I recently read this short story by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and I feel like sharing.
Enjoy!!

We Should All Be Feminists
Okoloma was one of my greatest childhood friends. He lived on my street and looked
after me like a big brother: If I liked a boy, I would ask Okoloma’s opinion. Okoloma
was funny and intelligent and wore cowboy boots that were pointy at the tips. In
December of 2005, in a plane crash in Southern Nigeria, Okoloma died. It is still hard
for me to put into words how I felt. Okoloma was a person I could argue with, laugh
with, and truly talk to. He was also the first person to call me a feminist.
I was about fourteen. We were in his house, arguing, both of us bristling with half-
baked knowledge from the books we had read. I don’t remember what this particular
argument was about. But I remember that as I argued and argued, Okoloma looked at
me and said, “You know, you’re a feminist.”
It was not a compliment. I could tell from his tone—the same tone with which a
person would say, “You’re a supporter of terrorism.”
I did not know exactly what this word feminist meant. And I did not want Okoloma to
know that I didn’t know. So I brushed it aside and continued to argue. The rst thing I
planned to do when I got home was look up the word in the dictionary.
Now fast-forward to some years later.
In 2003, I wrote a novel called Purple Hibiscus, about a man who, among other things,
beats his wife, and whose story doesn’t end too well. While I was promoting the novel in
Nigeria, a journalist, a nice, well-meaning man, told me he wanted to advise me.
(Nigerians, as you might know, are very quick to give unsolicited advice.)
He told me that people were saying my novel was feminist, and his advice to me—he
was shaking his head sadly as he spoke—was that I should never call myself a feminist
since feminists are women who are unhappy because they cannot find husbands.
So I decided to call myself a Happy Feminist.
Then an academic, a Nigerian woman, told me that feminism was not our culture,
that feminism was un-African, and I was only calling myself a feminist because I had
been inuenced by Western books. (Which amused me, because much of my early
reading was decidedly unfeminist: I must have read every single Mills & Boon romance
published before I was sixteen. And each time I try to read those books called “classic
feminist texts,” I get bored, and I struggle to finish them.)
Anyway, since feminism was un-African, I decided I would now call myself a Happy
African Feminist. Then a dear friend told me that calling myself a feminist meant that I
hated men. So I decided I would now be a Happy African Feminist Who Does Not Hate
Men. At some point I was a Happy African Feminist Who Does Not Hate Men and Who
Likes to Wear Lip Gloss and High Heels for Herself and Not For Men.
Of course much of this was tongue-in-cheek, but what it shows is how that word
feminist is so heavy with baggage, negative baggage:

You hate men, you hate bras, you hate African culture, you think women should
always be in charge, you don’t wear makeup, you don’t shave, you’re always angry, you
don’t have a sense of humor, you don’t use deodorant.
Now here’s a story from my childhood:
When I was in primary school in Nsukka, a university town in southeastern Nigeria,
my teacher said at the beginning of term that she would give the class a test and
whoever got the highest score would be the class monitor. Class monitor was a big deal.
If you were class monitor, you would write down the names of noisemakers each day,
which was heady enough power on its own, but my teacher would also give you a cane
to hold in your hand while you walked around and patrolled the class for noisemakers.
Of course you were not allowed to actually use the cane. But it was an exciting prospect
for the nine-year-old me. I very much wanted to be class monitor. And I got the highest
score on the test.
Then, to my surprise, my teacher said the monitor had to be a boy. She had forgotten
to make that clear earlier; she assumed it was obvious. A boy had the second-highest
score on the test. And he would be monitor.
What was even more interesting is that this boy was a sweet, gentle soul who had no
interest in patrolling the class with a stick. While I was full of ambition to do so.
But I was female and he was male and he became class monitor.
I have never forgotten that incident.
If we do something over and over, it becomes normal. If we see the same thing over
and over, it becomes normal. If only boys are made class monitor, then at some point
we will all think, even if unconsciously, that the class monitor has to be a boy. If we
keep seeing only men as heads of corporations, it starts to seem “natural” that only men
should be heads of corporations.
I often make the mistake of thinking that something that is obvious to me is just as
obvious to everyone else. Take my dear friend Louis, who is a brilliant, progressive
man. We would have conversations and he would tell me: “I don’t see what you mean
by things being dierent and harder for women. Maybe it was so in the past but not
now. Everything is ne now for women.” I didn’t understand how Louis could not see
what seemed so evident.

I love being back home in Nigeria, and spend much of my time there in Lagos, the
largest city and commercial hub of the country. Sometimes, in the evenings when the
heat goes down and the city has a slower pace, I go out with friends and family to
restaurants or cafés. On one of those evenings, Louis and I were out with friends.
There is a wonderful xture in Lagos: a sprinkling of energetic young men who hang
around outside certain establishments and very dramatically “help” you park your car.
Lagos is a metropolis of almost twenty million people, with more energy than London,
more entrepreneurial spirit than New York, and so people come up with all sorts of ways to make a living. As in most big cities, nding parking in the evenings can be
di cult, so these young men make a business out of nding spots, and—even when
there are spots available—of guiding you into yours with much gesticulating, and
promising to “look after” your car until you get back. I was impressed with the particular theatrics of the man who found us a parking spot that evening. And so as we
were leaving, I decided to give him a tip. I opened my bag, put my hand inside my bag
to get my money, and I gave it to the man. And he, this man who was happy and
grateful, took the money from me, and then looked across at Louis and said, “Thank
you, sah!”
Louis looked at me, surprised and asked: “Why is he thanking me? I didn’t give him
the money.” Then I saw realization dawn on Louis’s face. The man believed that
whatever money I had ultimately came from Louis. Because Louis is a man.
Men and women are dierent. We have dierent hormones and dierent sexual organs
and dierent biological abilities—women can have babies, men cannot. Men have more
testosterone and are, in general, physically stronger than women. There are slightly
more women than men in the world—52 percent of the world’s population is female—
but most of the positions of power and prestige are occupied by men. The late Kenyan
Nobel peace laureate Wangari Maathai put it simply and well when she said, the higher
you go, the fewer women there are.
In the recent US elections, we kept hearing of the Lilly Ledbetter law, and if we go
beyond that nicely alliterative name, it was really about this: in the US, a man and a
woman are doing the same job, with the same qualications, and the man is paid more
because he is a man.
So in a literal way, men rule the world. This made sense—a thousand years ago.
Because human beings lived then in a world in which physical strength was the most
important attribute for survival; the physically stronger person was more likely to lead.
And men in general are physically stronger. (There are of course many exceptions.)
Today, we live in a vastly dierent world. The person more qualied to lead is not the
physically stronger person. It is the more intelligent, the more knowledgeable, the more
creative, more innovative. And there are no hormones for those attributes. A man is as
likely as a woman to be intelligent, innovative, creative. We have evolved. But our
ideas of gender have not evolved very much.
Not long ago, I walked into the lobby of one of the best Nigerian hotels, and a guard at
the entrance stopped me and asked me annoying questions—What was the name and
room number of the person I was visiting? Did I know this person? Could I prove that I
was a hotel guest by showing him my key card?—because the automatic assumption is
that a Nigerian female walking into a hotel alone is a sex worker. Because a Nigerian
female alone cannot possibly be a guest paying for her own room. A man who walks
into the same hotel is not harassed. The assumption is that he is there for something legitimate. (Why, by the way, do those hotels not focus on the demand for sex workers instead of on the ostensible supply?)





This is just an excerpt..
It's just a twenty pages book.

...

IamLEGEND1:
Just look all the loudmouthed feminists wella,you go see say most of them rich and probably married.
You wey still dey task your papa(+ boyfriend) for house go follow open mouth dey yarn trash.

You will die bitter and alone in some mud house in bayelsa.
Feminism my big,black,hairy balls.

Good. Your opinion, though.

By the time hunger teach you lesson finish, you omendula oblongata go reset.

firstking01:
By the time hunger teach you lesson finish, you omendula oblongata go reset.

says you. but not every lady needs a man to survive financially.