This Easter break offered more than just rest—it opened a door to reflection, to curiosity, and to conversations that danced between the profound and the peculiar. The season was soaked in the warmth of reunion, the buzz of weddings, the quiet of introspection, and, most notably, the ripple effect of posts circulating across WhatsApp and social media—posts that stirred the mind, raised eyebrows, and sparked debate over everything from marriage to mystery.
One such post that caught my attention was attributed—perhaps falsely, perhaps not—to the ever-outspoken activist, Aisha Yesufu. It read:
“Marriage is not for every woman. If you are too big to respect a man, leave marriage alone. If you still believe in gender equality, please stay single. If you are not submissive, kindly stay away from marriage. In marriage, a man and woman will never be the same even if the woman has more money.”
Whether she truly authored those words or not is unclear. What is clear, however, is the troubling undertone of the message. It appears to equate gender equality with rebellion and views submission as the sacred currency of a woman’s worth in marriage. While the call for order and respect in relationships is not inherently flawed, reducing a woman’s role to blind submission under the guise of “headship” is both intellectually lazy and culturally dangerous.
Yes, many religious and cultural traditions uphold the notion of the man as the “head” of the family. But this headship, when properly understood, is not an invitation to tyranny—it is a call to leadership, to responsibility, to sacrificial love. Think of it as a political appointment: a president, a governor, a CEO. The one at the helm is bound not just by authority, but by empathy, duty, and accountability. Leadership is never about domination; it’s about coordination, inspiration, and delegation. It is not about silencing voices, but amplifying them in harmony.
When “headship” is mistaken for superiority, society drifts toward patriarchy disguised as tradition. And in doing so, we excuse emotional neglect, domestic abuse, and systemic oppression—wrapped tightly in the ribbon of “for better or for worse.” A man, like any executive, operates under a constitution—defined rules, boundaries, and responsibilities. The idea that a man is “unequal” to a woman or that her submission is non-negotiable, regardless of abuse or toxicity, is not only unjust—it is fatal. It has cost lives. It has led to suicides, homicides, and the slow death of countless women’s dreams.
Gender equality, as championed by global institutions, does not demand sameness—it demands fairness. The United Nations defines it as equal rights and opportunities across the board—economic, political, social—regardless of gender. UN Women echoes this, emphasizing the importance of dismantling systemic barriers that prevent any gender from thriving. The European Institute for Gender Equality pushes further: equality means one’s birth sex should not define one’s destiny. In short, equality is not an attack on culture—it is a bridge between tradition and justice.
Equally troubling was the suggestion in that same post that marriage is not for women who insist on gender equality—as though submission is the only proof of love. This thinking is not only reductive, it’s dangerous. Leadership in marriage is not about who earns more or who speaks louder. It is about mutual growth. A true head of a family does not command respect; he earns it. He leads with vision, patience, and emotional intelligence. Submission, when weaponized, becomes servitude. And when a woman is told that “total submission” is her only virtue, she is also told to endure abuse without protest.
The result? A generation of women conditioned to stay in toxic homes, to suffer in silence, and to call it virtue. Marriage, they are told, must be endured, never escaped. Even religion, while frowning upon divorce, does not glorify suffering. A home should be a sanctuary, not a silent warzone.
Then, in a completely different corner of my Easter reflections, I stumbled upon another widely circulated message. This time, it was a “public warning” about a mysterious perfume—supposedly used to drug and rob unsuspecting victims in public spaces. The post read like a script from a Nollywood thriller: a woman faints in a cinema bathroom after sniffing perfume from a stranger. Another woman, warned in advance, narrowly escapes a similar fate at a mall parking lot. The caution? Don’t sniff any perfume from strangers. It might be “AXTER”—a drug that renders you unconscious.
As dramatic as this may sound, such tales thrive across African spaces. They tap into a cultural vein pulsing with superstition, urban myths, and conspiracies. If a woman lives happily with her husband, she’s suspected of using “juju.” If a man is wealthy, people whisper “blood money.” If a pastor is too clean, he’s fake. If he’s ragged, eccentric, or limping, he’s a true prophet. We mythologize everything we don’t understand, and in doing so, we retreat further from science and reason.
This obsession with the supernatural hasn’t helped us conquer poverty, unemployment, insecurity, or technological backwardness. If blood money worked, would we not have conjured away Boko Haram by now? Would banditry, kidnapping, or economic despair still be thriving? Would we not be exporting medicine, not myth?
Even in ancient times, when our ancestors believed in mystical warriors and rainmakers, it was gunpowder—not spells—that conquered kingdoms. In today’s world, we need technology, not talismans. We need innovation, not incantation. The Guinness World Records is filled with people who perform feats so remarkable they seem magical. But they are real. Gifted. Trained. Disciplined. Not enchanted.
And finally, amidst these musings, there were also conversations of national concern—whispers about upcoming ambassadorial appointments, expectations of the President’s return, delays in forming university governing councils like that of UniAbuja, and political speculations about figures like Atiku and Amaechi plotting new moves. Even Niger State’s local elections were not left out, with intense curiosity surrounding APC’s chosen flagbearers.
Yet, even as politics brewed and social media buzzed, the Easter break remained a beautiful reminder of hope. It brought renewed energy, long-awaited reunions, and the infectious optimism that life—despite its messiness—might surprise us with good news after all.
So, here’s to the drama, the debates, the myths, and the memes. Here’s to the laughter, the lessons, and the lingering scent of something new in the air—just hopefully not from a stranger offering perfume.
Happy Easter, and cheers to the holiday spirit.
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