⚠️ Content Warning

This essay discusses sexual violence and harmful cultural practices. Reader discretion is advised.

I recently wrote a commissioned essay titled ‘If Speaking Against Misogyny Makes Me Less of a Man, Then Picture Me In A Skirt’ in which I reinforce my stance on misogyny, gender-based violence, and the patriarchal ideas that fuel them. In it, I make it clear that I cannot see any injustice meted out to women and girls and minority groups and remain silent about it, even if it makes me uncool among other men, because I think the gong of sexual violence (in this case, against women and girls) is hardly beaten enough. Because the fight against this canker should be everyone’s. Because, like Bakunin, I still believe that ‘the freedom of all is essential to my freedom. I am truly free only when all human beings, men and women, are equally free.’

Anyway, I mention this essay in particular because, while writing it and reflecting on some personal experiences, I felt a rage I had never known before, which made putting them on paper cathartic. But I didn’t think I would feel that same rage and hurt and disappointment while writing another piece, yet here I am on a Sunday morning, my eyes in my hand as I scrub them free of shame that drowns them and fury that burns them, as I dab them dry of scorn that impales them. Our societies always find new ways to surprise you.

Yesterday, on my unofficial return to Instagram after a month’s break, I randomly came across a post on someone’s story, which got me tempestuous and sent me down a rabbit hole. Think Reddit channels, YouTube videos, X threads, and major news outlets. etc

I don’t want to sound magniloquent, but I think ‘horrific’ doesn’t even come close to what I discovered. Because those videos I came across while crawling through this rabbit hole were difficult to watch. They were difficult to sit through. Initially, I thought I was overreacting. I thought: maybe I care too much. But then there are hundreds and hundreds of people online who feel the same. That can’t be a coincidence. The fury of that many people clearly indicates something is wrong.

Apparently, there was a traditional festival in Ozoro, the headquarters of Isoko North Local Government Area of Delta State, that allowed the sexual assault of several women during the celebration. According to some accounts, these women were asked to stay indoors during the celebration, but didn’t listen, and so these men attacked them, tore their clothes, pursued them and sexually assaulted them.

Pause and read over it again. Let it sit on your tongue for a minute. Roll it around in your mouth, let the bile notes settle, and affirm how distasteful all that is.

No, scratch that. Calling it distasteful is like cladding it in a floral gown to make it look better than it is.

Let’s call it what it is. Barbaric. Animalistic. In a civilised society in the 21st century, something like that shouldn’t happen. Ever.

As I mentioned, some of the videos I have seen are difficult to watch. You see these young women being chased by a mob of men, who are shouting after them, while the women also scream in fear. In one of the videos, a young lady clings tightly to her blouse as it gets torn apart by these men. She is screaming for them to stop. But none of them listens. She cries out for help, shouting and screaming, but none of them pauses to consider that what they are doing might be wrong (and we know why). In fact, somehow, her cries and her shouting only seem to excite the men further. You can see their amused, thrilled expressions. What is worse, someone filmed this! I will be lenient towards this filmmaker because the world is aware of this, thanks to their service. 

Later, I came across a Reddit post where the poster (is this what they call them on Reddit?) asks, ‘What is the belief behind the rape festival in Nigeria?’ and I was glad to find that many people didn’t care for what the belief is. Because I know that when such questions start to pop up, you know many will fall back on the familiar refrain of ‘it is culture’, ‘That is what our ancestors have been doing.’ And somehow, you do not touch culture. Even if it is as barbaric as this. Somehow, common sense seems to cease to exist when it is culture. Well, I call bullshit. Whatever the belief, whatever the culture, this shouldn’t be allowed to happen. In any case, if we ever said that gender-based violence is the confluence of culture, this is confirmation.

In all of this, I have seen posts and videos from certain people, including women, justifying the act—and I will never get used to the fact that some women actually justify sexual assault on other women.

One of them, with the caption ‘Those Ozoro girls should have treaded carefully’, instantly made me squirm, sigh and facepalm. I should have known better. I should have scrolled past it, but against my better judgment, I watched. I watched this person, who…

You know what, I don’t want to fall into the sinful pit of ad hominem, so I will desist from saying anything indecorous about this person. I will let their words describe them.

‘Those girls should have known this is the situation of things. They should have known how these things is. I’m sure indegieons have told them. They have heard stories. Why did they come out?’ They said.

I do not blame them. These days, it is easy for anyone to pick up their phone, turn on their camera, and share their opinions on anything.

Nevertheless, while I try to understand where this person was coming from—the rational (if we can call it that) behind the video they made—because I aim to be open-minded and to see things from multiple perspectives (whether I succeed is a matter for another day), I find that what this person promotes with their absurd opinion is the victim blaming trope we find similar in rape culture. And it is preposterous. When we make statements like that, we merely reinforce the abuser's justification for the abuse. Saying, or even implying, whether overtly or covertly, that it is the victim’s fault allows the abuser to commit sexual assault while avoiding culpability for their actions.

Fertility Festival, not RAPE festival.

Since the videos went viral, meeting the furious backlash from people around the world, the Ozoro community leaders and members have come out to clarify that the festival is not necessarily a rape festival but one to celebrate (if it is even warranted) fertility. You already know which gender’s fertility is in question here.

Notwithstanding, the need for clarification has long since passed. The window is closed. No one is listening. No one cares. No matter what it is, or is supposed to be, this is what it has become, and that, for me, is what we should talk about. That should be the focus. That is what should start the probing of similar traditions, that, under the guise of being age-old, whatnot, are harmful to people, especially women, girls, and minority groups, in the said culture.

In a news article released by Vanguard News, one resident of Ozoro clarifies the festival's purpose, noting that the official name is the Aluedor festival, an age-old fertility rite.

Speaking with Vanguard via a phone call, a community indigene, Comrade Lucky Agelive, described the Aluedor festival as a sacred cultural practice observed intermittently, sometimes once in 10 to 15 years, primarily within the Oramudhu quarter of Ozoro.

“It is a fertility festival,” he said. “Women who have not given birth participate by performing symbolic acts, including pouring sand on their abdomen, praying for children. This has been the tradition from our forefathers.”

Agelive explained that the festival is not observed across the entire Ozoro community but is specific to the Oramudhu clan. He stressed that extensive announcements are usually made in advance, warning residents, especially women, to remain indoors during the ritual period.

“Announcements are made repeatedly, even weeks before the event, in both English and Isoko language. People are told clearly to stay away from the area during the hours of the ritual,” he added.

First of all, why are there so many cultural practices that seem to consistently disadvantage women and girls? Why do these practices predominantly target women and girls? This is the conversation that needs to happen. If these practices still exist in our community, what message does that send to people, especially men? Asking women to pour sand on their abdomen, for whatever reason, sends a message. Why are they the ones praying for children? When the issue of fertility is presented as solely the woman's concern, what message does that send? When it is announced that all women should remain indoors at a particular time just so ‘men can be men’, what are we saying to men in these societies?  

One such possible message is the outcome we see in the disturbing videos circulating.

I love culture. I cherish my African heritage and Ghanaian traditions. To me, I believe I would be a lost wanderer amidst a raging storm if I didn’t have my roots, customs, and cultural identity. I express this through my writing as best as I can. I almost always have a cultural touch to my appearance, especially at public events. And so, I am not a harbinger of death for all things culture. I am not out here yelling ‘death to culture’. All the same, I also think no human’s freedom, no human’s right, no human’s life, no human’s humanity is worth the price of some cultural practises.

ActionAid Nigeria, in a statement, said it better.

While efforts have been made in some quarters to minimise these events or frame them as a misinterpretation of cultural practices, ActionAid Nigeria stresses that violence against women and girls must never be trivialised, justified, or explained away under any circumstance. Regardless of how such actions are described, the reality remains that women and girls were subjected to abuse in full public view, and this demands accountability.

This incident is not isolated. It points to deeper, systemic issues of gender-based violence, where harmful norms, silence, and weak enforcement create conditions that allow such violations to occur. When acts of harassment and assault are normalised or downplayed, it reinforces a culture of impunity and further endangers women and girls.

ActionAid Nigeria unequivocally states that no cultural festival or traditional belief can be used to excuse or conceal violence. All individuals involved in these acts must be urgently identified and brought to book through a transparent and credible process that delivers justice and restores public confidence.

According to the BBC Pidgin, the Delta State Command has made some arrests. Which is a big step, but let’s all wait and watch and see this become nothing, a rubbish case, as they call it. These men will be released soon. Nothing will happen to them. This conversation will die down. Then it happens again.

Currently, there is so much rage and backlash. Many people are beside themselves. They cannot believe that something like that could happen. Yet, beyond our rage, let’s examine what this reveals about how much work there still needs to be done in the fight against gender-based violence in parts of Africa. This, and the recent femicide crisis in South Africa, reveals not only the staggering scale of gender-based violence but also the profound gaps between policy, enforcement, and real-world protection.

The issue in Ozoro is all over the place because of the videos that surfaced, but what happens to similar practices that go unchecked? What about the ones that don’t enjoy the exposure that this one has? Where do we draw the line on cultural practices that no longer serve us?

The recent tragic events in Ozoro highlight the importance of addressing harmful cultural norms in the fight against gender-based violence. While an integrated strategy involving education, legislative changes, and active community participation can offer promising pathways to change, to make real progress, we must go back to the roots. By understanding how these norms perpetuate violence, communities and organisations can develop more effective strategies that promote safety, respect, and equality for all genders. By fully committing to recognising and addressing harmful cultural practices, we can foster communities where everyone, irrespective of gender, can live without fear of violence.

So, again, I ask: Where do we draw the line?

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Dear Elvis,

Something happened to me at Christmas 2024, which forced me to encounter a different part of myself I didn’t know existed. That is to say the least. I know you’re aware that a lot has happened to me since I moved to the UK, which has compelled me to meet different versions of myself I wasn’t previously aware of. Sometimes, I stand before the mirror, study the stranger staring back, and quietly ask, ‘Who are you now?‘ Lately, the question has lingered longer than usual, clinging to the edges of my thoughts like a thick dark fog. Christmas is coming again, and once more, I have been compelled to sit with the memory. A few days ago, I walked into Castle Quarter, one of the malls here. I saw their giant Christmas tree being set up—about six feet tall, lights wrapped around it from top to bottom, a bright star sitting pretty at the summit, big (definitely empty) wrapped gift boxes underneath it. It already nestles the spirit of Christmas. The Yuletide is upon us, and once again, I am left reminiscing about my first Christmas in the UK. That is why I am writing this letter, hoping that perhaps, by reliving those days through words, I might uncover the answers I need. Maybe I will understand the kind of man I am becoming—the kind of man wrought with homesickness. I was never that man, but at the intersection of the cracks that exist between finding yourself and losing it—again and again—in unfamiliar places, something grows: the genesis of a self you never imagined you’d meet. Like a plant growing between the clefts of an old building, unexpected but present, expanding, living, breathing.

Elvis,

I was once told, ‘distance is nothing but an illusion for the determined mind.’ Or did I read it somewhere? Did I come up with it? Either way, I found it so profound that I shoved it in the front pocket of my favourite white shirt and ran with it. I repeated it to myself in the shower, as the hot water (just how I like it) hit my back, burning a little. It became an axiom. And because I had it engraved in black ink on my skull, for a while, I was untouched by the worries of distance. The pains of leaving home to stay in a boarding house during my high school years, with no one coming around to visit me. The yearning ache that comes with being away from home for months during my undergraduate years, hardly ever seeing my family. Or packing my bags and travelling across the ocean to a foreign land, leaving everything behind, uncertain of when I’d see my loved ones again. None of it felt like a hard thing to do. And no, I am not heartless or unfeeling. Distance is nothing but an illusion for the determined mind. Remember? And because of that, in all these situations (and many others unlisted), I played the role of a superhuman, untouched by emotions like longing, homesickness, or missing people so dearly that I stopped functioning. I had defences so high that the walls of Constantinople held nothing against them.

To put things in further perspective, I spent the entire lockdown in 2021 latched in my university hostel room. I never went home or felt the need to. I stayed in there all those days—isolated and writing. Then, I remember being possessed. I wrote in the morning, in the afternoon and in the evening; constantly clicking away, living in my head. I came up with the idea, wrote and finished an Afrofantasy novel set in a fictional African country about a woman who woke up in another woman’s body. To think about it, that is how I feel now—as if I am living in a body that isn’t mine. But, I digress.

What happens when an armour you’ve worn for ages, an armour that has made you indestructible against certain emotions, cracks? What happens when a place finds your Achilles heel and forces you to sit with the breach? Moving to the UK for school, to some extent, has been that for me. I came here in September 2024 and had a lot of firsts.

First autumn.

Beautiful season. I arrived just as it was reeling its head, and I beheld its charm. The air was crisp and smelled faintly of rain—and it did rain a lot—while trees shed their gold and rust leaves in slow, deliberate sighs.

First brush with subtle looks in public spaces, questioning eyes boring through me, daring me to wonder if I belong; an otherness, green, black, smeared with two fingers under my eyes like I was going to war.

First winter solstice.

The sky fell into pitch blackness at 4 p.m. The world outside folded into itself; the streets went quiet, and even my shadow disappeared.

But, I had, in some way, prepared for these firsts; read about them; imagined them in my head, played out scenarios and my reaction to them—my brain works that way most times. You know this. And so, while they may have been disconcerting, because most firsts have these effects, I wasn’t too shocked by them. What I never prepared for was my first brush with homesickness.

It was December 2024.

The autumnal air had been swept from the atmosphere long since, and a new one staggered in its stead. All trees bare and skeletal, having shed their leaves in autumn, stood naked along the streets. Colder winds declared the change of season. It was a cold that gnawed through the bone. Everything changed. And I was still akin to this unfamiliar place, trying to fit into unfamiliar spaces, hiding myself in the crevices that appear, because I, too, was changing, growing into an unfamiliar body.

Christmas bells chimed, and one by one, houses wore new skin. The lights appeared, swinging loosely in front of one house, then the next, then the next. The Christmas trees. The red, green sweaters with snowflakes or jingle bells knitted into them that people wore; the rush in the city centre for Christmas shopping. The jolly good songs folks hummed along. Festive air pirouetted everywhere I passed. A strange feeling, out of nowhere, latched itself to me like a leech, and I couldn’t shake it off. No matter how hard I tried.

Like on one of the early days of December, while walking into the University of East Anglia Library, I came past some two students (friends, I assumed) taking pictures of each other in front of the Christmas tree the library had put up, and I was suddenly drowned with the memory of you, of home, of the time in Christmas 2022 when we went out to celebrate at this newly opened restaurant, Meat Man, in Anloga. I remember this day perfectly because you had been away on your National Service in Juaben, and we hadn’t met in a while. I recall how exciting it was to meet again and have fun, the only way we knew how. I wore that newly sewn kimono people wouldn’t stop complimenting me for—the one in gold and brown, patterned with tiny cowries. You, in your striped shirt with the orange pocket and a black cap, looked easy, carefree in a way that matched the season’s air. After getting ourselves something to eat, we stood under the red Meat Man sign, pretending to be serious while the waiter we had begged counted down to take the picture. I didn’t realise it then, but that moment—two friends standing in a restaurant, full of laughter—would become one of the memories that would keep me warm.

I also reminisced when we travelled from Lagos to Accra in December of 2023, after nearly a year in Nigeria. It was you, Debbie, and me. I remember us being detained at Murtala Muhammed International Airport because, apparently, we had overstayed in Nigeria without even knowing. The organisation that brought us hadn’t done their due diligence, and the immigration officer—stern, unyielding—denied us exit, insisting we fix the permit issue before we could leave.

I still see myself dropping the Christmas gifts I was holding in both hands, panic spilling out of me as I complained about missing our flight. But the man wouldn’t listen. We begged and begged until a flight attendant descended like an unexpected messiah. The flight was being delayed because of us, and she—or maybe he—spoke to the officer, and just like that, we were let through.

We ran to the plane, out of breath, faces flushed, greeted by a sea of accusing eyes. Even then, I remember laughing in relief, that giddy kind of laughter.

All of these memories came rushing back to me that night as I walked the quiet aisles of the UEA library, still learning the shape of this new life. I yearned for days like those. I longed for the Christmas holidays back home, Bronya, as we called it.

I missed the whiteness that cloaked the sky and the peculiar harmattan weather—dry, cold, dusty. On most days, especially at dusk, it was a sight to behold.

I thought endlessly about the excitement the change of season ushered in, the festivities beginning on the first of December and going on till mid-January. It was always as if suddenly, you could breathe a new air; taste the excitement in the atmosphere. Then suddenly, the big markets like Kejetia, in Kumasi, were filled to the brim, cars and humans bumper to bumper. You’d start seeing little girls walking around in different perming; the boys held on tightly to toy cap guns with their little red circle gunpowder. I thought further about the many family feasts and the chance to, sometimes, see family members who had been gone for a while.

It was when I was wrapped, neck-high in the stings of nostalgia, that I first noticed that something was wrong. Because you know, I had never been the type to make a lot of fuss about Christmas. You know, I spent many holidays away from home, from my family. But there I was, sitting in the library, thinking about random Christmas memories: even those from my childhood. Like the time, I acted as one of the three wise men in our church’s children’s nativity play. Or playing one of the animals in the manger, the year after and how I cried because I felt I had been demoted.

Elvis,

You know I wouldn’t have written this letter without moments of introspection. Without having spent time in the deep end, folding into myself, spinning stories into threads and making a shawl best suited for my own imagination—for the persons I have become. But alas, I have come to a standstill. I have come to accept that change is inevitable in a place like this. Over here, you cross the river to yourself by taking off your old skin, by wearing nothing of your former self. I am not writing this from the same place I was when the events in here unfolded. I mean, emotionally, psychologically, physically. A lot has changed. But this is not about change. Or is it? I will let you be the judge of that. In one of my many threads of stories spun, this is about longing; about homesickness. A longing that has a presence, a face, an identity. A longing that asks for a seat beside you on the bus and shoves itself down the seat that a part of its body falls on you, annoying you a little. The Welsh have a word for it. Hiraeth. A longing for a place. Nostalgia or homesickness. Interesting, right?

Everything I was feeling throughout that December culminated in a showdown on the first day of Christmas. On the morning of the 25th, a couple of friends invited me to go to a Winter Wonderland with them. Over here, there is no Christmas festivities without the Winter Wonderland, and so you’d expect my response to be ‘yes, yes!’. It wasn’t.

‘I don’t feel like going. You guys have fun,’ I said, darting my eyes around my room, avoiding their disappointed look.

‘It is going to be fun,’ they said.

‘I am so sorry.’

How was I supposed to tell them that as an international student who had come to this country on a scholarship, with nothing in my pocket but my dreams, the £ 40 being charged as a fee for the winter wonderland was too much for me to pay? That sitting on a Ferris wheel as it went round and round while I screamed my lungs out would help shake off this odd feeling that had barred itself to me. With the gifts of hindsight, I realise now that missing out on that very important Christmas tradition added more cracks to my already broken porcelain of emotional armour. That it was in the seams of these slits and splits, the longing I speak of grew extra roots.

Later that afternoon, I cooked, picked up a book, and while eating and reading, I took a picture and posted it on Snapchat with the caption: Forget love. Get you a novel and some rubbish rice you cooked. If this were a therapy session, and you, a high-priced shrink in a neatly ironed blue shirt your wife had gifted to you, I am sure you’d say something esoteric like:

You are doing it again. Putting up a wall. That post was self-reliance as a coping mechanism. You’re turning toward yourself for comfort instead of reaching out to people, instead of admitting that a call to the family back home would help ease the ache. Instead of accepting that you are changing. That a place like this does that to you.

In any case, the evening fell as expected, and the cracks got bigger, stretching; I felt my body was under siege. Like I was no longer in control of what I felt. A knot lodged itself in my chest, forcing me to gasp, clawing for any little air I could get. It was an intense, ineffable feeling—not quite there, but also there. I sat by my windowsill, a chorus of Christmas carols playing in the background, my eyes fixed on the silent streets that ran through my backyard, hugging myself free from the shackles of this alien feeling. It was drizzling a little then. As I sat there, eyes shimmering from tears I didn’t know I was holding back, not until my vision blurred, I thought of my family. What were they up to?

Did my mother go to church that morning, wearing the new clothes she had ordered the seamstress to finish in time? Did she get a new hair done? Did my step-mom slaughter a hen like she usually does? Maybe two this time? How was the fufu they cooked?

Did my little sister, Abena, try to convince my mother to let her perm her hair for the festivities? Did my brother, Kelvin, as usual, try to get out of dressing up and going to church? I thought about you, too, Elvis. I wondered what you were up to now that you were back in Nigeria. Were you alone as I was? Were you flaying yourself with the memories of Christmas in Ghana, with your family?

It was, there in those wanderings of my mind, in the dispersing of this surge of emotions, that I finally caved in, accepted what was happening. I was sick, and the diagnosis: homesickness. I picked up my phone, scrolled through screenshots to find a poem by my dear Mariam Mohammed. Mariam, a fellow writer and a friend, had moved to the USA the year before and had written this profound poem about homesickness—a subject, at the time, I couldn’t necessarily relate to. When she posted the poem that year, I screenshotted it and praised her for the astounding writing and imagery. But that night, for the first time, this poem meant more to me than beautiful writing.

Diagnosis: homesickness by Mariam Mohammed

Today, my body told me its love language –
it told me how chaos feeds peace to its soul.
I have formed the habit of seeking familiarity 
in strange places and looking for a home in a foreign 
land. I still stake my sanity on happy days, trying to 
test waters and find tolerable flows amid turbulence.
I wonder if I should clutch to my name like I do 
my pillow on chilly nights. I wonder if the frailty 
in my name has always existed or if my tongue has 
lost its touch from too many alien tastes. I wonder 
if I should stick to the three deep breaths I take on 
my doorstep every morning or if I should book a 
slot in the long list of lost souls in lost bodies on 
their way to find balance with a demi-god. I–
I, in the middle of an abyss, cannot find my feet in 
All the silence. Too much chaos in this quietness.

When I was done pondering on the poem, admitting to myself that I was indeed homesick, I picked up my phone and texted a friend.

‘Are you in the house?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I come over?’

The streets were empty when I stepped out. It was around 5 p.m., but we were neck-deep in the winter solstice. The sun had already packed its bag and left the sky. And in its place, a darkness reigned. No buses worked because everyone was spending the day with families or friends or doing something fun, but mostly with families. So, I took to walking the almost thirty minutes it took to get to my friend’s.

I walked past houses—the same houses I had walked past on some nights, and mostly saw their lights out, had their lights on this time.

While making a bend, streaks of laughter smacked me, harder than the cold biting into my skin. I turned in the direction it came from. The same bright golden lights poured out from a house’s window. I halted, watching the house with invigorated interest. In the rectangular frame of the window, I witnessed the most heartwarming scene unfold before me, pushing me further and deeper into the abyss of longing. Behind that window, a family of five, or could as well be friends. I couldn’t tell—shared laughter while passing around a big white bowl of what I could assume to be Cranberry sauce or bread sauce to go with a roast turkey (or beef wellington), the classic centrepiece, stuffed with sage and onion, with a gravy. Something very English. When the bowl had gone round, they held hands and bowed their heads in prayer. Following the loud ‘Amen’ was the clinking and clanking of forks and knives against plates, garnished with hearty laughter. They were with family—in whatever form. They were at home and had no place for homesickness.

As I sauntered under the gloomy skies of this foreign town, my lips quivering from the cold, lost to myself, I pondered further about home. I thought about the word itself.

Is home an abstract idea, a concept no one quite understands? Does home exist only in theory? Is it a shifting constellation I keep trying to navigate, but always just beyond reach? Is it where I was conceived, in the small town in Cape Coast, Central Region, Ghana, where the sea roared its might and salt devoured the soil? Is it the place where my umbilical cord was buried—a spiritual act to keep my roots tethered to a place? Is it in the house, on whose rusty aluminium roof I threw my first-ever fallen tooth? You know that for a while now, the concept of ‘home’ has been an elusive subject for me—a new world yet to be discovered. Like a tree whose roots have forgotten where the soil began—drifting, anchoring nowhere, reaching everywhere.

That night, while on my way, I avoided every window. I didn’t want to see what warmth looked like from the outside. What being without family in a season like this felt like. What being away from friends like you, Elvis, during Christmas feel like. As I trotted along those streets, humming along to Silent Night as it played loudly in my ears from my earbuds. I felt it. I felt it deep in my soul. It was a silent, silent night. Though all was not calm nor bright. That night, I accepted that I am changing and maybe, finally, being able to feel homesick is not a bad thing. Maybe it meant I had known what it was to belong somewhere, with people who mean the world to me, and that missing it was proof. That maybe the ache was also a kind of love.

Elvis, Christmas is coming again, and I fear I might be met with hireath. And with my armour gone, I am left naked to the crushing gusts of a Christmas away from home—still aching, still longing.

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