your mom?

    My mom raised me as a single mother. She didn’t really understand the gravity of having a baby when she did. She was still trying to come up in life. Juggling work, side hustle and school wasn’t easy, but she pulled it off. We were very close until her death in 2018. We went through a lot together — from living in a face-me-I-face-you to living in Shitta, Surulere.

    I assumed you had a comfortable life, your father being who he was.

    No o. I grew up rough. My dad was only concerned with my education and general welfare. Everything else was on my mom. My dad and mom were in conflict a lot, so he wasn’t involved in our accommodation situation. He wanted me to live with him but my mom was adamant about keeping me. He thought my mom would give up, but she never did.

    Do you feel any resentment towards your dad?

    Not at all. If I didn’t go through all the things I did, I wouldn’t be who I am today. I have friends who inherited fortunes from their fathers who still haven’t figured their lives out to date.

    Do you have any father figures you look up to?

    A couple. My relationship with my stepfather is very cordial. Now that I don’t have any parents, I talk to him and get advice from him. Perhaps the most prominent father figure in my life is my godfather, Rev. Tunde Adenekan. I attended the same primary school with his kids. Because my mom was a single mother, he took up a lot of my parenting. He bought me my first phone. He always treated me like one of his own, not as a friend of his children. Just last weekend, we travelled together for owambe. We maintain a very tight relationship.

    What’s the most important lesson you’ve learnt from him?

    He’s always taught me not to take life too seriously. He’s a very chilled guy. He believes there’s always a solution to everything and there’s little reason to fret. One time, when I asked him why he was applying perfume after his night bath, he’d joke that he might die in the night and he didn’t want to be smelling when his body was being carried out of the house. He’s that kind of guy. 

    He’s also taught me to be kind. It doesn’t matter if I’ve just met you; if I have the capacity to help you out, I’ll do so. I learnt that from him. 

    So he’s your role model?

    No, my role model was my mom. She was very enterprising. She was never comfortable with one source of income. She had a cleaning company, produced soap, had a catering business, produced plantain chips — she was a true jack-of-all-trades. She was the person I looked up to, my inspiration.

    Let’s talk about relationships. What kind of person are you in relationships?

    When I’m with someone I love, I give them all of myself. I’m also a lot more patient with my partners, more patient than I am in my friendships. This means I can be blind to my partner’s shortcomings and tolerate things I might not tolerate from my friends. In my relationships, I’m not the same Leo Dasilva everyone knows. This doesn’t mean I forget who I am or what I deserve. 

    Have you ever regretted being this way in your relationships?

    Sometime back, I was in a verbally and physically abusive relationship, but I was too young to realise it. I thought what I was going through was normal. One time, while we were on a trip to Spain, she slapped me. Sometime after, she stabbed my shoulder. 

    Wow.

    I still didn’t leave the relationship. I’m wiser now and more aware of the signs of abuse. If I’m in an abusive relationship, I’m going to leave.

    Tell us about your first heartbreak.

    It was when I found out that my crush had feelings for my best friend. I was in JSS 1.

    Did you cry?

    Cry ke? No o. I hardly cry.

    When was the last time you cried?

    JSS 1, when I was flogged by my PHE teacher.

    You didn’t cry when you lost your parents?

    When my dad died, It didn’t hit hard because my mom was always enough. I consoled myself with the fact that he had achieved a lot in his life. The only thing I was sad about was that he didn’t see me have kids, which was something he really wanted. 

    It was my mom I felt had died too early. She was my best friend, and we didn’t have secrets. We talked about our dreams and aspirations. We were just planning her retirement and talking about all the things she’d do. She died a week after I left the Big Brother House. I was depressed, but I knew there was no time to grieve. I needed to make money — I have a younger brother and I want to provide a great life for him. It took me a year to deal with it and accept that she was gone. It really hurt because it happened at a time when I was beginning to achieve things. Not being able to share my big moments with her was devastating. I even lost weight. January 2019 was when I decided to move on with my life. 

    What’s your biggest fear?

    My biggest fear was losing my mom. I thought that would be the worst thing that could happen. Now that that has happened, I don’t really care. I’m not even scared of dying because I’ll leave a good legacy.

    Check back every Sunday by 12 pm for new stories in the Man Like series. If you’d like to be featured or you know anyone that would be perfect for this, kindly send an email.

    Are you a man who would like to be interviewed for a Zikoko article? Fill this form and we’ll be in your inbox quicker than you can say “Man Dem.”

  • For an essential service and integral part of our fundamental human rights, accessing mental health care can be quite expensive. This often discourages most people from seeking out help. People with suicidal ideation, who are in dire need of accessing mental health professionals, find themselves without the crucial help they need.

    According to Nigeria’s mental health law – The Lunacy Act of 1958 – attempted suicide is a criminal offence punishable by jail time. If any of the participants in this piece had been caught by or reported to the police, they would’ve faced jail time instead of empathy, mental healthcare and dignifying community-based support.

    As part of a four-part series in partnership with She Writes Woman Mental Health Initiative, we spoke to two Nigerians who dealt with suicide ideation and have had difficulty accessing mental healthcare in Nigeria. To commemorate Mental Health Awareness Month, we highlight the challenges Nigerians face in trying to access mental healthcare and the systemic barriers in Nigeria.

    TW: Suicide

    Laura

    When I was 17, I was diagnosed with glaucoma. I only found out when my second eye was getting affected. I was in a higher institution and this devastated me. I was told that I would have to do surgery on both eyes. I thought I was going to lose my sight. This, along with issues I was facing at home drove me into a severe depression but I didn’t even know it. I was just always sad and felt like living was useless. Some of the medications I was taking gave me temporary asthma and I found that I couldn’t smell occasionally. I also suddenly became allergic to anything that had alcohol. I fainted during a field trip to a toxicology lab because of the presence of alcohol. It was the most depressing point of my life.

    I started having a lot of suicidal thoughts due to my situation and it was at this point I realised that I needed help. I tried looking for mental healthcare professionals but had no idea how to go about it. I found a platform online that promised the help I needed but they were asking for N5000 – N7000 per hour of therapy. I tried talking to friends about my condition but all they told me was that I wasn’t religious enough and I had to be strong enough to face trials in life. This made me withdraw from them because I was unable to share my troubles without getting a lecture about how I should remain strong.

    I was also hesitant about going to a guidance counsellor in school because I was worried that they would make me feel inadequate. I eventually resorted to self-help. I did a lot of research on mental health on the internet, reading about mental health conditions and depression. I related with other people who were depressed and found an online community that helped me navigate my way to recovery. I joined several mental health forums online that were very helpful in helping me recover. I began to see depression as a condition that happened to more people than I thought and I felt less weird about being depressed.

    I have not fully recovered from depression but I know I’m on the road to recovery and I’ve reached a point where I can share my stories with others. The difficulty in accessing mental health support motivated me to start helping people with mental health conditions. I’ve been there and I know what depression and suicidal ideation feels like so I’m driven to help people who still live with depression. I want to let  them know that their feelings are valid and that help is just a phone call away. No one should have to experience what I went through in search of mental health care. 

    Timi

    It all started with my parents. Growing up, my dad was very strict. To date, I’m still scared of him and find it hard to talk to him. I was closer to my mom. She was quite harsh too, but she was my mother. My dad was very hard on her so she would transfer the aggression to us. 

    My dad’s favourite was my younger sister and my mom preferred my older brother, so I was their least favourite. I was mostly alone in the family. When I was in primary five, I ran away from home because my mom threatened to tell my dad about a mistake I made and I knew I was in trouble. I ran to a friend’s place, hoping her mom would help talk to my parents. She took me home and spoke to them. They pretended like all was fine. I still have the scars from the beating I received that day. I’ve been a loner since then, prone to crying every day and withdrawing from everyone.

    In my second year, I was tired of everything; school wasn’t working for me, I was having issues with my boyfriend and I was broke. I wanted to kill myself but couldn’t bring myself to go through with it.

    The first time I attempted suicide was during the semester break. I had opted to stay in school rather than go home for the holidays, as usual. I ended up in the hospital for a while. There were other attempts after that.

    I couldn’t easily access professional help because of how expensive it was. At some point, I started talking to a psychologist online but it wasn’t consistent. I still struggle with suicidal thoughts and I hope I’m able to get the help soon.

    _____

    In Nigeria’s commitment to international human rights treaties and in line with the Disability Rights Act of 2018, people with mental health conditions and psychosocial disabilities should ideally have access to free and quality mental healthcare. This is sadly not the case for the majority of Nigerians.

    Timi has been reached by Safe Place Nigeria, SWW’s online community where you can access daily counselling and support. You can access Safe Place Nigeria’s services for N5000 per quarter (3 months).

    She Writes Woman addresses expensive access to mental health care with Safe Place Nigeria, a closed virtual community hosted on Facebook Groups that provides deeper engagement to mental health-conscious Nigerians via daily access to mental health professionals, exclusive self-care tools, content, resources, events, and wellness practices. Safe Place Nigeria is accessible for as low as N5,000 per quarter (3 months). People who genuinely need mental health support, but cannot afford it and are committed to engaging with the community, can apply for a scholarship.

    People living with mental health conditions and psychosocial disabilities in Nigeria continue to be subjected to varying levels of human rights abuses across state-owned and otherwise owned facilities. She Writes Woman and Zikoko continue to document and amplify the lived experiences of these victims in a bid to hold the Nigerian government accountable to ensuring human rights-respecting mental health legislation in Nigeria.

    Do you have a story of abuse in state-owned, religious or traditional facilities? Reach out to @shewriteswoman across social media or send an email to hello@shewriteswoman.org

    If you’d like to get confidential support for your mental health, call the 24/7 toll-free helpline – 0800 800 2000.

  • Homeschooling, also known as home education, is the education of school-aged children at home or in a place other than a conventional school. Certain parents prefer to homeschool their children for a variety of reasons, ranging from religious to social. I spoke to four Nigerians who were homeschooled about their experiences.

    Kevwe

    I was homeschooled for six years. It was an unconventional type of homeschooling. My curriculum was set by my curiosity and creativity.  I read a lot of books — educational, theological, recreational etc. I was 9 when I entered secondary school in 1991 and 14 when I graduated.

    I went to the University of Benin in 1999 and the University of Port Harcourt in 2000, but I dropped out of both because I was uninterested in getting a degree. I’m a versatile creative in arts, sciences and social sciences; I’m a visual artist, tech inventor/innovator and brand innovation consultant, which is a whole lot more than I can say for many different people who attended regular schools and have certification from tertiary education institutions.

    Lily

    The best part of being homeschooled was waking up anytime I wanted. My teacher came over and taught my siblings and me till it was lunchtime. After that, they’d give us assignments. Homeschooling is very student-oriented. There was plenty of time to concentrate on our weak areas.

    I moved back to a regular school in Primary 5. I found it hard to make the switch to regular school because I needed a great deal of concentration to focus on the teacher if I wanted to understand. It also seemed like my classmates were constantly talking, making it hard for me to concentrate. I struggled to interact socially with my classmates, mainly because I’m introverted.

    Ann

    I was homeschooled for eight years. We used the Accelerated Christian Education curriculum so it was very different from public school. We learned at our own pace and didn’t have teachers but had supervisors instead who only guided our learning but didn’t actively teach. 

    Switching to conventional schooling did not suit me because teachers are usually untrained, frustrated and impatient. Generally speaking, they had no patience for slow learners who were nonetheless brilliant. They also were unable to spot issues affecting students’ learning processes, resorting to calling them lazy, stupid or outrightly beat them. Regardless, I did quite well. Learning on my own equipped me with the discipline and ability to solve problems and think for myself. 

    Titi

    I was homeschooled for most of primary school. Waking up late in the morning and walking into the kitchen to eat breakfast was really nice but sometimes I used to envy children who were going to school dressed smartly in their uniforms. I also used to struggle to explain to people what homeschooling was whenever they asked me what school I went to. My circle of friends were limited because I only had my siblings and the people I attended church with to relate to.

    Going from being homeschooled to attending a military secondary school was not a good transition and I struggled a little. Still, being homeschooled was a decent experience.

    QUIZ: Only The Smartest People Will Score 8/10 In This Quiz 

    [donation]

  • What does it mean to be a man? Surely, it’s not one thing. It’s a series of little moments that add up. Man Like is a weekly Zikoko series documenting these moments to see how it adds up. It’s a series for men by men, talking about men’s issues. We try to understand what it means to “be a man” from the perspective of the subject of the week.

    Check back every Sunday by 12 pm for new stories in the Man Like series. If you’d like to be featured or you know anyone that would be perfect for this, kindly send an email.

    Today’s Man Like is Osunniyi, a 30-year old Ifá priest and the Oluwo (Chief priest) of Ile Oluwo Idingbe Temple. He discusses growing up with his grandfather, how he became the youngest-ever Oluwo at the age of 23 and the stigmatisation of traditional religions in Nigeria.

    Tell us a bit about yourself.

    My name is Osunniyi. I was named after my grandfather. I’m from Oyan in Osun State and an Oluwo (Chief Ifá priest) in Ibadan. I studied at Oyan Grammar School before proceeding to the University of Ibadan. Now, I run my temple and also work at Ibadan’s city temple.

    How did you become an Ifá priest?

    Ifá has been in my family for centuries. Unlike other Yoruba people, we never converted  to Christianity or Islam. When I was 7, my family left Ibadan to visit my grandfather who was an Ifá priest. While there, I watched my father cast Ifá divination beads. I was fascinated by what he was doing and watched. 

    I told him that Ifá divination was like mathematics. He agreed, saying Odù Ifá was a lot of things; math, language, religion, philosophy, history, and many other things. I asked him to teach me. He was surprised that I was so young, yet so interested. He showed me two of Ifá’s 16 Odù’s, and I correctly interpreted the remaining 14 Odùs, without any prior knowledge. He was amazed but not shocked. 

    He told me a story when I was older: when my mother was carrying me, she had no apparent belly bump. After casting Ifá, it was revealed that I had gone on a journey. I was born on the day of the Odùn Ifá (Ifá Festival). It was no shock to him that I had such an affinity for Ifá. 

    It took my grandfather six months to learn the 16 Odù from his father. I learned it in three days when I was just 7. After that, I started learning the verses. Each Odù has 16,000 verses (which is similar to the scripture). There are 256 Odù. It’s passed orally from Oluwo (Chief priest) to Omo-awo (trainee priest) and has been so for generations. That’s the beauty of it. 

    When my family was set to leave for Ibadan, I insisted that I wanted to stay with my grandfather. My parents were perplexed but my grandfather also wanted me to stay. And that’s how I came to live with him. It was love at first sight.

    What was growing up with your grandfather like?

    Growing up with my grandfather was such an invaluable experience because it gave me insight into how the world works. When you grow up with an old wise man , you’re bound to learn a lot of things. He also taught me how to farm and I’m quite knowledgeable about agriculture because of him. Beyond that, I learned about important herbs and plants and also how to hunt game in the forest.

    We travelled a lot and met a lot of important kings (such as the late Ooni of Ife, Oba Sijuwade) through my grandfather’s role as a revered Ifá priest. I learned a lot about Yoruba culture in its purest form.

    You seem nostalgic about those times.

    That was probably the happiest time of my life. I realised that you don’t need money to be happy. He was an old man with no money, yet he was very content and happy with his life, and so was I.

    We were so close that my siblings and cousins were always jealous of our relationship. My uncles used to call me ologbo baba (baba’s cat) because I followed him everywhere. He died in 2013.

    His death must have been a blow. How did you take it?

    When I was 22, he was worried about my lack of travelling and told me to go to Ibadan for a few months. On the day he died, I was playing football with friends when I received a phone call from my dad who informed me of his death. I was shell-shocked. I couldn’t wait till the next day to go with my family so I took the next bus to Oyan. During the long trip, a woman on the bus tapped me to ask if I was okay. Apparently, I had been crying without realising it.

    On the day he was buried, I couldn’t bring myself to watch. I sat in his room until the ceremony was over. He was my father figure and it was worse than any heartbreak I would experience.

    I’m sorry.

    He lived a long life. I’ve been working to preserve his memory ever since. When I opened my temple, I named it after him. I became an Oluwo (chief priest)  the year after he died. I wished he had lived to see that. 

    You’re a chief priest?

    Yes. I became when I was 23, the youngest ever in history.

    What was it like, growing up as an Ifá trainee?

    There was a lot of stigma. In secondary school, when I was called to give prayers, my classmates would taunt me when I prayed Ifá prayers.

    Being an Ifá priest has its challenges. By virtue of your position, you’re privy to some secrets. We try to uphold the culture through the changing times. We’re responsible for holding up the cities we’re in charge of. It’s like being the Pope of the Vatican. You can’t just do what other people do because it’s a position that comes with a lot of power. It’s a big responsibility for a young person. 

    I’m sure there’s a lot of misconceptions about practising a traditional religion.

    Thanks to corruption by foreign religions, people think Ifá is  the devil or is used for bad things. Just the same way there are good and evil pastors and Imams is the same way Ifá can be used for good or evil purposes. Good and evil are fundamental to the binary system. It’s like a gun; it can either be used to protect or to destroy. It’s not inherently evil. All we have are bad people. Christians fought wars, pillaged, took slaves and destroyed entire lands in the name of Christianity. There are many Muslims who commit atrocities in the name of God. Shall we now call those religions evil?

    Christians are fond of calling Yoruba deities “smaller gods”. Apart from the fact that this is condescending, Yoruba people have only one God, Olodùmare. The rest of them are òrìṣà (chosen ones), primordial forces who control the elements. Sango is the chosen one, who was also a human being, but is also the deity of lighting. Oya, the seas, Osun for the waters and so on. Think of them as Catholic saints. They aren’t gods, but you pray to different saints to intercede for you to God, right? That’s exactly who the òrìṣà (chosen ones) are. People are just afraid of what they don’t understand and won’t stop demonising it.

    Interesting. So what goes on in an Ifá temple?

    Like I said earlier, Ifá is an embodiment of many things — philosophy, moral instruction, history, religion, and others. Oftentimes, people come for divination to discover their purpose in life. Others come for prayers. Some come to learn from the many stories in the Odù Ifá (verses). You can learn the entire history of Yorubaland from the stories.

    How does the fact that you’re an Ifá priest affect people’s interactions with you?

    People, especially on social media, are mostly very rude. They say all sorts of things to me. They think it’s okay to attack me because I practice a traditional religion. I can’t do mundane things like post pictures of myself clubbing  or having fun without someone making a snide comment about, “Oh, Babalawo too drinks?” They don’t realise that I’m well-travelled and internationally educated. I’ve worked for BBC and Harvard University. I face a lot of ignorant comments like this. Nollywood plays a big part in the demonisation.

    I enjoy listening to rap — 2Pac is a personal favourite. Still, people will make fun of me for doing even the smallest normal things like watching football, wearing designer brands, visiting a fancy restaurant or even dating.

    I bought a car recently and people make snide comments about babalawos having cars. When I give people rides in my car and they realise I’m an oluwo, they begin to worry and ask if they are safe. They don’t know they are the safest when they’re with me. The major work of the babalawo involves going the extra mile to help people you don’t even know, just to keep the world safe. In Nigeria, the Abrahamic faiths get all the juice and pieces of the national cake while traditional religions get nothing but ridicule and blame. Foreigners are more receptive to traditional religions but once people see a white person interested in learning about Ifá, people are quick to shout “cultural appropriation”.

    How do you handle these?

    I ignore. If a dog is barking at you and you stop to throw a stone at it, you’re only slowing down your own journey. 

    How does being an ifa priest affect your dating life?

    Eventually, I decided not to talk about my religion to people I was dating if I wasn’t getting serious with them. I also preferred to date within my circle of people who understand me. Explaining myself to everyone is just a lot of work.

    Are you dating someone right now?

    Yes, I am. We met about eight years ago through a mutual friend. We were all hanging out when she mentioned she wanted to have a party for her birthday. I jokingly said I was an event planner and would plan it for her. She took me seriously and gave me the list of things she wanted for her party so I went ahead to book a restaurant, a poolside, a DJ and arrange food and drinks. She had a great time. 

    When she tried to pay me later, I told her not to worry about it. Although she was dating someone at the time, she was really impressed with me. We remained close friends for a long time. She’d talk to me about her relationship and I’d give her advice. When they broke up, we became even closer friends and after a while, started dating.

    What’s the general reaction to her dating an Ifá priest?

    She comes from a Muslim family and they are accepting of me. People try to discourage her, as expected. I want to protect her from all the vile attacks I receive online, so I keep my relationship with her under close wraps. 

    Do you hope to pass on the knowledge of Ifá to your children?

    If they grow to show interest, definitely. I’m not going to make any one of them. If they prefer to practice an Abrahamic religion, that’s alright too.

    What does your average day look like?

    My days are typically very busy. I like to sleep in till later in the morning because I’m usually up till late. When I wake up, I drink some water and pray. Next, I take a bath. I have about six different soaps I use, all made by me from different herbs and formulas, ranging from the ones for good health to looking young.  I’ve never used white people’s soap before.

    Next, I drive down to the temple and teach my students. I also conduct consultations and appeasements for people who come to the temple. I also run a botanical shop at my temple with various herbs and formulas for different purposes. I’d work all day till evening. If I have time in the evening, I’d go to a club because I love to party. When I get home, I play a video game or two.

    Check back every Sunday by 12 pm for new stories in the Man Like series. If you’d like to be featured or you know anyone that would be perfect for this, kindly send an email.

    Are you a man who would like to be interviewed for a Zikoko article? Fill this form and we’ll be in your inbox quicker than you can say “Man Dem.”