The Nigerian Myth of Male Supremacy
At the core of Nigeria’s myriad problems is a pervasive ideology of male supremacy.
I recently got into a heated debate about gender equality with a middle-aged Nigerian woman. The conversation began as a gentle exchange about cooking. As with many Nigerian conversations, it quickly devolved into a passionate debate about whether a woman is (or should be) considered equal to a man.
This woman believed in gender equality, but she also held dearly the belief that women must be subservient to men. I pointed out contradictions throughout the conversation: How could the principle of gender equality coexist with a logic of male supremacy? Why a highly-educated Nigerian woman would fervently support male dominance should be a mystery. Sadly, it is not.
In March 2016, a Gender Equity and Equality Bill was presented on the floor of the Nigerian National Assembly. The bill promised to accord women equal rights and opportunities as men in all spheres of life. The provisions within the bill appeared like basic rights (like the right to divorce and the right to inherit property); but they certainly would have changed the playing field for Nigerian women. It was not only vehemently voted down; a male senator proposed that it never be re-presented to the Senate. Had it succeeded, the bill would have reverberated throughout the West African coast. And, this is no exaggeration.
The bill failed woefully. What troubled me is not that the bill failed, but that it failed without spectacle. That the bill died without a whimper, without one single raised placard, was both worrisome and telling.
Another thing worried me: that a number of female senators might have opposed the bill. Had every single female senator thrown her weight behind the bill, sensitizing Nigerians on its necessity, demystifying its tenuous links to Western feminism; perhaps it would have stood a fighting chance. But, no! The bill died easily and unceremoniously, like a stray dog run over by a drunk driver. Not even a whimper.
A number of Nigerian women openly opposed the bill. A certain Mrs. Nkechi Asogwa called upon Nigerian women to “rise up and ensure that Bill is not passed” because it would somehow turn women into prostitutes and lesbians. Also, at a women’s forum, the Wife to the Ooni of Ife, Queen Wuraola Ogunwusi, gave weight to the anti-equality movement: “We can’t be equal.”
Nigerian patriarchy runs deep.
Nigeria’s investment in male superiority is evident in electoral politics, in the hierarchy of dominant religions, in the leadership of education and the economy, in indigenous social and political systems. While the social malaise that has plagued Nigeria has been attributed to perennial corruption, the lack of a coherent development agenda, nepotism, etc.; what has been less talked about is that men brought the nation to its knees. A pervasive ideology of male dominance have bequeathed men with absolute monopoly over misrule. The most egregious cases of national fraud have been masterminded by old gentlemen. In fact, one could reasonably argue that Nigerians have evolved a concept of masculinity around the capacity to plunder. The equation for this concept of masculinity would look something like: the greater the theft of public funds, the higher the masculine coefficient.
We can extend Nigeria’s practice of male dominance to the production of violence. Men continue to enjoy almost absolute monopoly of violence, of which women, children and other men are victims. Should we speak of the spate of domestic violence at homes or sexual violence in universities? Or, of Boko Haram, MEND, the new Niger Delta Avengers, and the OPC? It is increasingly difficult to find scenarios in which we can reasonably divorce violence from masculinity.
If male supremacy has woefully failed and continued to fail Nigeria, why do we adhere to it? The power of male supremacy, like many oppressive ideologies, lies in its ability to create the illusion of inevitability. It convinces us there alternatives do not exist; that men always ruled the world and that we should be beholden to this belief. The imam, the professor, the pastor, the policeman, the bartender, the senator, the president, the poor, men, women, operate on the logic that male supremacy is divine.
During my argument with the said woman, I posed the question, “What makes a man inherently better than a woman?” She responded, “Women have a greater tendency for excess!” (A Yoruba speaker knows that “excess” is a modest translation for “àsejù.”) In frustration, I confessed to her that I have a son and a daughter. I showed her a photograph of the two kids smiling. I asked what, to her, qualified my son as better than his sister.
What conditions mold women into defenders of patriarchy? I offer three loosely related, but very Nigerian, explanations. Part of the answer is: women defend patriarchy not simply because they are products of this system, but also because they are key actors within this system. In hopes of “success” within patriarchy, women spend entire lives mastering its ropes, its reward system, its possibilities and, above all, their limits within it. However oppressive, therefore, they would rather support a system they have mastered.
Second, Nigerian women have made substantial investments in patriarchy for which they anticipate returns. (Think about how a mother might raise a “strong” son to tower over her future daughter-in-law.)
Third, women are not created equal. Women’s performances within patriarchy derive from different material realities and carry varying symbolic weight. For this reason, we cannot take at face value Folorunsho Alakija, net worth $1.79 billion, when she claims to wash her husband’s underwear. Her net worth is not tied to her underwear-washing abilities; it is tied to her success as an oil magnate. Mrs. Alakija can choose to publicly perform her loyalty to patriarchy. But, it would be our failure, not hers, if we took it at face value. (Close your eyes. Imagine for a moment the army of domestic servants waiting to be summoned by Mrs. Alakija at this moment. Open your eyes.)
Read more: https://www.naij.com/777448-still-wash-husbands-underwears-nigerias-richest-woman-folorunsho-alakija.html
What does male supremacy look like? On the Nigerian social media space, you are twenty times more likely to encounter an essay offering advice about how to be the “perfect wife” than the other way round. Male supremacy is the silence we managed to carve around the Ese Walter story with Pastor Biodun Fatoyinbo. Male Supremacy is the assumption that men possess divine authority despite showing a greater propensity for social vice. It is when society grants a husband automatic leadership over the household even if he is a moron, or far less talented than his partner. It is when we sympathize with a family for “accumulating” daughters. Or, when we commiserate with unmarried thirty-something year-old women.
Male supremacy is the rise in femicide, Nigerian men killing their wives in Nigeria and in the United States. Male supremacy is our perennial obsession with Nollywood movies about violent husbands and perpetually forgiving wives. Male Supremacy is the story of how the Boko Haram security funds were shared among Nigerian public officials. It is the comments section of Bella Naija and Sahara Reporters.
Male supremacy is men and women giving men the benefit of the doubt.
This is not a call for a greater representation of women in politics or in anything. No! We have had women as ministers, politicians and senators who shame their male counterparts in misconduct and public stealing. This is not even a call for fairness. Fairness is too dubious a concept.
I advocate we aggressively pursue a principle of gender equality. At church. In politics. At home. In buses. At mosques. In gossips. In sex. In films. In school. In public policy. And, certainly, in the Nigerian Senate where Dino Melaye, who threatened to rape a female senator on national TV, has become the arbitrator on women’s issues. It would be cowardly and irresponsible for us to say, like Nigerian senators, “My faith or culture forbids gender equality.”
We can do better with women’s rights. And, we don’t even have to call what we do feminism.