Funke Egbemode: Virgins At The Village Evening Market

Tuesday, December 02, 2014

Blognote: Funke Egbemode is a great columnist. She writes beautifully and I enjoy reading her thoughts. This article, which appeared in the most recent edition of the Sunday Sun, highlights some of the considerations we should be making as we inch closer to Decision Day 2015. Some of the feminist overtones in the piece rankle, particularly those areas that misrepresent men as compulsive spoilers. But on the whole, it is a good read.
For other articles by Funke Egbemode, please click here.

****

It is that time and season again. Everywhere is a bee­hive of activities. We are being tantalized and titillated. They are whispering the sweet­est things in our ticklish ears and promising us they will love us for­ever. Or haven’t you heard them? Of course, you have. It’s like the evening market in the village. The village damsels are all powdered and smelling nice. Their wrap­pers are tied in ways that show off their well rounded backsides. They bare their youthful skin, their necks tilted at angles that leave the men panting.

When young men go to evening market, it is not to buy vegetable or local seasoning. It is usually because their libido is running wild. Their blood is hot, their loins burning, seeking to be assuaged by a damsel’s you-know-what. Somehow, most of the maidens you see in this market are also not here to buy pepper or dry fish. They have, most times, left home without their mothers’ consent, sneaking through the back into the dark. They also want to spread their wings and experiment. The girls enjoy the sweet lines the boys are armed with. Away from the flickering light of the oil lamp, they sneak into darker corners to nurse their desires. Under the cover of the night, far from the real buying and selling, the young men sell their lies. A few young gullible girls drink to their hearts’ content the dripping honey-coated lies, moaning until the mourning morning after. A few maiden heads have been reported broken in those couple of hours.

The hot loin cooled, the man goes home grinning like the cat who got the milk. And indeed, didn’t he? The virgin sneaks back in, confused, close to tears, wondering if she hadn’t sold her honour and future for a few minutes of inde­scribable ecstasy.

The evening market has a short life span. So everything is done quickly, under the cover of the night. The results of such nocturnal consorts of course always come out in the light of day, by which time the young man is satis­fied and the virgin no longer a virgin but a mother-in-waiting. The hands of the clock, however, moves on irrevers­ibly. The deed in the night leaves a mark, the one that makes or mar the life of the nocturnal actors. A protruding tummy, a graph that moves quickly from linear to parabola can be mean on the eyes and psyche. And it is often worse when the hot-blooded, loving man of last night becomes the sneering, denying hard-faced man in the morning. With a lost maiden-head and a baby on the way, a disconsolate unprepared mum-to-be, a growling father threatening thunder, a bewildered mother, yesterday’s maiden is often faced with the consequences of her indiscretion and gullibility.

So, I say again, it’s that time of the day again. The evening market is on.

The politicians are all over us like hot-blooded males. They are armed with their sweet nothings promising us heaven and earth and luring us further and further into dark corners, away from the flickering light of reality. They left home prepared, determined to have their ways with us. Are we prepared to resist their charming lines and roving hands? Are the virgins armed to resist the lies? Are we discerning enough now? Did we learn anything from the repercussions and consequences of the last evening market in 2011?

Take a good look at your graph, is it in the shape and curve you want? Is this nation where you want it to be? Did your state make the right decisions in 2011? If it didn’t, are you again listening to the pink poem of the politicians or think­ing with your head and not your hearts? When a man wants to gain access to the secret place of a woman, what can’t he promise? His legs will shake because he’s on fire and he will say things that he will deny the morning after. But right now, on the campaign trail, they are touching all our buttons, flicking and squeezing. They know all the right places and because we are human (and woman) and they are man (and mean), there is a clear and present danger if we buckle at the knees.

Are they not appealing to our hearts? Oh yes. They are selling us zoning and religion. They are telling you that voting for your kinsman is the thing to do. What if your kinsman is a m-u-m-u or a thief seeking bigger loot? If he is a failed man­ager of a small shop, should you entrust a shopping mall to him just because he speaks the same dialect as you? Fine, he has money and he’s throwing it all over the place just like the hot-blooded male seek­ing a maiden-head to devour or destroy. And you are considering giving up your priceless honey pot just because he says he will handle it with care?

I have always wondered why we believe politicians who sell their cars and houses to seek elective posts so they can serve us, you and I. What brand of balderdash is that? We are the people who want to be served, why are they the ones making all the sacrifices? Shouldn’t we be the ones pooling resources and raising funds for the man we want to serve us? Yet, year in year out, Nigerian politicians sell their properties, stocks, and take bank facilities to fund their love for us. Incredible, unconditional love like no other. And we believe them. What kind of people does that make us, foolish virgins at the evening market?

Fine, I know it’s difficult to resist a man who knows the password to your system but if your knight in shining armour denied you the morning after the last evening market, shouldn’t you change your password?

The truth is we have done things the same way for too long and though it is almost too late for us to let us make an effort this time. We all know what we want; the return of the glorious days and even better. We want public schools we can be proud of. We want Nigeri­ans to school abroad and return home. We want the naira to exchange for two pounds . We want a diversified econ­omy, not the one that is good only on paper and power point presentation. And yes, a safe country where we can have family holidays again in Yankari Games Reserve in Bauchi! We need to keep this country together, strong and viable. Right now, we are in the dog house, like the deceived damsel who let her parents down by given her gold up in a dark corner. We cannot continue like this. We are in a frustrating place and we need to take a detour on this road to national perdition.

Let’s ignore what the politicians are whispering in our ears. They know what they want. Let us also do what we need to do. Sentiments, ethnic and religious, have led us nowhere, why should we keep staggering down this dirt path like drunken idiots? Why? Consider this: If you vote for that man who sits beside you in church not because he can deliver the goods but because he is your church­man, when he wins and is sworn-n, you will not even be able to sit beside him or greet him after service because his security men have a job to protect him from you! Exactly.

Let us stay within the vicinity of the flickering oil lamp. Let us keep our heads. Let us change the passwords to our system. This maiden-head must remain intact after this evening market. We should give it up honourably only to the man who deserves it in the cosy comfort of a warm bedroom, not against a rough wall, in the arms of a Judas, in a dark corner.