The lecturer introduces us as the scriptwriters on the project. We, in turn, introduce ourselves one after the other.

“Maria Oluwabukola Oni.” I say when it is my turn. We go back to our seats. The man by my left turns to me and introduces himself. He is a photographer and works in an advertising firm. I tell him I am a writer and hope to be an author someday, get to meet influential women like Chimamanda and Oprah. He looks entertained.

“ I didn’t really catch your name.”

“Maria.”

“No, the other one.”

“Oluwabukola.” He looks doubtful.

“Is that your father’s name?”

“No, Oni.” It is my last name afterall and is where it should be.

“Can I follow you on social media?” I give him only my X handle. I am rarely on Facebook anyway. He browses through my profile and looks up. His eyes twinkle. He surely is entertained.

“Are you a feminist?”

For a moment, my mind goes blank. I can't even remember what feminism stands for. What brought about that question? I never tweet nor engage in feminine matters. I have never even thought about it other than the time I wondered why such a great cause should be given that possessive name. Though, I certainly want the world to be fair to women - I am a woman.

It must be my profile:

Creative writer. Strongly in awe of world class African women. 

“Yes and no.” I expect him to probe further. I would simply tell him I don’t understand the overwhelming aggressiveness that always is the forerunner of whatever issue that asks for equality. He thankfully doesn’t.

Years later, I'll rudely be made aware that women, irrespective of their upbringing, status, achievements or nationality, are never listened to. Not even in their supposed comfort zones- the house, church or workplace. Talks and requests for gender equality should never be pleaded for if quick change is needed. Aggression is a necessary ingredient.

But I didn't know this yet.

Weekend news usually has the highlights of the week. I pay extra attention. Lawmakers are in a meeting. A video clip of some young men holding down a female whose face is blurry is playing on the light board. They poke her vagina with sticks, bottles and whatever is nearby, including a phone. Her pleas for mercy is unheeded. They make comments of her certainly being repentant and lily-livered to steal a phone again in her life. They smear ground pepper in too, different fingers doing the job, not minding that someone is recording. She screams and flails.

The video is paused. Some women are crying. A particular woman is thrashing and wailing uncontrollably like the girl is her daughter. She hits her hands on her thighs, then lays her head on her seat’s backrest, arms stretched out, her loosened head gear in one hand. I expect her to fall on the thick carpeted floor and roll. Of course, she doesn’t. She definitely doesn’t want to rub her expensive Ghana fabric-sewn Owanbe attire on the floor, as it isn’t her daughter.

There is female restlessness in the large room. The woman groans loudly. Someone please tell her to quit the pretence and shut up. I am worried that the men would get irritated and shout her down or hurriedly close the debate without deliberating on the issue. I am supposed to be angry with the young men for being lawless and wicked to a fellow woman and the other men for watching the video without evident emotion or outbursts. Instead, I am angry with the screaming woman. She would probably go home with her escorts, take Panadol, watch Telemundo, admire her daughters and praise herself for working hard to get to this level where they could go anywhere and do whatever they wanted under maximum protection by bodyguards. Case closed.

I switch on my laptop and click on the Bollywood movie I recently got from Sima. Forty minutes later, a nose-sung tune heralds the beginning of a dance. I immediately begin skipping. Don't get me wrong. I like the energetic hip moves, twinkling jewelleries and happy smiles. But, the dances are always too long and the beautiful tunes have unbelievable meanings or maybe it is the bad transliteration in the name of subtitling.

I open my window and see your sun smile on the moon, I fly away

There’s nothing you cannot do if you try hard enough

The lion is the king of the jungle

And you are my sweet bottle.

God abeg with an eye roll emoji. I wonder if Rema ever lived in India. During his debut years, his songs had the same nose-sung tune. I immediately liked Chetan Bhagat when the abstract on 'One Indian Girl' said he is also the author of 'Half Girlfriend'. I have seen the movie adaptation of the book. I’m sleepy. I drift off. I open Facebook after a long absence and see a post on my page supposedly by me about fifty-two minutes ago.

LIFE IS A BITCH!

WOMEN EAT WOMEN.

I definitely didn’t post this. I don’t even type in all capitals and I always log out before I leave the app. Did someone hack my account? I delete the post. I go on Amazon. I want to buy anything. After browsing home appliances, phones and books. Everything. I want to buy a movie subtitle to download the movie later. After filling in my card details, it declines my card. Why would that be? I open Gmail. I have to send my bank a message. I type in my email address and password. They do not match. I erase and type again. Incorrect password. I click on ‘forgot password’ and type in my email address. This address does not exist.

A siren goes off in my head. The email address linked to my bank accounts, social media accounts, subscriptions and everything in my life does not exist. I must be in a dream. I check the time. Banks close in an hour. I have to visit the customer care. Now. There are two long queues. I stand at the shorter one. By the time it gets to my turn, I am a stone. My limbs are cold stiff and my hands are icy from the AC blast. I state my complaint to the man behind the desk who listens and questions me without looking up from the monitor’s screen. He finally looks up.

“Well, madam. Your account is frozen.” He says as if it is the resultant effect of the everyday full blast air conditioning in the hall and not a human who did it.

“How come?”

“There’s a mix-up in your name. Your name is Maria Oluwabukola Oni but there is a hand-filled form here that mentions Oni Oluwabukola Maria as your name.

“What does that mean? Either way, they compile to make my name. So?”

“So, you can’t access the account except you get an affidavit from a court stating you are one and the same person.”

“Affidavit? Same person?” I ask incredulously, “But I am the one on the passport photograph on that account. Why can’t you just rectify it?”

“I’m sorry. It’s the bank’s protocol. Next please.”

I stand on wooden legs and walk slowly out. I am confused. Recent similar incidents flash across my mind. Am I nuts? Or, is there actually someone out there impersonating me? My phone is the only thing that hasn’t been tampered with. I have my bank verification number and credit cards pin codes saved on my phone’s contact. What if my phone is bugged? My fingers move quickly but they hover on delete. No, I can’t be afraid to keep personal information on my phone. I must find this wicked person.

There’s a billboard outside my estate’s events hall announcing a Young Writers Conference two days from now with practical classes on expanding a plot, and how to submit a manuscript that attracts literary agents and publishers and the likes. I snap the details and sign up immediately. I deliberately wait till the conference is well underway before arriving. I glance through the names on the attendance sheet as I sign in.

5. Oni Oluwabukola Maria.

Great! My other half is here. I find a seat close to the washrooms. My doppelhanger is sure to visit the ladies’ before the six-hour conference ends. Just as the first break is announced, I see her walk briskly to the restroom. I follow quickly and wait till she’s in the corridor before calling her. She turns and moves backwards when she sees me and tries to run into a toilet. I stop her with a hand. She pushes it away. I yank her hair and her wig comes off.

She has an afro haircut with the same orange tint as mine. So, this is the copycat trying to ruin my life! I am filled with self-loath. I go for her throat and squeeze hard. She makes no sound. No fight. Her eyes only grow bigger and bigger until they suffocate me. I remove my hands. I feel hot all over. I fall and bang my head somewhere, everywhere. I don’t know.