Metamorphosing
My childhood was insipid, lanky girl with a round face and oblong head. Long, Tiny, not-exactly-straight legs. My clavicles were so hollow, people often wondered if mother fed me. On the contrary, I was nourished well and could pass for a glutton.
Growing up was monotonous; the exhausting yet vital routine of doing multiple school works, reading to pass exams and taking summer classes over the long holidays, was mundane. It was a time where acquiring skills were frowned at, suggestions about learning sewing was laughable; well, say for fixing a thread in a needle. Music classes were for the choristers and dance practice was for calisthenics presentation during a valedictory ceremony.
Skipping was a lot of fun; kids bonded over skipping and playing hide and seek. Those were the things that brought us together, except I wasn’t found worthy of belonging. I did not have friends, except at school; the ones who copied my work during exams.
Another dark girl in a dark continent, slightly darker than most of my peers, my eyes shone in the dark and I had full brows that reached out for each other; I was so embarrassed about them that when I was 12, I shaved everything off with a razor, people would love me now, I had thought. I looked like a monk; the feedback I got from that act sent my self-esteem to the Siberian River. My hair tangled where it shouldn’t and refused to hold curls where it should, my nanny would rather tie it up with threads than let me wear a bun. I was unusually calm, because everyone thought it nice to listen to my silence; I was doing the world a favour keeping quiet, I was undeserving of holding an opinion.
Before I turned 17, I started putting on weight, the extra skin fast rolled over my clavicles, and they sank in. My hips shot out and my arms were mature enough to turn party jollof. One would think it was time to pick the remnants of my esteem, but on the contrary; Thin was the new cool and I stopped being thin. Being thin wasn’t cool when I was thin. Apparently, it didn’t matter what body size I fit in; I was not a cool person. My clothes stopped fitting, Mom thought that to be so because I was a glutton; not in that sense, but I would rather eat, than not. Being a career woman, there was little she could do, portion my foods on the weekends she had the time.
Today, I stand by the mirror looking at my rolls, a ladder of back fat climbing towards ‘’attractiveness” and my far-from-flat stomach; flat when I lay down. I am size 14 and very much cool. I am yet to figure out how to being cool is about your appearance. It doesn’t matter if you have a receding hairline or you’re bald, it doesn’t count if you have Sophie Turner’s height or Serena Williams’ body. It is paramount that whatever body structure you fit in, you recognize the coolness in your uniqueness.
I admire the woman across staring at me dead in the eye, imitating my every move; she’s a reflection of me, she appeals to my eyes and she’s confident about who she is. She has been in a quagmire more than you can ever think of, yet somehow she feeds off the positives. She’s lost contact with her feminine side and fought hard to regain it, she had shrunk herself to fit in but she failed so she broke out. She shook away the insecurities, tucking bits of them into the trashcan.
When there’s heavy downpour, she argues it’s raining down blessings, when the sun on Guzape hills shines so bright that it pierces the body, she insists it tans her already dark skin and illuminates her world. What wouldn’t I do for this woman?
I can’t say for now, her final destination, but it is imperative that she doesn’t commute inadvertently; she is very intentional about her path, journeying the road less traveled while trying to make the most out of life.
