A day in the life of a stay-at-home daughter.
Dear safe space,
Before I delve into my long-winded rant today, I’d like you to note a few things. First of all ehn — let’s be honest with each other, at some point in our lives, we’ve been victims of circumstances beyond our control. We’ve been subject to terms and conditions even though we didn’t click the “agree” button. Secondly, there are probably a couple things that I could do better, organize properly, and there are definitely better choices I could make. I’m very much aware of these things, thank you very much. Don’t judge me, and I won’t judge you.
Siri, play me “Don’t judge me” by Rihanna’s ex-boyfriend. Buy me Chivita on your way here too.
Now back to the subject of my letter today, my goal here is to take you on a tour and show you what my 9–5 looks like (dear editor, kindly replace that with 9–9).
Let’s start with a definition: “Who is a stay at home daughter?” (SAHD)
According to Oshodi Advanced Learner’s Dictionary, she’s most often the first daughter or the last child born into a family, who happens to be female. She is maybe a student or a recent graduate and because of the turmoil going on in Olusegun Obasanjo’s country, she’s at home with her parents and maybe siblings (must include a brother). Her parents are lower middle-class Nigerians (civil servants or they run a business) and therefore can’t afford paid help. Or maybe they can afford paid help but have refused to. After all, they have a daughter who is undergoing free training for her husband’s house whilst under their roof.
An SAHD doesn’t go out in the morning to school or work and therefore her parents are entitled to her time. I mean, what else could she be doing in her father’s house asides utilising her inbred female qualities?
Good definition, yeah? Clap for me.
Right about now, let us assume she’s a morning person — you know, her energy levels are up when she wakes up. Her mental focus beats that of Professor Money Heist and she’s on a productivity high when dawn breaks. It only makes sense that she makes the most of those hours. But well, there’s a higher calling that awaits her. After all, there are hungry mouths waiting to be fed. She gets up, maybe says a word of prayer and changes into her official uniform for the day. The uniform used to be red but since it’s been overused, it presently looks the colour of Donald J. Trump’s face anytime he spots an election result. Like a hotel waitress, she goes ahead to take the orders for the breaking of the fast.
As the holy book of Patriarchy dictates, the idol we all bow and kneel to goes first. His sacrifice is a constant three-course meal and of course, it has to all be made fresh from scratch. The idols do not tolerate refrigerated meals. Then, she goes ahead to take orders from the rest of the house. This is basically chicken republic where customers don’t pay a dime. At the expense of who? The female child; her conveniences, schedules and dreams.
The backaches, the cuts and the burns. The hours spent pouring herself into something she completely loathes and despises. Uncle Segun may decide not to work today but our stay at home daughter isn’t excused from work. Even if Uncle Segun and Daddy Junior do not work today — they have to eat all day, so our SAHD must work all day.
It’s 12pm and she’s finally having her own food. Every order has been filled, her workspace has been cleaned and our faithful non-paying customers are rubbing their bellies in delight. She can finally take a breather, get back to her to-do list for the day and take time to text her friends, catch up on social media gossip and feel like a human being and not a kitchen accessory. She looks up and it’s already 2pm, wahala for whose Twitter timeline dey automatically refresh. She hurriedly powers up her system and tries to get a couple of things done. She tries to send out a few job applications because that’s the only ticket of this SAHD cycle. She writes a few articles or press releases as the badass freelancer that she is — all these must happen before 5pm.
It’s 5pm and offices are closing, employees are returning back home and celebrating the end of a fruitful work day. But not our dear SAHD, because for her, the second phase of her gainful non-paying employment is just kicking off. So, she goes back to her workspace and resumes the backbreaking process of filling out orders for dinner on her feet for the next 2–3 hours.
It’s 8pm and her customers are seated. She’s thinking of the 5 out of 8 items on her to-do list that are left undone. The spirit is very much willing but the body demands otherwise. A couple more hours and a lot of struggle with the keyboard, she finally shuts down both her mind and the computer and hopes that tomorrow will be just a little bit better than today. That her time will belong to her, her future will not be like her present and her little girl will not require permission from the world to be herself.
Please share your experiences and battles on this issue. I’d love to know that I’m not alone. You can also engage safe space’s discussions on twitter and instagram.
