AN IBADAN GIRL’S GUIDE TO BEING FEMINIST

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I knew what it meant to be feminist.

Or I thought I knew. 

It meant to be a man-hating, God-hating rabble-rousing shrew who will never find a man willing to marry her because no man will ever want to put up with ‘that’. ‘That’ being a word spat out disdainfully at the folly of the unfortunate woman.


I knew who I was and my stand on gender and women’s rights.

Or I thought I knew.

My stand was to support women and girls whoever they were. To ensure that no woman who came in contact with me lost her voice. To let every girl I met know that she’s a strong capable person who deserves to be treated as an individual not lumped into a category – woman- by which her every action will be judged and weighted. But when it came to being called feminist, naaaah. “I’m not feminist!” I would vehemently retort whenever anyone asked or attempted to label me. Every time I heard the word ‘feminist’, the image of the shrew would come, unbidden, to mind.

It all ground to a halt the day I asked myself “What then am I?” I do not believe that I should be limited in academics, sports, adventure or anything by my gender and I do not believe anyone else, regardless of their gender, should be either. I do not believe that anyone or their capabilities and abilities should be limited or shunned based solely on their gender. 


Like the dawning of day, slowly but surely, when even the deep crevices come illuminated. Slowly but surely, it dawned on me that I am, indeed, feminist.


I AM FEMINIST!

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