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RABIAT. Story of a Woman.

RABIAT. Story of a Woman.

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Published by: Aishatu Gidado Idris on May 01, 2011
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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11/25/2011

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LIFE IS WHAT YOU MAKE OF IT. THERE IS A FANTASY IN THIS CLAIM, I MUST BE CONCERNED WITH REALITY.....
I don't belongto that group of women who suffer from disorder of the womb, yet lie totheir doctor because of the fear of having their bodies examinedprivately. If you do not tell the truth to your doctor, how can you expectto get better, or at least be treated? If I fail to tell the truth to my parents,friends and even my adversaries, how can I explain the fact that I am notmerely being negative? Ordinarily, I would not have confided suchprivate matters or discussed them, but in this case I had to extricatemyself from the messy lies about my private life and my role in thebreakup of my marriage. So bearing this in mind, I decided to be brave,resolute and bluntly honest««.
 
M
y father is a Zaria-born Fulani and has earned himself respect all overKaduna as God-fearing and hard working citizen. Father a middle agedman who believes doing what is right could be described as a strictperson even though his educational background wouldn·t allow him tobe unexplainably so. I am the eldest of his four children, two of whichhad been taken to boarding school so that they get a taste of being ontheir own ¶of independence· as father had explained to them when mybrother faruk repeatedly complained about father,s intent at thebeginning of the decision. Father made sure he sent us to the bestschools in town, not forgetting to remind us always that it·s the onlylegacy he hopes to leave for us. Although our family is not a large one,we are not without constant visitors in our house.
M
ost of them arerelatives and friends, a good number of them from Zaria. "You couldlook us up in Liman's house."They would say any time they are asked oftheir contact address in Kaduna.
 
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Of all the visitors, my favourite is Aunty Halima. She is a quiet andunassuming woman who looks quite like my father except that myfather is on the tall side while aunty falls on the short side. They werevery close and usually visits us once in a while for a change ofenvironment as she used to say. ´I love being in zaria, but sometimesthe break is important, because it reduces monotony.µ Aunty hadexplained. During my younger days, I used to have this feeling ofemptiness whenever she had to go back to Zaria. Imagine what happyhours Aunty halima and I spent! They were hours I wish were repeatedover and over again, because was nothing which I couldn·t tell her. Sheseemed to be the most understanding elder I had ever come across andinteracted with. She hardly frowns her face as most elders do, or evenexpect me to be careful of what I tell her or the way I tell her. I amalways myself when am with her. She has a pleasant countenanceabout her, always smiling but ready to tell you off when you are wrongand praise you when you are right. So I did find her really warm-hearted and loving. Whenever we sat together in front of the televisiontalking about the past, present and future, I used to tell her whatfavours I would do to her when I came of age."Aunty ." I would often say, "I'm afraid of growing up.""Why?" She would ask."So many reasons much of it I don't understand it just scares me toknow that there are realities I would face.µ That was the time I wastransforming from a girl into a young lady. I used to be scared of realityand growing up involves meeting realities along the way. In my ownassumption reality bites, and it is so uncompromising. I used to hopethat everything was as I dreamt it«. fantasy played a part in my life. I
 
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used to even think that my dream man should be like my TV hero:brave, good, handsome and charming; in fact, a perfect gentleman. Well,that trend of thought is make-believe where there are no defects exceptthe dreamer wants it to be so. I was later to come face to face with thebitter truth, that make-believe does not offer any escape route out of thechallenges of living. As I grew up, I realized through my experiencesthat life was not made up of stories, birthdays and the television. I learntthe hard way that human existence was not just imagination but reality.When I was in my teens, I knew I was becoming a bit too stubborn inmy own right. I became aware of my relatives regarding me withbaffling incredibility. They don·t seem to understand me, they believe Iam complex person. So my mother told , and If that hurt me, I could notexpress it, I did not know how to. How do I deal with it? In myrelationship with people, I either choose love or separation. By sodoing, I form a barrier so I don·t get hurt. Love? Well I do try to showlove. That did not always work well and only earned me a bad name. Itdidn·t guarantee my peaceful survival instead it diminished myreputation because people are not as loyal as I expected. I had beenhighly misunderstood and maybe even so as I got older. I must havesuffered because I neither allowed people to perceive frustrations norallowed myself to ponder too much about the complex situations I hadfound myself in. There was a time I got to fall slightly in love with mycousin,s friend and was told so many discouraging things about himwhich didn·t move me and as a result of my rebellious attitude, I waslabeled a crazy girl. Within all these troubling realities, I was changing,becoming my own person, and my mother was accused of not givingme the right upbringing by allowing me to be myself. I had appeared as

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