DEAR CAPITALISM, BUY ME A CAR.

I woke up this morning as un-eager to go to work as always, but with a different kind of un-eagerness. The rain had been falling heavily since 5 a.m., and all I wanted to do was laze around and bed rot all day because that's exactly what that weather demanded. Three months ago, that would've been possible. But I somehow thought it was a brilliant idea to become capitalism's bitch. Hence, my predicament.

I knew getting to work was going to be a hassle, so I ditched the pink sundress I'd picked out the night before and opted for something more weather-appropriate: black. A black polo shirt, jeans, and a face cap, my universal signal that I did not want to speak to anyone or be spoken to. As it turned out, deciding to wear black would later become one of the best decisions I made that day.

By the time I left the house, the rain had already marinated with the earth and turned the roads into a muddy paste—a treacherous tread path Nigerians lovingly call potor potor.

After walking on my toes (without ever taking ballerina classes, btw) in a futile attempt to get to work without a single splash of mud on me for about five minutes, I finally found Musa speeding through the sludge. I should have realized then that he wasn't the ideal ride for me, but I was desperate. My options were simple: get to work on time with a little mud on me, or attempt an accidental split on the road, go home covered in filth, change, and still arrive late.

I took my chances and let Musa take me. Surprisingly, he took it slow as soon as I got on the bike, and ten minutes into the journey, I was still sharp (as always). I refuse to owe that to the fact that he kept trying to engage me in conversation and asked for my number shortly after. I'd rather believe Musa is simply a responsible driver.

I was almost at my stop when we caught up with the trailer in front of us. I don't know if it was the uncomfortable chuckle I gave instead of collecting his phone and punching in my digits when he asked for my number minutes earlier, but Musa suddenly remembered he had something to prove.

He attempted to outrun the trailer. Musa sped.

I clung to the seat.

Whoosh.

(Sorrowful interlude.)

I had my bath again. The saying, "When two elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers," has never felt more relatable. Except in this case, I was the grass.

I got to the bus stop, and Musa stopped at a kiosk to buy a sachet of water to clean the bike. Then he looked at me and muttered, "The water touch you too?."

“No, it didn't. Wearing black with polka mud dots is simply the latest trend, ***hole.” (internal monologue)

Up until I got down from the bike, I refused to look at myself. After all, denial is the first stage of grief. The moment I finally did, I realized maybe I should've just walked. To his credit, he bought the sachet of water I used to perform the public humiliation ritual of rinsing mud off myself in the open. The delightful gentleman even took the towel from me and cleaned the back of my black jeans without me ever having to ask.

How nice!

What a scoreee for Musa!

Skipped the number thingy and went straight to public displays of affection.

I thanked him for the “generosity” after two brushes, yanked my towel and opened substack to vent.

That was when I made the sudden decision to actually get a car someday.

As soon as possible.

I couldn't keep doing this to myself. I was going to use capitalism to buy myself a ride that would help me slave better for capitalism.

Periodt!

I remember feeling this desperate need for a car once before, while I was struggling with my university clearance (I'm still struggling, just from a distance). Back then, the feeling was even stronger.

Today's little mud adventure brought all of it rushing back.

And who is Amarachi 🦄 without oversharing on Substack?

Nothing.

I had just gotten ready to head out for my second meet-up with my talking stage after a long-ass day of waiting for my lecturer, who was apparently playing God with my clearance form and kept me waiting for three whole hours before signing the damn thing. (For my Clearance Chronicles, read: JUST SIGN THE DAMN FORM)

Mama needed her some lovin', and just like any wise young woman in her prime, she got up to get it instead of sleeping in like every normal person would've. It was going to take two bike rides and a cab ride to get to my destination, so y'all already know your girl was determined.

The first bike ride was wonderful. I got to sit with my delusional thoughts while the rider sped through the streets instead of trying to engage me in conversations that would've been blown away by the wind before they ever reached my ears, saving me from having to nod and pretend I knew what he was saying. (I genuinely don't know why bike men don't realize we can't actually hear them... and, respectfully, we don't really care.)

He dropped me off safely at the bus stop and, unfortunately for me, I got a cab to my destination almost immediately.

I was too busy fantasizing about the biceps that were going to embrace me and the eyes that would look at me like I was the most beautiful thing he'd ever stumbled upon to notice that, even after several minutes, I was still the only passenger.

The cab driver, who looked to be in his late fifties, asked in the most beautifully Hausa-accented English if I wanted to take drop (where you're the only passenger and pay for all the seats that would've been occupied). I chuckled and told him I wasn't a nepo baby. (Drop? With fuel prices like these? Nah. That's some nepo baby type shii.)

I doubt he knew what a nepo baby was, but he smiled warmly and said we'd just pick up more passengers along the way, especially at my school gate since I was headed to a student area anyway. The fare was surprisingly reasonable, so I paid, settled in, and enjoyed the Hausa music playing through his stereo.

He then started making conversation.

At first, it was the simple stuff: whether I was a student, what level I was in, what course I studied (I still don't know how that was any of his business), and whether I was based in Abuja.

I answered every question politely in an attempt to be pleasant company. This was exactly why I hated being the only passenger in a cab. The onus of keeping the driver entertained so he could stay focused on the road somehow always fell on me.

That day, he gave me one more reason to hate it.

Then came the uncomfortable questions: my age, my tribe, compliments about my dark skin (if you're in Northern Nigeria, you'll know drivers have a thing for dark-skinned women), and my relationship status. You know, the “usual” conversations you have with a driver in Abuja.

I answered as politely as I could because my life was literally in his hands.

I told him I was 17. I was actually 19 at the time, but I was small enough for it to be a believable lie. I hoped it would discourage any advances. The man looked old enough to be my father, but when has that ever stopped men?

I told him I was Igbo after he made the obligatory joke about my love for money and how my complexion didn't match my tribe. (If I got a dollar every time I'd heard that in the past twenty years, I might actually be able to afford two cars.)

Then came the boyfriend question.

I told him I didn't have one because, God forbid, I start pretending to belong to a man just to make another man respect my "no." God forbid.

He insisted I was lying. (How was the boyfriend part more concerning to him than the fact that I had just told him I was 17?)

He even suggested I was on my way to spend the weekend with my boyfriend. We went back and forth as I kept insisting I genuinely didn't have one. I genuinely didn't. I was going to my cousin's house to see his really, really hot friend. Those are two very different things.

By then, I was already uncomfortable, so I suggested we stop at my school gate to pick up more passengers. I reminded him that I wasn't paying for drop. After a few minutes, a male student approached the car and tried to bargain with the driver. He offered ₦700. The driver insisted on ₦1,000.

The student walked away. The driver chose me instead.

I, who had paid ₦500 from a point that wasn't even trekable from the school gate, knew I was in trouble. My stomach sank. Ritualist? One chance?

It was too late to get down. We'd already resumed the journey at full speed.

I reached for my phone to text my cousin.

Then I felt his hand on my thigh.

Jesusssssssssssssssssssss.

The old slug smiled as I gently moved his hand back to place. He then said I was acting like I wasn't sexually active. I told him I wasn't. (But even if I was, did that give him the right to touch me?)

He reached for my thigh again.

This time, I froze.

He slowly caressed it with one hand while the other remained on the wheel.

For a split second, I considered opening the door and attempting one of Tom Cruise's dramatic rolling escapes from a moving vehicle, but I knew I wasn't nearly athletic enough. So after moving his hand back again, I texted HELP to my cousin with my free hand.

When I said, "Sir, please stop," it was as though I'd asked him to continue.

He smiled and asked if I liked what he was doing.

Uhmm... no.

He smelled like garlic. This is one of those moments I wholeheartedly support the girlies taking their cords outside to cane men. The biceps I'd been fantasizing about touching me were certainly not these ones.

I couldn't act rashly. He could drive me into a bush and rape me. He could rape me and kill me. Or I could hit him, he could lose control of the car, and we'd both die. Either way, I was the one paying the price.

So I let him lift my over-the-knee sundress (God, I love sundresses) and run his hand over my thighs until he found my tights. To this day, I still don't know how he managed to stay focused on the road.

While all this was happening, I kept texting my cousin, updating him on the situation and asking him to wait for me at the junction where I'd be dropped off, just in case anything happened after I got out. I was so focused on texting that I barely noticed when he grabbed my hand and guided it towards him...

I felt a boner.

This was it. Icouldn't take it anymore. He asked me to stroke it then he asked me to lick it as he drove because he liked me and I was "his type."

I pleaded with him. I swore to him that I'd never even seen a dick in my life, talk less of putting where somebody uses to pee in my mouth.

He smiled. I can still remember his face.

I can still remember the way it curved as he realized just how much autonomy he had over me and my life in that moment. I begged until my voice was almost shaking. Eventually, the “kind” sir settled for my bargain: he'd pick me up after, "teach me," and I promised I'd come back. I told him my friend was already waiting for me.

He bought it.

As we approached the junction, I said silent prayers of thanksgiving. He even offered to wait until my "friend" (my cousin) arrived, but I begged him to let me take his number instead. He took mine for "assurance," watched me save his contact as “Adamu Driver”, and finally unlocked the doors.

I still remember how different the air felt when I stepped out. I remember how my hands trembled. I remember convincing myself that I should be grateful because it could have been worse.

I'd always imagined what it would be like to make out in a car. This man read that fantasy all wrong. Before I got the chance to be kissed in a car, I was assaulted in one.

I'm certain that if something had gone south, the rape apologists would've crawled out to ask, "Why was she even going to a man's house in the first place?" or "Na ashawo dey her eye," or "What was she wearing?"

I was going to my cousin's house.

Even if I had been going to a man's house to have sex, does consenting to one man suddenly mean I've consented to every man? Am I supposed to lock myself indoors and have zero orgasms simply because I'm a woman?

Men often don't realize the privilege of moving through the world without constantly calculating the possibility of being harassed, assaulted, or killed by someone stronger than them. They don't know what it's like to text multiple people your location, not just so they know where you are, but so they'll know where to start looking if something goes wrong. They don't know why some of us sing to ourselves while walking down a dark street as our footsteps become faster after 7 p.m.

That day, I was wearing an over-the-knee brown sundress. It showed no cleavage. (Not that I have any to show.) I told him I was 17. None of it mattered. So why am I expected to manage men's bad behaviour with the length of my dress?

A rapist doesn't become a rapist because he saw a woman's thighs. He's already made the decision to violate someone's consent. Even if the only parts of me exposed had been my eyes and my hands, someone determined to assault me wouldn't have needed more skin as permission.

I still feel the weight of that day as I write this.

This is why, for so many women, the first response to truly understanding misogyny and patriarchy is rage. Justified rage. The kind of rage people dismiss as "misandry."

Hatred in any form is ugly, but misogyny is more than individual prejudice; it operates within systems that enable all forms of violence against women. That is why equating misogyny and misandry as though they carry the same social consequences misses an important distinction.

When you think about it, is "misandry" always describing the same kind of power or is it sometimes used to water down conversations about misogyny?

So yup...I'm getting a car.

I'll work my ass off for one, or start a GoFundMe and convince my lovely 2.2k+ subscribers to send me two thousand naira each so we can speed up the process. 😔

All jokes aside, I really, really do need a car because I just can't with these drivers anymore.

With all my love,

Amarachi 🦄