That is not the ideal feminism; that is not real feminism”

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That is what they always jump up to tell you when they see that their mad members have, once again, gone to fetch some doses of madness from their red-hot pot of insanity preserved somewhere they alone know. Hello, we are bored hearing the same nonsense of “real and ideal feminism” as against the unreal one repeated severally. Can you come up with something else?!

No Nigerian who has never lived outside Nigeria can define electricity supply beyond what he knows about NEPA. He hears the ideal of electricity supply being steady for months and years but that can never be the definition of electricity to him until he experiences and lives it. In brutal reality, a school is defined by its students. The infrastructures, staff strength or popularity could define it in the ideal but the final definition is in its product—the students!

The Nigerian school of feminism means to me something closest to high voltage madness and bitterness seeking an intellectual front and capital to let out the steam of its long-stored disorder. That is what I know of feminism because that is what I see from many of the so-called feminists around me. I’d reconsider the day I am out of Nigeria and among non-Nigerian feminists to observe if what they say is the ideal is what they do.

They tell you feminism is about human rights; that it covers both women and men. Yet they tell you it’s to protect the women. There’s no steady word let alone steady action. You are left seeing all brashness, venoms, ‘strong-woman’ grandstandings, hate, even support for bloodshed. And you say you are not dealing with a horde of mad people?

Earlier this week at a birthday party, a lady fronted herself as a feminist from the way she acted and pranced around. I asked her colleague at work if she was really one and he confirmed. I got alerted. As usual, I quickly regarded her for some undiagnosed madness. I wasn’t surprised what happened the next moment when the cake had been cut by the celebrant: She began to share the cut pieces of cake. She ignored the men around her and went ahead to share to all the ladies around her. I was still diagnosing her when a guy asked her rather jovially, “you are not sharing to us?”. Straight up, she bluntly told the guy, “I share to the ladies first!”. She came to the other side of the table where I was seated and shared to the ladies seated beside me. Then, she began sharing to the men. I thought hard if there’s any birthday party rule that holds that ladies eat first before the men but I didn’t get to find any. I tried to recollect if there’s any gathering I’ve been in where a particular gender was served first before the other but couldn’t find. I wondered: What if the guy who served drinks before the cake had gone about sharing to the guys first before caring to ask the ladies what they wanted; how would this feminist have taken it? A man beside me even noticed and asked me, “why is she going about sharing to all the ladies and skipping us?”. I quickly replied, “She’s a feminist”. In Igbo, the man replied, “isi adịrọ ya mma” (she dey mad).

They say they fight for humanity. Then they fight for women against men. Then they fight men frontally and endorse the use of knives. They also fight fellow women who they brand as “enablers of patriarchy”. They tell you they don’t discriminate yet they tell you “I am not a man. I don’t know what it feels to be a man. Men should fight for themselves”. One doesn’t even know what they fight, which is why it is difficult to diagnose their madness on the surface. It’s not a joke: You may be having a madness undiagnosed or misdiagnosed in that lady continuously howling and beating her chest as a “feminist”. I recommend you help her by checking her out carefully, if you are close to her. We can’t lose our daughters like that. There are enough mad people already there on the streets!

Thanks Chijioke Ngobili for this. When a Nigerian lady introduces herself to me with this amorphous appellation, I whisper to myself, “time to run!” With a chuckle. Funny, helpless, confused people. They have too much time on their hands.

 

 

Chijioke Ngobili

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