He told me that people were saying that my novel was feminist and his advice to me - and he was shaking his head sadly as he spoke - was that I should never call myself a feminist because feminists are women who are unhappy because they cannot find husbands. And to the Nigerians here, I’m sure we’re all familiar with how quick our people are to give unsolicited advise. When I was promoting the novel in Nigeria, a journalist, a nice well-meaning man, told me he wanted to advise me.
I wrote a novel about a man who, among other things beats his wife and whose story doesn’t end very well. And the first thing that I planned to do when I got home was to look up “feminist” in the dictionary. So I brushed it aside and continued to argue. I could tell from his tone, the same tone that you would use to say something like, “You’re a supporter of terrorism.” I did not know exactly what this word “feminist” meant and I did not want Okuloma to know that I did not know. I don’t remember what this particular argument was about, but I remember that as I argued and argued, Okuloma looked at me and said, “You know, you’re a feminist.” It was not a compliment. I was about 14, we were in his house, arguing, both of us bristling with half-bit knowledge from books that we had read. He was also the first person to call me a feminist. Okuloma was a person I could argue with, laugh with and truly talk to. Okuloma died in the notorious Sosolisa plane crash in Nigeria in December of 2005, almost exactly 7 years ago. If I liked a boy, I would ask Okuloma’s opinion. Okuloma lived on my street and looked after me like a big brother. So I would like to start by telling you about one of my greatest friends, Okuloma.
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