{"id":1183,"date":"2011-01-17T17:04:00","date_gmt":"2011-01-17T17:04:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.feelnubia.com\/?p=1183"},"modified":"2025-05-18T13:37:04","modified_gmt":"2025-05-18T13:37:04","slug":"the-raising-cane","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/feelnubiatest.com\/index.php\/2011\/blog-misc-and-opinions\/the-raising-cane\/","title":{"rendered":"The Raising Cane: How I Became a Defender of the Voiceless"},"content":{"rendered":"\r\n
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Child in time-out (Photo by Masana<\/a> on Unsplash<\/a>)<\/figcaption>\r\n<\/figure>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

LESSONS FROM MY DAD AND MUM: THE BIRTH OF VOLTRON F \u2013 DEFENDER OF THE UNIVERSE<\/strong><\/p>\r\n

One of my most unforgettable childhood memories stars none other than… my dad<\/em>, in a moment so heroic it might as well have had theme music. It was the day he stood up to a known neighborhood tyrant\u2014and in doing so, unlocked my transformation into Voltron F: Defender of the Universe (and abused women).<\/strong><\/p>\r\n

Our neighborhood was a quiet, “don\u2019t-ask-don\u2019t-tell” sort of place. Behind well-kept hedges and celebrity sightings (Sir Victor Uwaifo\u2019s musical-horned Citro\u00ebn was a regular), secrets festered like mold in a forgotten Tupperware. One of them was that Mr. Next Door was a serial wife-beater. His stunning, elegant wife would often emerge with dark sunglasses that tried\u2014but failed\u2014to hide the pain behind them. Everyone knew, but nobody said a word.<\/p>\r\n

Until that night<\/strong>.<\/p>\r\n

She came tearing through our gate like a woman in a Nollywood drama\u2014robe torn, hair wild, one eye bloodshot, screaming, \u201cHelp me! He\u2019s going to kill me!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\r\n

We were having dinner.<\/p>\r\n

Mum swept into action, comforting her. Dad, calmly chewing his last bite, stood up and headed for the door.<\/p>\r\n

Seconds later, the beast himself stormed in, panting like a poorly-trained Doberman: \u201cWhere is she?!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\r\n

And then… my dad transformed.<\/p>\r\n

He looked him dead in the eye and said, \u201cDo not take another step, Mr. X. She is in my house. She is my guest. And while she is here, you will not lay a hand on her.<\/strong>\u201d<\/em><\/p>\r\n

Boom.<\/p>\r\n

The man\u2014suddenly deflated\u2014turned around and walked away like a balloon someone had accidentally sat on. From that moment, my dad went from being just \u201cDad\u201d to being a capeless superhero in my eyes. That day, a lifelong lesson was etched in my heart: never be afraid to confront injustice, especially when no one else will.<\/strong><\/p>\r\n

A few weeks later, that family moved out. Peace returned. But something had changed forever\u2014I had caught the justice bug, and Voltron F had been born. And she had come to stay, even after Dad passed away almost twenty years ago.<\/p>\r\n

\r\n

THE \u2018KOBOKO\u2019 CHRONICLES: HOW I SURVIVED NIGERIAN MOTHERHOOD (AND LIVED TO TELL THE TALE)<\/strong><\/h3>\r\n

Let\u2019s just say this upfront: growing up in my house was… character-building<\/strong>.<\/p>\r\n

I\u2019m talking koboko<\/em>-level character building. That\u2019s right\u2014the infamous braided horsewhip that left artistic welts on your skin and \u201cdiscipline\u201d in your soul.<\/p>\r\n

I wasn\u2019t exactly a wild child. More like thoughtful, introverted, dreamy<\/em>… but in a house where obedience trumped introspection, I was a bit of a square peg. My brother (a cool seven years older and my personal hero) dubbed me \u201cWhy, Dad, Why?\u201d because of my constant questions. Meanwhile, my extroverted sister was doing Beyonc\u00e9 impressions in the living room. Guess who got the whoopings?<\/p>\r\n

Yep. Me.<\/p>\r\n

My mum? A no-nonsense disciplinarian with the spirit of a drill sergeant and the hands of a professional slapper. But her iron resolve didn\u2019t come from nowhere. You see, my grandmother<\/strong> was a trailblazer: the first woman to preach on a pulpit in her region, a missionary-school escapee who defied ancestral obligations to serve the gods, and instead served God. She later ran a finishing school for girls in Ekiti, raising generations of well-trained, impeccably-mannered young women.<\/p>\r\n

Unfortunately for me, my mum took that legacy and went full throttle. And I? I became her project.<\/p>\r\n

Grinding peppers on a stone mill (despite having a blender), re-washing entire sinks of dishes because of a rogue oil streak, setting tables like we were hosting Buckingham Palace… this was daily life. Our househelp could only help after<\/strong> I had done the work\u2014and done it perfectly.<\/p>\r\n

When I finally mastered the art of hostessing and cooking, I dared to suggest I should also get to wear nail polish like Mrs. So-and-So\u2019s daughter\u2014my apparent rival in all things domestic. Mum looked me dead in the eye and said: \u201cShe\u2019s six years older than you.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\r\n

Wait… wasn\u2019t she my age last week?<\/p>\r\n

\r\n

MY PLANS FOR SWEET REVENGE (A.K.A. FAKE DRAMATIC DISAPPEARANCE)<\/strong><\/h3>\r\n

At 14, I had enough. I plotted my teenage rebellion: not actual suicide (I was too chicken for that), but a fake disappearance\u2014complete with a sad note and a strategic hiding spot. The goal? Make her miss me.<\/strong> Real Shakespearean levels of melodrama.<\/p>\r\n

Sadly, my acting career never took off. The closest I came was a teary monologue: \u201cWhy do you hate me so much? I know you\u2019re not my real mother!\u201d<\/em> (Cue dramatic pause.)<\/p>\r\n

To which she calmly replied: \u201cWell, if I\u2019m not your mother, then your real one must not want you.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\r\n

Game. Set. Match.<\/p>\r\n

\r\n

THE PLOT TWIST: BEST FRIEND, MENTOR, NO-FILTER CHAMPION<\/strong><\/h3>\r\n

Fast-forward a few decades and my once-hardcore mum became my greatest cheerleader<\/strong>.<\/p>\r\n

She wasn\u2019t the kind of grandma to move in and bathe your baby while humming lullabies. Nope. When I had my first child, nurses asked, \u201cWhere\u2019s your mum?\u201d<\/em> I just smiled. She did<\/em> visit, stayed for two weeks (a record!) and even found me Nigeria\u2019s Mary Poppins who was with me for years later.<\/p>\r\n

Over time, she mellowed. Gave me space to raise my own kids differently\u2014no koboko, no comparisons, no cooking competitions.<\/strong> And yes, all the kids (boys included) share chores. I still have the yam-pounding skills, though. Some habits die hard.<\/p>\r\n

In 2024, at 88, she passed away. And while I miss her deeply, I now see everything she was trying to build: a woman of grit, grace, and gumption. Her lessons shaped me\u2014and they still guide how I parent today.<\/p>\r\n

\r\n

ABOUT THIS BLOG<\/strong><\/h3>\r\n

These are stories from my past\u2014hilarious, heartbreaking, and healing\u2014about growing up Nigerian, the lessons my parents taught me (sometimes with koboko!), and how those lessons are shaping the way I raise my own kids today. Expect laughter, occasional tears, and plenty of \u201cDid that really happen?!\u201d moments.<\/p>\r\n

Welcome to the journey.<\/p>\r\n

\r\n

Recommended<\/a><\/p>\r\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

LESSONS FROM MY DAD AND MUM: THE BIRTH OF VOLTRON F \u2013 DEFENDER OF THE UNIVERSE One of my most unforgettable childhood memories stars none other than… my dad, in a moment so heroic it might as well have had theme music. It was the day he stood up to a known neighborhood tyrant\u2014and in […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":6,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":true,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[120],"tags":[127,414,129,413,169,412,310,313,283,311,415],"class_list":["post-1183","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-blog-misc-and-opinions","tag-africa","tag-children","tag-culture","tag-daughter","tag-family","tag-father","tag-feel","tag-feelnubia","tag-mother","tag-nubia","tag-upbringing"],"yoast_head":"\nThe Raising Cane: How I Became a Defender of the Voiceless - Feelnubia - Home of Africa's Intelligentsia- Be Africa!<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/feelnubiatest.com\/index.php\/2011\/blog-misc-and-opinions\/the-raising-cane\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"The Raising Cane: How I Became a Defender of the Voiceless - Feelnubia - Home of Africa's Intelligentsia- Be Africa!\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"LESSONS FROM MY DAD AND MUM: THE BIRTH OF VOLTRON F \u2013 DEFENDER OF THE UNIVERSE One of my most unforgettable childhood memories stars none other than… my dad, in a moment so heroic it might as well have had theme music. 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