Joe Yapzor

It was two hours past noon on a very hot Friday in the harmattan season when loud noise from the house drew the attention of the entire neighbourhood. Neighbours and passersby gathered, alarmed—but none could enter the house. Aduko had locked the door from inside and pocketed the key to “deal with” his wife.

This was probably the 121st time, if not more, since they got married just three years earlier.

Aduko, a mechanic, never furthered his education after Senior High School. He had lost his parents early, and at the time, scholarship opportunities for boys like him were hard to come by. His wife, Professor Talata Dananna, on the other hand, was a respected academic at one of the nation’s top universities. She had scaled the heights of education and prestige. But lacking a man “of her calibre,” she settled for Aduko, the last of her options.

With the reverence and accolades she received, Talata found no need to respect her husband. After all, she was the empowered one, wealthy, educated, and far superior, in her eyes, to her “mechanic of a husband.”

Time and again, she made life unbearable for Aduko. And in nearly every fight, it was she who hurled insults and threats. “Useless man!” “You’re not man enough!” “I should have married someone better!”

Remember I said this was their 121st fight? Well, this time Aduko had had enough. Years of verbal abuse had birthed a beast inside him. He felt cornered, mocked by friends who called him “weak,” “controlled,” “half a man.” Today, he was ready to prove his manhood the only way he’d been taught: with force.

On the third shout of “Useless man!”
Up went Aduko’s fist.

The spectators, peeking through windows, watched in horror as the scene unfolded like a violent wrestling match. But in this ring, only one person was doing the beating.

Three minutes.
Screams.
Punches.
Silence.

Talata lay motionless.

Aduko froze.

Panic set in. He tried to run, but by then, some neighbours had broken down the main door. They grabbed him before he could escape.

He was sentenced to life in prison.
Talata was buried two weeks later.

---

“Hmmm… that’s sad and evil,” Assibi whispered.
“But Mom… why are you telling me this story?”

Assibi a strong advocate for girl-child empowerment, had just gained admission to begin a Master’s degree in Gender Studies. Her voice trembled.

“Well, my daughter,” the woman replied slowly, “Aduko was your father. And Professor Talata… was my only daughter. Your mother.”

“What? Are you saying… I’m not your real daughter? Why have you kept this a secret? Why are you crying, Mom?”

“I thought you were too young to understand. But now, as you begin this new journey in your advocacy for female empowerment, I believe it’s time you heard the whole truth.
You see, empowerment is good. It’s necessary. But when we empower one gender and ignore the other, the results can be tragic.”

She paused and wiped her eyes.

“No matter how empowered women become, they will still live among men. And if those men are broken, angry, unprepared, and unsupported, disaster follows.

When girls are not empowered, they may resort to street hawking, prostitution, exploitation, and in some cases, crime. But when boys are not empowered, the danger is different:
Suicide.
Drug abuse.
Rape.
Violence.
Armed robbery.
Domestic abuse.
Murder.

Your parents’ story is only one example of what can happen when we forget the boy child. So as you go out there, proud and ready to study gender, remember this:

Empower the girl – yes.
But never forget to empower the boy.

An empowered man is not a threat.
He is a blessing –
Even to an unempowered woman.”