BEING A WOMAN AND MORE (A REVIEW: By Som Ogboh)

Ben Johnson, the writer of the Elizabethan era, sees poetry and pictures as arts of like nature. Reading through the poems in this book, I see different pictures of the author in her different stages of life. 

First, as a dejected widow, a lonely and helpless woman who is merely existing rather than living, a single mother battling with parenting, and then an accomplished writer.

William Wordsworth, the poet of the Romantic England, says that poetry is the imaginative expression of strong feelings, usually rhythmic, the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings recollected in tranquillity. Edwin Arlington Robinson, an American poet notable for his lyrical and narrative poetry, adds that poetry is the language that tells us, through a more or less emotional reaction, something that cannot be said. 

The poems in this collection, especially in part one, prove the veracity of Wordsworth and Robinson's assertion. Lines 24-32 of Brokenness read:

       "When despair 

       holds sway my heart,

       I pant for words

       with tear-sodden eyes,

       but the weight of my grief

       seizes my voice

      torn in patches,

      I fumble in vain

     to speak"

 

The emotional reaction to sorrow and solitude is the imaginative creation of the poems contained in this volume. This also credits what Nikola Tesla said, that being alone is the secret of invention, and ideas are born when one is alone.

It is said that life is the greatest gift, and thus, one must appreciate being alive. Thomas Hardy, the English poet and novelist who is known as the bridge between the Victorian and Twentieth century England because his novels are strictly Victorian, and his poems belong to the Twentieth century says that poetry is the emotion put in pleasure and measure; the motion must come by nature but the measure can be acquired by art. The poems in part two, with the sub-theme: Celebrating Life, portray Hardy's stance.

Though the author sourced the name Being a Woman and More from the third part of the book, the book is not all about being a woman; it is a collection of lots. First, it is a memoir, then it comes as a charge _ an instruction to keep sailing in the voyage of life even when the elements appear unfriendly; even when there is a reversal of fortune, or twist of fate, one must not lose hope. This reminds me of the words of Martin Luther King on marble: "We must accept finite disappointment, but we must not lose infinite hope". Hope, with its theme of optimism, affirms this. 

Preceding the poems in each part with an introductory note is akin to letting one perceive the aroma of the meal one is about to have. This style is plausible.

Being a Woman and More  is therefore recommended for young 
people, for women, for writers, in fact, for all, because the message of perseverance rings throughout the pages of the collection. 

A REVIEW: By Som Ogboh

Being A Woman & More

Going through grief

Trauma is an inevitable part of life. Each new day presents its challenges, distress, and struggles. How we embrace and navigate these experiences determines their impact on our lives. We can choose to be victors or victims. We can allow circumstances to define us, or we defy them and pursue our goals.

I have walked through storms and faced moments that knocked me down and left me helpless. Yet, even when I was down, I refused to stay there. I rose and moved forward with God by my side towards victory.

Five years into my marriage, my husband passed away. My world, once filled with light, and laughter suddenly plunged into darkness and sorrow. 

The weight of that loss was suffocating, and the temptation to quit life loomed large. But my two young children became my lifeline; their presence kept me afloat. It took years for me to emerge from that dark shroud and truly live, rather than merely exist.

Widowhood is daunting. When everyone departs, the loneliness that hits, and days filled with unbearable quietness, lingering grief, and pain, feel insurmountable. The fear of facing life, the challenges, and the responsibilities of parenting the children alone are overwhelming.

During this challenging time, I felt blessed to have my family and my husband’s family form a protective shield around me. My mother never left my side. For months, I slept in her room with my children. I could only sleep when I saw her opening her prayer book at night. She was a deeply prayerful woman who never missed midnight prayers, and her devotion was a calming balm to my soul. My grandmother, a prayer warrior also, strengthened me with her prayers and encouraging words.

During the burial, my father-in-law hovered nearby, offering care and support. My mother-in-law, though devastated by the loss of her firstborn, ensured I was okay. She took care of my mother and me throughout that painful time we spent in the village for the burial. My husband’s siblings were wonderful and supportive, throughout.

My father-in-law often invited us to spend Christmas with them in the village, sending transport money when I accepted. My mother-in-law would say, “Ngozi, don’t buy anything when coming; I’ve already bought everything you and the children need. Just come home.” Visiting them was always a pleasure, I could count on Mama’s warm welcome and the special soup she would make for me. And, my father-in-law would ensure they deliver fresh palm wine every morning for me.

I had a caring mother-in-law, who periodically sent me money from her pension, always checking in on our well-being, and a father-in-law who ensured I was comfortable. Their love and support lessened the pain.

However, over time, that protective shield disintegrated. First, my mother, who had helped care for my children while I navigated life’s demands, joined the angels in heaven. Her loss was devastating, and my children felt it deeply. When their father died, they were too young to grasp the gravity of the situation, but my mother’s death left a void they struggled with for a long time. They missed visiting Mama’s room for snacks after school.

Next came another heart-wrenching blow: my mother-in-law succumbed to cancer after a long battle. Her absence felt monumental. She had been a steadfast presence, and supportive, ensuring my eldest son comfortably finished his secondary education in the village. 

Soon after, my father-in-law passed away. Years later, my father, who has always supported me emotionally and financially, joined the League of Ancestors. 

With the elders gone, I assumed the role of an elder overnight, shouldering enormous responsibilities with unwavering resolve. When life hands you the baton, you take it and continue the race.

Loneliness 

My sun went behind the clouds,

Plunging me into an abyss of pain.

A dreary life to live. 

Where two walked

I trod alone in trepidation.

Walking the twisting road of life,

With garlands of sorrow.

The emptiness throbbed

My heart wailed with pain.

Waves of grief, 

Curls of gloom,

laced my days.

And loneliness

Enveloped my world.

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Nobody knows what I feel (Part 2)

 

WIDOWHOOD 2

 They lowed the coffin into the grave, a pastor prayed and they thrust a shovel into her hand. She stared at it in confusion until someone held her hand, dipped the shovel on the heap of sand and guided it to the open grave, upturned the sand, and it fell on the shiny coffin with a soft thud.

They removed the shovel from her, someone else, a woman, took her hand and led her away from the graveside, to a chair specially kept for her as the chief mourner. She sat, dazed and dissociated from the clatters around her; the music, the drinking, the eating and the hushed murmuring voices.

She watched with clear but unseeing eyes, the lineup of people who came to sympathise with her. “Take heart,” they told her. She nodded her head. “The Lord is your strength,” another said. “Trust God, He knows why it happened, It is well with you.” Someone else said. “Madam, sorry o, take heart, you will get over it,” yet another said. The words kept coming, for each person that came up had something to say. She wanted to scream, to ask them to stop, but they would think she had gone mad.

She bowed her head, and asked God when this nightmare will be over, she wanted to wake up, she wanted this to be just a bad dream, and she wanted to believe her husband was yet to come back from his trip to the east. Yet even when her heart refused to accept it, the reality was there before her.

With this thought, came the sudden realisation she would never see him again; a strangled cry erupted from her mouth. The tears she thought have dried up came down in torrent. They held her as her body rocked with the force of her anguish. “Shut up and behave yourself, your crying will not bring him back, his gone, and nothing will change that fact.” A woman scolded her.

Everyone has been telling her to shut up, to endure, to have faith in God. But does anybody understand what she was really feeling. How her heart was bleeding. How everything seemed so unreal to be real.

Sister, maybe you feel nobody understands, but we do it’s a route many has tread before you. Welcome to the club of widowhood, this is just the beginning of another phase of your life. Some facts to hold on to, apart from God, you’re alone; forget the promises made by friends and family to assist you.  With time you will discover most of your friends, especially the married ones will keep you at arm’s-length after the initial sympathy; they wouldn’t want you to be a walking temptation to their husbands, nor a burden to them. Also, after a year many will disperse from your life, but those who stick with you are the true friends, the ones who really understand.

Nobody knows what I feel (part 1)

 WIDOWHOOD

“Madam, we’re sorry.” The messenger of doom stood, face blank and devoid of any emotion as he muttered his apology.

She halted her pensive pacing and turned, eyes wide, face stained with tears, she stared at the doctor uncomprehendingly at first.

“We did our best but….” He raised his shoulders in helpless shrug

She closed the distance between them. “What did you just say?”

“I’m sorry ma; there is nothing to do anymore.”

She held his shirt and let out an ear piercing scream. All activities in the hospital ceased as her scream bounced off the walls.

The doctor gently pried her hands away from his shirt, and led her to a chair. She collapsed on it sobbing profusely.

Everyone stood still, confused and helpless as they listen to her agonized cry.

Sister, welcome to widowhood.