Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan’s controversial suspension from the Nigerian Senate reveals the pervasive misogyny that seeks to undermine women in positions of power. It also highlights how beauty, often treated as a currency, can become a double-edged sword for women navigating gendered power structures in Nigerian politics and beyond.
While the Nigerian government continues to discourage payment of ransom to kidnappers, the failure of security operatives to tactically address the root cause means families of kidnapped victims are likely not to comply.
Travel writer and author of the upcoming novel Bitter Honey, Lola Akinmade Åkerström, wants to spark more conversations about the challenges of raising biracial children in white-majority countries: ‘Raising biracial children in a society that remains the last bastion of whiteness and making sure they are deeply self-confident and have a strong sense of identity is my utmost role as a mother in Sweden.’
When it comes to beauty standards and how women defy or succumb to them, the discourse takes on a new meaning for Nigerian women on the lowest rung of the economic ladder. For them, attaining the ‘ideal’ appearance is a measure of beauty and class.
Babangida’s attempt to tell his own story or shape his own legacy through his memoir, A Journey in Service, falls short of expectations raising questions about whether the book should have been written at all.
Nigerian radio dramas, like Abule Oloke Merin, were once powerful mediums for storytelling and cultural memory, yet many of these programmes have been lost due to poor archival practices. By drawing lessons from other African nations on preserving ephemeral media, Nigeria will be well equipped to preserve its auditory heritage.
Nigerian writer and author of Broken, Fatima Bala, says that with her new novel, Hafsatu Bebi, she wanted to explore the realities of being a northern Nigerian girl: ‘I have always wanted to see different authentic depictions of northern Nigerian girls. And so, in the characterization, I was itching to write a northern Muslim who happens to be very different from Fa’iza from Broken.’
As a Muslim woman, I have faced excommunication and backlash for challenging patriarchal interpretations of Islam. I will not apologize for my refusal to submit to a male-centred Islam that seeks to erase mine and other women’s existence.
The stories of the four women in Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s latest novel, Dream Count, address an essential feminist question—what must a woman recognize in another and in herself to understand their shared conditions?—with a curiously tentative answer.
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