WHY DO IGBO MEN LIKE MONEY?
Today I was asked “Why do Igbo Men like money?” The asker was none other than a Yoruba friend, as smart as she is beautiful. The tone of the question was lighthearted and between the both of us, we could have ignored it with one of the recycled quips and laughed. However, Wunmi is a lady of grace and gravity. The question can no longer be papered over by asking ‘Who no like money?”
There is a need for this to be addressed but only as far as I understand it. I am an Igbo man myself but hugely cosmopolitan having been born in the South-West, I grew up in the South-East, Schooled in the North-Central, and currently living in the South-South while completing another degree. Wunmi believes that I am the best placed to confront the realities of this cliché. Is there truth in it? What is in the blood of an Igbo man that makes him take his personal success rather too seriously? Is there something in the air that kisses the east of the Niger?
I knew I wanted to answer this time. Even if it was only for Wunmi who is a consummate professional that believes in hard work.
Find my answers below.
An average Igbo Man grows up under the shadow of his father. Gigantic. Deep of voice. An enigma to even his kids. An Igbo father is a living legend, patrolling his obi, wielding powers bestowed upon him by his wife. He allows the wife to enjoy all the love of his children while he absorbs all their anger. The Igbo father is the one that thunders when a son errs. While the mother pleads for mercy, he threatens to let all hell loose upon the household. However, when the rage passes, he allows the mother, his wife to pick up the pieces with soothing words that endears the son further to her while alienating the father.
“Your father is hot-tempered, Nwa m. He will not kill you for me.”
Yet most Igbo men grew up admiring the man because of the authority he exerts. They do not love him more than the mother, they would scamper sometimes at the sound of his voice or the revving of his car engine at the gate of the compound. They admire his courage. The bravery. The fearlessness that protects them and their mother. The resourcefulness that provides the meals and pays the bills. Some mothers would even spend time regaling their sons about how handsome, strong, hardworking her husband, their father used to be.
“He paid my bride price when he was about your age.” Some mothers would claim.
Most of us grew up holding our father’s compliments at a premium. Our mothers are used to understanding our imperfections and would excuse it before it happens but when you take first position in the class, it was our fathers’ smile we waited to see.
My Father would ask me to eat with him those nights, I would eat from his tray. I would drink a bottle of Fanta and a photocopy of my result would follow him to work. He would leave it lying carelessly on the desk while encouraging friends to ask him what the paper means.
When we erred “I will talk to your father” was enough to send shivers down our spines. He was the one who could do no wrong. The magician who would bring home dinner irrespective of the difficulty. He is the one who gets the bills and fees somehow. We do not understand our mother’s contribution because the money always left from my father’s pockets.
“I bought my first car at 24. It was a Peugeot Truck 406. I bought another one a year later. It was a 504. I married your mother at 26 and started building that house in the village at 27.” A father would say.
“They know me all over the village. I was the champion wrestler. The Cat. No one could throw me.” Another would say.
“When I was in school, I only took first position.” Another would say. The legend would be built, one story after another.
Therefore, when you asked an Igbo boy who he would like to be when he grows up as it was wont in comprehensions, a greater percentage (who grew up with a father) would tell you that they would like to be their father. For ill or for good. Yet when you ask who they loved more, it would be the mother.
The characteristics of fatherhood in Igbo culture or tradition then was steeped in legends. The father is the one who provides. It is that fact that earns him the respect of his wife and children. It was his house that roofed us. His strength was what we admired. The sacrifice of paying for fancy clothes for an August meeting he would not attend.
So Igbo boys would leave home early, hoping to come back to make his father proud but buy every good thing for the mother.
When you return or as he ages, He would be the one to call your mother or your sisters in a solemn ceremony.
“Mama Uchenna…Please give Uchenna his food.”
Soon you will have your own plate and get served with more than one meat. You would earn the right to share a drink, hot drink usually, with your father who would start initiating you fast and hard into the thankless task of being an Igbo father, of continuing his legacy. You start to look at his unfinished businesses, his unfinished houses.
No Igbo son wants to fail his father. Living or Dead. For those who were privileged to have them.
Those who had terrible ones are doubly motivated. They want to prove them wrong.
And for people like us who lost theirs early in life, the urge to make can only be imagined!
Truth is, no characteristics should be generalized to a particular group of people or even tribalised.
'And just like every other country, i said to Wunmi in conclusion, we are all one Nigeria irrespective of tribe or ascribed quality'.
Ps: This is an opinion and does not exert any ethnic superiority.