May 20th, 2023.
9:17a.m
Dear Diary,
Today, I woke up with another headache. Just like yesterday’s, it started with the same rhythmic drumming on one side of my head. Then slowly, it spread evenly until my head radiated with that familiar throbbing sensation. Like yesterday, I walked straight to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of cold water and a teabag. Like yesterday, I spilled the water bottle all over the wooden floor and rug. But, today is not yesterday. I closed my eyes, willing the pain to disappear as I drank from my cold tea-bag and swallowed the paracetamol tablets my doctor recommended for my frequent headaches. Today will be more.
Chinememma walks in just when I put down my pencil and finally decide on what to wear for today’s speech. She has come with two wrappers of steaming moimoi – my favourite. It’s smelling of strong, scented leaves and was probably made with suya-pepper and stockfish. The house is cold, and the heat from the food warms me nicely. But, I am nauseous and have no appetite. So, after my first bite, I tell Chinememma about my headache. We talk about yesterday’s election results while she eats both moimoi wraps and reads through my hastily-drafted speech simultaneously. I rub my forehead in a circular motion, still trying to get the drumming in my head to stop. I look outside, through these large triangular glass windows, and for a second, I am confused seeing the convoy of black BMW’s waiting.
10:24pm
After yesterday’s announcement, I disappeared from the public eye. I flew to Port-Harcourt -privately. Chinememma rented this duplex -with its large arched windows, lakeside paintings, and rose gardens- under her name and using her money. She also had my Public Media Assistant announce that I would give a speech at the Yakubu Gowon Stadium in Port-Harcourt. NTA news, AIT, Channels, and some other national television channels sent emails requesting exclusive interviews hours before my speech, but thankfully, she refused all of them. After yesterday’s party, I was drained but still with the skull-splitting headache, I managed to draft a speech just before I slept. Chinememma offered to write the speech, and I knew it might have been better if she did. Still, I wanted my first speech as the incumbent President of Nigeria to be filled with my voice, experiences, and struggles as a woman in politics. Chinememma has definitely been better than my previous PA.
Yesterday, I left Sidney alone with the children. Apart from Chinememma, he was the only one who had my new phone number and knew where I was staying in Port-Harcourt. He calls while I am staring at the convoy through the windows. I talk to Somachi first. She sounds bubbly as she explains the theatrics at the party which is being held in my honour, at our Lagos house. Burna Boy is performing live. She says there are more people than our large Banana-Island house can contain. She says Senator Chukwuemeka Ekweze is there with his wife, Chizoba Ekweze. I laughed when she mimicked Chizoba’s morning greetings, “Ada m, kedụ ka i mere! Ekele diri gi” in a low ‘Chizoba’ voice. Surprisingly, I remember when Chizoba gave her husband the address to Michael Chikeaze’s house and the scandal he created during the electoral debate after finding proof that I aborted Michael’s child in college. Once again, the nostalgia of our past college friendship seeps and intertwines with the red-lined hatred that burns deep in my heart and is probably ingrained in my heart tissues. I feel a sharp pain in my forehead like someone is hacking my brains with a knife. The headache is back. But, I never realised when it was gone. For the hundredth time, I say a quick prayer and promise to never think about the Ekweze’s again.
Nzube is next. He is surprisingly quiet on the phone. I expected him to say a lot, like his sister. But all he said was, “Congratulations on the win.” Later, I realised why when Sidney tells me Nzube was suspended from school for punching another student. Apparently, the student had called me a ‘ho’ and said Yusuf Francis should have won the elections, then Nzube punched him. I am proud of his reasoning, but I can’t let him know that. The method was wrong. I will probably scold him when I get back home.
Sidney and I have shared homemaking duties since we started dating, so I am sure Nzube and Somachi are safe and satisfied without me. I talk to Sidney about Senator Chukwuemeka, and as we laugh about that situation, I cannot help but remember how it almost ruined my relationship with my children, my career, and my election chances. For a fleeting moment, my head stopped spinning, and the throbbing sensation eased; and this time…. this time, I was aware of it.
12:06pm
After the phone call, Chinememma brought a pant-suit for me to wear. The suit was dark blue and short-sleeved, with some embroidered flower design in the chest region. It was so stiffly starched, and I could not imagine walking around in it. She said she had returned the purple blouse and black skirt I picked because the sleeves were too tight, the skirt was not long enough, and the colour was too bright. She said many things, but I knew why she returned the clothes I picked. Chinememma has been very protective since the Michael incident. She doesn’t even allow me to check my Twitter account since #saynoFunmilayoAbortion was the number one trending topic in Nigeria. I remember how women called me out for being a ‘slut’ and men said I was unprofessional and could not handle the rigours of Nigerian politics. However, I was not comfortable in the pant-suit, and I wanted to give my speech wearing what I was comfortable in.
Looking in the mirror, I see my crimson hair resting right above my shoulders; my purple blouse, which stops just above my shoulder blades, has a tailored look that is bold against my brown skin, my lips look fuller because of the purple lipstick I have on, and my ankle-length black skirt is fittingly tight. I feel comfortable with what I am wearing, but as I walk towards the black sienna waiting for me, I am mildly worried about the critics I will face… not wearing a suit and all. Chinememma spots me. She jokes about the cameramen being distracted by my beauty, and she takes a picture. “By the way, your speech is amazing,” she says as we bend low enough to enter the car.
1:34 pm
The road to the stadium was very bumpy. I will talk to Governor Nyesome Wike about this. We drove in about forty minutes ago, and the speaker has been talking about yesterday’s elections for the past twenty minutes. There are so many people here, it still feels like I’m dreaming, and many people are holding placards with the same slogan: “Women in Politics.” It warms my heart to read this. I really want to get this speech over with, plus my headache is not any better.
The speaker finally introduces me, and as I walk to the stage with everyone’s eyes burning holes in my back, the pain intensifies. The pain has an unpleasant warmth to it, eating at my empty stomach. I feel nauseous too, enough to make me hold onto the mic-stand for support. I breathe slowly, I have been good at ignoring this pain and hiding it from everyone, but that’s not possible now. The pain owns me, dominates my thoughts, and controls my actions. As I fumble with my speech and occasionally change posture on national television. I hear one of the cameramen whisper to the other, “Period stress no go affect male president.” I continue with my speech.
7:09 pm
Dear Diary,
At the end of my speech, everyone applauded me. Everyone was excited, especially women, and I am glad I can be this image of motivation. But as I fumbled initially with the speech, I couldn’t help but remember the Ekweze’s when those cameramen referenced my period. I realised something; my experiences as a woman is filled with many tough choices, bad memories, and ruined friendships. Experiences from a marginalised community that I can pick up if I need to learn something; memories I can bend to gain a perspective that will help me to be a better leader; beliefs I can use to re-see situations through the lens of my people’s needs and traumas rather than mine. This is my new awakening: to be the person I am destined to be and to lead Nigeria towards a new revolution.
Click to Read – Smiling in the Drought – A Short Story by Thatho Katiso, Lesotho
