Tag Archives: sex education

Dad, when did you first have a wank?

My jaw is literally, literally hanging open.

Someone just sent me this link and normally I loathe YouTube links, but I opened this since the source was the Hubster and…well, just watch it. I CANNOT believe the questions this boy got away with asking his father, or the cool and collected way his father answered every one of them.

This is what I call suffering for your children’s art and suffer dear not-so-old dad did. The boy made his dad watch ‘Two Girls, One Cup’. (WARNING: Watch THAT at your own peril.)

My parents got off lucky. I have not even put half their human crap in writing for all the world to read, especially given that it’s stuff that happened to me as I grew up with them and I am entitled. Also, I am in awe of the relationship this father and son have; the freedom with which they discuss sexual matters is astonishing and refreshing. My parents are still squirming about the fact that since we figured out how babies were made, we know they that have DONE IT six times at least.

Eww.

NO SEX PLEASE! We’re Nigerian.

Over at Linda Ikeji’s blog, controversy is brewing. The topic of the day is anal sex, and the responses are so hilarious, that I thought I’d deviate from the theme of this blog to showcase it. Below is a typical response:

Anonymous said…

So Nigerians indulge in anal sex? why am I suprised? Bloody hypocrites! If you engage in anal sex as a heterosexual, you are a closeted GAY and a psychotic pervert. May those of you who engage in such dirty acts leak shit through your annuses [sic] and catch an STD that has no cure. God don’t like ugly!

And another:

Anonymous said…

I’ve not, I’ll neva try it. men can be wicked, wen u re down wit pie [sic], dey’ll move on,,,,,,,,,,, don’t be decieve guls [sic].

July 28, 2011 9:14 PM

The above words by the way are; Piles and Girls. Of course the people in question HAD to be anonymous.

This blog’s position on the issue of sex has already been clarified. Good Igbo girls don’t know the meaning of the word. What I will say is that every Igbo person knows that their father turned around and looked at their mother on the wedding night. There was a loud explosion (which happened for all your subsequent siblings and which you thought you heard that night when you were not really sleeping…yes, you know the one) and afterwards your mummy’s tummy started getting big because she ate too much garri. And then one morning, there was an annoying wailing baby who soon turned into an annoying trailing toddler and then they grew up and took  over half your chores and that was that.

Naturally if sex is incomprehensible, anal sex must be much more so.

However, this response takes the cake:

Anonymous said…

By the the way, my boyfriend, then my husband now mistakingly penetrated my anal, it was half way in and I cried hell that day. couldn’t walk well for the rest of the day.. anal sex is a no no.

Mistakes, huh. Pull the other one, guys!

Thou shalt hold thine knees together at all times.

About ninety percent* of the rules concerning Igbo girls have to do with men. Specifically, what not to do with men. Or around men. Or for men. In order to be properly married to a man. Of those rules, the earliest concerns sitting.

“Sit like a woman,” my mother always said, hitting whatever part of you was nearest to her.

This meant that on the floor, a girl must always sit with her legs together, outstretched in front of her. That was relatively easy. Sitting in a chair was harder; one had to make sure that one’s knees were tightly pressed together, the resultant under-sag of skirt tucked in between thighs. This was important; holding your knees together when you were in a dress or skirt was simply not enough.

It goes without saying that boys were NOT ALLOWED to see above your knees. If a boy saw your pant, a bad thing was supposed to happen and your mother was supposed to know about it somehow. I didn’t know what this was, but I was afraid of it nonetheless.

Disobeying the sitting rule brought swift and harsh punishment which could come from anyone. Even the boys themselves.

“Hey! You girl, Don’t you know you shouldn’t be sitting like that?” I looked up from my snack, spread out over my thighs. A group of boys stood in front of me, their chequered blue shirts unbuttoned in break-time exertions. Their leader was a boy whose fair skin could only be described as ‘dirty yellow’. Like pus. He was younger than I was. I recognised them as the band of boys that tormented girls in school; pulling hair, throwing stones, spitting…I shivered. I wasn’t nearly old enough for them to be afraid of me at just eight, but I had to try anyway.

“Who are you talking to like that?”

“I am talking to you. Don’t you have home training? Didn’t your mother teach you how to sit?” In my effort to avoid the lunchtime melee, I had snuck a book into school. I was so lost in the book that I didn’t realise that the forbidden under-sag had happened. I was sitting on most of them, but a bit of my pants were on display. A solitary bead of sweat trickled down my back.

“Shut up, osiso. If you don’t get out of here now, I will go and tell Teacher that you people were trying to peep at me,” I bluffed. I saw the boys waver, looking at each other. A few of them at the back shuffled their feet. One of them scratched his head and turned around. “That’s right, go away or I will make sure you get flogged.”

I went too far. Their leader spat into the ground. I watched the dry spittle curl inwards, clothing itself in a layer of sand. “I will tell her that you showed us your pant. Your white pant. White and led.” I felt shame cut through me. The description of my underwear was a mark seared on my soul. Even before they started throwing sand into my thighs, I felt unclean. The sand flew everywhere, into my hair, my snacks, my book. I screamed and it went into my mouth. The boys laughed as they ran away.

I stood up and tried to dust myself down as best I could. The sand cut me like little knives in the softest parts of my body. I rinsed my mouth with water from my water bottle but I could still hear crunching when I spoke and goose pimples popped all over my skin.

“Why didn’t you run when you saw the car?” My mother asked at the end of the school day. She reached around and casually knocked me on the head. “I will flog you when we get home, I can see you are now too big to run.” I hung my head.

Mother was right. Boys had seen and now bad things were happening to me; I could barely walk from the discomfort in between my bum cheeks and I was still going to get a beating when I got home. Life was so unfair.

I always kept my legs closed after that.

* This figure (ninety percent) is a ‘Guess-timate’.

The fear of shame is the beginning of wisdom.

Igbo mothers love The Bogeyman. That’s a reason why a lot of Igbo folklore has to do with actions and consequences, mostly of people who have disobeyed their mothers with dire results. For the longest time, the shame of pregnancy was the major one. Many an Igbo girl crossed her legs for fear of rubbing poti (Putty; figuratively, shame) on her family’s face. It was all very Victorian.

Then HIV came along … and that was the end of the pregnancy lecture.

To cut a long story short…

It was four days after my Igba Nkwu. I was in my mother’s kitchen searching for Nigerian foodstuff to take back to London.

Kedu gi?” My mother shouted from upstairs.

“I’m in the kitchen,” I answered. I reached for some unripe mangoes and wrapped them in newspaper. I would have to pack them last so that they didn’t ripen too quickly in the heat of my suitcase.

“Ah, I see you’ve found the mangoes. Take these coconuts as well.” My mother also produced a packet of ground crayfish from nowhere and added it to my growing pile. She walked to a cupboard, opened it and shut it again. Then she walked to the pantry. She came back out. My mother was not given to aimless wanderings. I knew something was coming.

“What kind of contraceptives do you take? Do you take The Pill?” I recovered from my shock sufficiently enough to ponder the question. Responding ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to that question would mean that I was either on the pill or was taking another form of contraceptive. It would mean that I was safeguarding against a pregnancy. It would mean that I was having sex before I became a bride four days ago. It was a trick question.

“What would I be taking that for?” My mother was flustered. She tried to recover.

“Well, you should consider another from of contraceptives other than the pill so that when you want to conceive, you don’t have to wait for all those hormones to subside. Also there is a possible risk of weight gain…” She went into lecturer mode. She mentioned condoms. IUDs and injections. My mother held herself stiffly and sliced the air to emphasise her points.

My palms started to sweat. My mother was trying to give me a sex education.

I was twenty-six, had been living on my own for years and got married in a traditional ceremony four days ago, and my mother was giving me sex education. Now. After all this time.

I was perplexed. Was this the same mother who had famously bent over to throw sand into a suitor’s eyes for daring to talk to her as a girl? Was this the same mother that encouraged us to do the same? To keep away from men? This same mother whose previous attempt at sex education was simply “You know you are now seeing your menses. If you like go and get pregnant. Your father will kill you.”

I hated the word menses.

Now my mother stood in front of me trying to cram fifteen odd years into a few clinical sentences. I wanted to mess with her. I wanted to ask, “But how do you have sex in the first place? You are teaching me about prevention but how do I get pregnant?” I took one look at her; she seemed composed but I took in her too-wide eyes and sweat beading her top lip.

“Yes, mum. Thank you mum.” Her feet didn’t touch the floor as she left the kitchen. I felt sorry for her. Igbo Catholics had it the worst of all; the talk couldn’t have been easy. But I was still puzzled. After years spent drilling chastity, womanly pride and the best way to kill a man in just three gestures into my skull, at what point was I supposed to start seeing men as attractive?

Being a good Igbo girl is just hard.