Let’s talk about sex baby, let’s talk about you and me. Let’s talk about all the good things and the bad things that may be, let’s talk about sex.
There is something “sinful” about sex, I’ll be one of the first to admit it but usually, it depends on who you are, where you are sitting and how highly placed in the society you are.
Sex in the city is a beautiful thing. Nobody raises an eyebrow over the participants in the sex game and whatever the outcome of their dilly-dallying beneath the sheets, however in flagrante delicto it may be, we are ever ready to kow-tow and “ranka dede” and wish them many more years ahead in the rolling around in the hay sport.
In these days of Fashola induced global warming, we might even offer to gather round and fan them while they are at it.
Sex in the slums however, is a cause for condemnation, insults and maybe even a random epidemic or two.
Case 1: A Nigerian big man, he who waxed a new album from ancient Yoruba folklore while still a bonafide legislooter, begins to procreate children with reckless abandon, even outside his matrimonial home. We know and we can see, but we turn a blind eye. No comments whatsoever but to rush to be noticed amongst those hailing his shooting skills every time an egg is laid.
Weh done sa!
What a sharp shooter.
The pikin resemble you o, you don play madam one zero.
Until the “madam who is not”, perhaps takes to social media IF she experiences abandonment and starts wailing, and then we would suddenly remember where we discarded our cloaks of sanctimonious self-righteousness.
“Prostitute, you were trying to trap him with the baby but unfortunately you failed. Why are you now wailing? Were we there when he was doing you and it was sweeting you? Abeg free us o, you have brought disgrace upon yourself now, single mother.”
And in that instance, the sex which we are hailing someone for having and producing results within stipulated time becomes a stigma for his partner in the same game.
Sex is sinful, but it all depends on what side of the fence you are sitting.
Case 2: Baba Maroof your gateman.
My gateman. Your driver. Your cleaner. Our gardener.
Baba Maroof just manages to earn minimum wage and by the time he returns home and distributes it among the many open mouths waiting to be sorted out as part of his responsibilities, he hardly had enough for a decent shot of kai kai.
Wetin man go do na?
So when Mama Maroof adjusts her position on the bed, Baba Maroof flings one arm casually around her. She snuggles in a little and he hooks a leg over her and they quietly begin to have furtive sex, while their children peep out from under their blankets at their parents going at it like rabbits.
When you are dirt poor, everything counts as entertainment and you take it when you can get it.
Of course, that is until nine months later, when the house rat (the patron saint of breeding ghetto dwellers) deposits a lively bundle at the doorsteps of Baba and Mama Maroof. One more mouth to feed, not that that is too much of a bother.
They will use the presence of the little one to finagle money out of all their family, friends and anyone who has ever had a second’s acquaintance with them, then as soon as the child is old enough to be weaned off the breast, it can join its siblings in foraging for food wherever they might find it.
But you and I, self-appointed judge and jury over the poor, would rave and rant at them.
Don’t come and disturb me for money o.
Why have children you cannot take care of?
Ah. Poor people should not be having sex na!”
Hands up, if you have never harboured such thoughts towards one of the “lowest of the low” at the news that they had managed to swell their ranks by one. Proof that they had had sex, IN SPITE of their wretched existence.
But do you also know that sex can kill?
“God” can send sex down as an “epidemic” otherwise known as meningitis, to strike down the poor who dare to have sex or fornicate in poorly ventilated and crowded rooms.
This “god” though, doesn’t mind when you take money from your people’s purse and use it to build a hotel where people can come and have sex to their heart’s desire. The difference is in the ventilation of the hotel. There is space, usually and under normal circumstances, there are a maximum of two people but conducting and observing the sex act, and the air conditioner blasts cool air to ensure that there is no inconvenience while the ikwokirikwo is going on.
So the god of meningitis usually looks the other way when the state big man uses his people’s money to build a hotel, while berating same people for having sex in their own homes and assuring them the state’s inability to preempt and manage an annual epidemic to which the region is predisposed, is the fault of those who enjoy too much sex.
No please, do no ask if the children who died from meningitis were also fornicating, the god of fornication is a very jealous god. Once it moves into a community, it must chop before it goes, even if that means looking into a child’s future and seeing a propensity to fornicate, or punishing the child for the sins of their great great great grandparents.
You know the god that helps us judge the big men and their sexual escapades?
The god of cardiac arrest.
When the god of meningitis vacates a well-ventilated hotel room, the god of cardiac arrests comes in with its small kitchen stool and occupies a vantage position. And like its nickname “he that takes a man’s life on the day it is sweetest to him”, it always strikes at the right moment.