Before you consume this story of mine, hope you've read the the first segment? You may not understand this one if.you haven't.

If you haven't, HERE is the link to PT. 1

I have been to Mountain of Fire Ministries—though not out of my free will—with my mother a few times, mainly for weekday programmes but I never knew that a particular programme would one day be organised on my behalf. As usual, I put on my long black straight-cut gown, a brown Fendi scarf covering my entire head leaving only a visible portion of my face. No earrings, no jewelry at all, just a pale oily visage; sober looks, King James Bible clutched to my left, anointing oil to my right, holy water in my bag… just anything that’ll make me appear as holier-than-thou.

Before the deliverance session, the man of God held a brief sermon in which the only words I heard clearly were: sex, sexual purity, shame, virgin, abstinence, then sex again. A part of me knew the sermon was directed purposely at me because every single time he mentioned those words, his gaze would rest on me as if I brandished a tag on my forehead bearing ‘SEX-RELATED MATTERS & CO.’ And to crown it all, I sat directly in front of the pulpit. Anyway, was I not the reason for the service?

Deliverance started and your beloved Chioma was called out. I was embarrassed to the core. Though the congregation in attendance wasn’t large, the horrible eyes that landed on me made me suffocate for minutes. I felt like the only sinner in the midst of a multitude—like a prodigal daughter who joked with the most important aspect of life and needed redemption for even thinking that far. The pastor poured an anointing oil enough to flood an estate, then he placed his hands on my temple and before I knew it, I was staggering “𝐹𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑛 𝐽𝑒𝑠𝑢𝑠 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒! 𝐴𝑛𝑦 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑦, 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑛𝑜𝑤!…” The pastor went on and on and my deliberate staggering went on and on and on until I staggered myself back home.

Every now and then, my mother comes into the room to look at me like an escaped burnt offering. The other time, I was trying to put on a dress when she came in to perform her usual routine but on this very day, she said something that totally made me laugh: “𝐶ℎ𝑖 𝑚𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑦’𝑚, 𝑑𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑎 𝑉𝐼𝑅𝐺𝐼𝑁 𝑏𝑦 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒? 𝐵𝑦 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑣𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑜𝑟 𝑛𝑜𝑡. 𝐷𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤?”

“𝑌𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑎,” I responded. Just so that peace would reign.

“𝐸ℎ𝑒𝑛! 𝐼’𝑣𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑑𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑒𝑤 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠…” she paused then continued. “𝐶ℎ𝑖 𝑚𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑦, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑡 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑖𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒, 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑢𝑝 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑚𝑒 𝑢𝑝!”

“𝑂ℎ! 𝑆𝑜 𝑀𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑦, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑙𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡? 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑛’𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑑𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑟, 𝑡ụ𝑓𝑖𝑎𝑘𝑤𝑎! 𝐺𝑜𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑏𝑖𝑑!” She lamented while snapping her fingers in disgust.

“𝑀𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑦 𝑜𝑜𝑜𝑜𝑜𝑜𝑜𝑜!

“𝐿𝑜𝑜𝑘, 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑡—𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑠𝑘 𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢? 𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑦 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝐼 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑠ℎ𝑒’𝑠 𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑. 𝐶ℎ𝑖𝑜𝑚𝑎, 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑢𝑝, 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑢𝑝! 𝐼𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑔𝑛𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒’𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑟𝑦, 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑, 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦’𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑙𝑙 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑒𝑡 𝑖𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔… 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡’𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛… 𝐸ℎ𝑒𝑛! 𝑉𝑒𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑠! 𝑌𝑜𝑢’𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑣𝑒𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑠𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑! 𝐷𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑚𝑒?”

“𝑂ℎ 𝐶ℎ𝑖𝑚𝑜𝑜! 𝑀𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑦, 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑛𝑎, 𝑎𝑛𝑢𝑔𝑜’𝑚.”

At this point, I am tired. For crying out loud, I was only testing the mic, but the mic is just serving me lessons in unexpected ways. Within the past few days, I have received lectures that should last for generations. I have prayed. Fasted. Cleansed my mind from evil. My uncle has called, likewise my elder sister. My brother has played his role. My younger sister is presently in my DM. Who told them? I thought it was between my mother and I?

You know what?

If not for the dire need to belong or feel among, I don't think everyone deserves to own an account on certain social media apps. I don't think everyone should occupy certain spaces. In short, I feel like some apps were actually created for a specific group of people, while others existed for less chaotic human beings. You and I know that every single social media app is stereotyped for one thing or another, and I hope you get me when I say "stereotyped”. I remember when 2go was the real deal—no black berry phone that year came without it. If you were a grown-up then and you didn't use the app, ah! I am sure you were under some sort of peer pressure. Even Nokia touch could be used to access the web just for 2go’s sake. I didn't use it, I was too young then but I still recall how that app obsessed and possessed my auntie. She kept 2going until she fell in love with an invisible man who ended up breaking her heart.

Okay, fast-forward to Facebook. I know you have an abandoned Facebook account sitting pretty on your phone and if we check properly, your throwbacks are the main pictures on that account. Please, am I right or right? Nowadays, Facebook is for my father, my mother, my grandmother, and their clique of friends. The funny thing is I still recall when my mother asked me to take down my pictures from Facebook because I was making it easier for evil people to use them for rituals. Now, guess who's posting her pictures on Facebook? Guess who has watched all the reels on that app? Guess who's pressurising me to like her post and leave a comment? A post that always comes with similar captions: “𝖠𝖭𝖸 𝖶𝖤𝖠𝖯𝖮𝖭 𝖥𝖠𝖲𝖧𝖨𝖮𝖭𝖤𝖣 𝖠𝖦𝖠𝖨𝖭𝖲𝖳 𝖬𝖤 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖬𝖸 𝖥𝖠𝖬𝖨𝖫𝖸 𝖬𝖴𝖲𝖳 𝖡𝖤 𝖡𝖱𝖮𝖴𝖦𝖧𝖳 𝖳𝖮 𝖡𝖮𝖮𝖪, 𝖨𝖭 𝖩𝖤𝖲𝖴𝖲 𝖭𝖠𝖬𝖤! 𝖦𝖮𝖮𝖣 𝖬𝖮𝖱𝖭𝖨𝖭𝖦 𝖦𝖴𝖸𝖲! 𝖬𝖤 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖬𝖸 𝖧𝖴𝖬𝖡𝖫𝖤 𝖲𝖤𝖫𝖥 𝖠𝖥𝖳𝖤𝖱 𝖳𝖮𝖣𝖠𝖸'𝖲 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖲. 𝖧𝖠𝖯𝖯𝖸 𝖲𝖴𝖭𝖣𝖠𝖸 𝖦𝖴𝖸𝖲!”

I opened an Instagram account with the archaic mindset I had for Facebook. I didn't know what the app was actually for; I just heard that it only displayed humans with banging abs and asses, standing breasts, and perfectly curved hips—chilling in jacuzzis, sayshaying in bikinis and lingeries, dining in fancy restaurants, posing in one beach in Miami; flying first class to Las Vegas, in Florida, Qatar, Dubai while living the life in Victoria Island. Over time I started languishing in depression and oppression—and honestly, I find oppression too mild to qualify my state of pain.

I still remember my classmates way back in primary and secondary school. I remember how we grew up without discrepancies. I remember us planning our lives together as though we were born hitched to one another. But after so many years of growth and separation, after I lost contact with most of them, after our lives assumed different routes I realised we were never hitched together. Somewhere out of the blue, I came across their Instagram handle and if I wasn't amazed, I was shocked to the bones. How do they have so many breathtaking pictures on Instagram? How is their skin so flawless, like they're direct descendants of Agbani Darego? When did they start living the ideal life? How are they able to fund these exotic lifestyles—with trips to different parts of the country? How are they holding wads of naira notes against their ears in different nightclubs like they have bullion vans at their beck and call? Why are their lives so perfect? So simple like they're not experiencing Nigeria with me? Are these not the same people I knew in nursery school? Were we not all born to average families? Were we not all academically inclined? I have asked these questions over and over again but I can't see to find answers.

Not long ago, with all these rising pressure, I asked my sister to start taking “baddie” shots of me with my Itel P14 just so I could post them on my handle. You really don't want to see the outcome of those horrible-looking pictures.

Maybe my mates are living in the future already while I am here hallowing in the past. Maybe they've figured out their lives while I am still trying to discover myself. Maybe they're thought free while I am here, still thinking of how to juggle medicine with writing. Maybe they are financially buoyant while I am stuck wondering where I can get 1GB for tomorrow. Maybe…just maybe, I am too naive. Right now, I've deleted all my write-ups on Instagram. I mean, who's archaic enough to write long notes on that app anyway? I only visit it when the urge to feel oppressed arises.

Come on, talk to me? What are you girls doing differently? What are you all doing differently?

If there is one thing about growing up, it's that it never gives you a warning sign. It doesn't send a quit notice or offer an exit button so you can choose whether you want it or not. It doesn't give you a handbook or a manual that explicitly explains the changes you'll go through. It doesn't hint at the sheges ahead—it just hits you like a bolt of lightning, and 𝒌𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒐𝒎! Your body changes drastically, growth unravels itself, your brain develops, and suddenly you are at a crossroads, trying to make decisions, trying to live with the consequences of those choices.

You're there on a random day, trying to figure out a life you thought was a bed of hibiscus; you're trying to choose between the black dress and the white dress without Mummy in the background shouting, "𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑢𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑜𝑟 𝑛𝑜𝑡” You're trying to find a source of income; to cater for your needs, to avoid peer pressure while envying the expensive and extravagant lifestyle from a distance. You're still trying to tie a knot—to strike a perfect balance between academics and passion. You're struggling to keep fit, to hit the gyms, to stay healthy, even when half of what you consume are truckloads of hazardous chemicals wrapped in sugar coats. You badly want to THINK BIG and EARN BIG, but your life is automatically set to survival mode because somehow, you found yourself in a country that doesn't even recognize your living certificate. Then suddenly, you're hitting your late twenties, and talks of marriage are oozing out of nowhere—𝑈𝑚𝑢𝑎𝑑𝑎, 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑘 𝑖𝑡!

You gradually advance to your thirties… forties…fifties. And by the time you know it, a single gray hair that escaped rehab has decided to make a home out of you and your receding hairline. A few more follow it. If you're lucky enough, you reach your seventies, eighties—frail and weak—but at this point, all you do is enrich your doctors by constantly renewing your subscriptions, hope for grandchildren, forget things you once knew, and wait for the big man: Death.

𝑃ℎ𝑒𝑤!

By September, I should be turning twenty-two, but I am just there—not excited, not sad—just there. I am emotionally blank and I can't fully explain why. It's like certain scripts of my life were fast-forwarded a bit too much, so much that even I, the main character, didn't get to act them out. Wasn't I a teenager a second ago? How on earth am I juggling a twenty-something? How?

Somehow, a part of me is scared and worried—worried about losing myself in this whole process of growth. I am afraid I might become too old, less playful, extremely stern, overly serious, and overzealous. I am terrified of losing my childlike nature: the part of me that always wants to host games for the children in the village every December, the part of me that always dances rubbish in public without giving a damn, the part that loves blasting music from the home theater, especially on Saturdays. The part of me that loves to sing high notes with my crooked voice, the part of me that loves to hype people unnecessarily, that part of me that… that just wants to stay happy. I fear I might outgrow these things—that someday, I might tag them as “childish” and become too cold to even recognize fun.

𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓. 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑…

My mother has this culture of always prying into our ‘sexual lives’—and by our, I mean my siblings and I. She would walk into our rooms quietly, very innocently, like someone incapable of committing a crime. Like someone with no ulterior motive, carrying the gait of a woman who had long been deprived of love. Then she would sit at the edge of the bed and fix a stern gaze into our souls as if by staring, her looming question would somehow be answered.

From there, she would go on to study our legs, ask about every single scar that sprouted since the last time she saw them; question the origin of a new stretch mark as if she kept a clean record and knew the exact number of stretch marks that were on each leg. Before moving over to the main reason why she came into the room in the first place.

“𝐶ℎ𝑖𝑜𝑚𝑎 𝑛𝑤𝑎’𝑚, 𝐶ℎ𝑖 𝑚𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑦’𝑚, 𝑁𝑤𝑎 𝑛𝑗𝑖 𝑒𝑚𝑒 ọ𝑛ụ”—𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑 𝐼 𝑏𝑜𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑓—𝑚𝑦 𝑑𝑜𝑐𝑡𝑜𝑟…”

My Mother just knows how best to get me. Once she starts praising me like this, I already know something is up her sleeve.

“𝑀𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑦, 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠, 𝑢𝑑𝑜 𝑎𝑑ị𝑘𝑤𝑎? 𝐼𝑠 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡?”

“𝐴𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛”

“𝑌𝑒𝑠 𝑀𝑎, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ, 𝑛𝑎𝑎”

“𝐶ℎ𝑖 𝑚𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑦, 𝐼 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑠 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢? 𝐼 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑑𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑠…”

I let out a smile, then laughed because I already knew where she was headed. “𝑌𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑎, 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤”

“𝐼 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑏u𝑡 𝐶ℎ𝑖 𝑚𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑦, 𝐼 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑎 𝑉𝐼𝑅𝐺𝐼𝑁? 𝐻𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢? 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔”

You see this 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆: ‘𝒊 𝒂𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈’ please that statement is NO for an African mother. In short, that statement should be banished from their mouth. It is nothing but a big TRAP!

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At this point, my laughter grew even louder because I always found this part of the conversation funny. Like, very funny. Usually, my response would be a plain: “𝑌𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑎, 𝐼 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑑𝑒𝑦 𝑎𝑠 𝐼 𝑑𝑒𝑦. 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑜𝑘𝑎𝑦” but today, decided to try something different—to feed her with whatever she wanted to hear. I don't know where I mustered the courage from, knowing how strict my mother can be but I looked at her and said:

“𝑀𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑦, 𝑣𝑖𝑟𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑏𝑖𝑔 2026? 𝐼 𝑎m 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑎. 𝐴𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑚, 𝑛𝑜 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛”

I was badly fighting the urge to laugh. I saw how she went from an open book, to a poker face, then finally to disappointment.

“𝐶ℎ𝑖𝑜𝑚𝑎, 𝑒ℎℎ? 𝐼𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢? 𝐶ℎ𝑖𝑜𝑚𝑎 𝐿𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑦 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑗𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ!”

I stared into my mother's eyes with all seriousness and repeated the exact same words.

My mother completely came undone. She stood up from the bed and stared at me, totally unable to utter a single word. I don't know what was going on in her head, but I do know she was shocked to her very bones. I left her to her thoughts for a few seconds before breaking the joke.

“𝑀𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑖𝑘𝑜 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑒! 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐼 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑑𝑒𝑦 𝑎𝑠 𝐼 𝑑𝑒𝑦, 𝑀𝑎!”

My mother still didn't believe me.

“𝑀𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑦, 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑙𝑦, 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑗𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝑇𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑛𝑎𝑎”

As I am writing this, my mother is on the phone with her Pastor at Mountain of Fire Ministries. They are planning a full deliverance session for me tomorrow by 4:00 P.M. I honestly don't know if this deliverance is expected to restore the virginity or to determine if I am actually joking or not.

Anyways, I will give you the full gist once the evil spirit has been cast out of me tomorrow.

Goodnight!

Growing up, I didn't know what it meant to be beautiful. I didn't know there were levels to beauty. I didn't know that the face I bore could be a source of comparison; I didn't even think of "beautiful." I just lived life as it came—freely and innocently. If there was anything I could brag about, it was that I had a flurry of young boys my age sending in poorly written love letters, all of which I turned down. 𝐸𝑥ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑒. And I don't think receiving them was because of what my face looked like—they were too young to have that in mind. I just think maybe it was because of how sharp and extroverted I’ve been. Maybe it was because of my all-weather nature.

I was the sharp Chioma. The young girl who never failed to express herself. The talkative. The professional ITK (short for ‘I too know’). The girl who always stood in front of the flag-bearers during march pasts. The intelligentsia of block rosary, the best Bible student who would bring home the crown for the girls in any quiz competition. The boy of her parents, asa nwa. I was all these and more. But somehow, after I entered boarding school, after puberty set in and adolescence took its toll on me; after senior secondary school met me and I met other people (girls, to be specific); after I watched my sisters grow and entered the university; after harsh words and the internet took their toll on me—I became something else, and I doubt I still fit into who I used to be.

I've been looking at myself, watching myself grow, study, and make friends, but amidst all these, I still can't hide how bad I feel. I don't know if I am stupid saying all this. I don't know if I am silly comparing all this, but why do some of us look different? Why are we considered less beautiful? Less attractive? Why don't we get certain compliments that others get: “𝑊𝑜𝑤, 𝐸𝑢𝑐ℎ𝑦, 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑜 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙!” “𝐺𝑜𝑠ℎ! 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑑𝑎𝑚𝑛 𝑔𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑜𝑢𝑠!” “𝑂𝑚𝑜! 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑒!” “𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑒!” Why don't we get that? Why don't we get the pretty girl privileges? Why does the word ‘ugly’ even exist in our midst? By what standards was it used to classify the ugly and the beautiful?

Somehow, I am beginning to fall out. I am beginning to fall too deep in a hole that has no depth. I've had so many experiences that confirm my ‘ugliness’ but of all these experiences, of all the heart-wrenching comments, of all the insults garnished as jokes, Marycynthia’s words back then in SS2 still remain buried in my heart. This particular scenario has refused to leave me because it didn't just sting; it left a scar—a scar that has only worsened over time. “𝐶ℎ𝑖𝑜𝑚𝑎 𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙? 𝐻𝑖𝑎! 𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑜𝑜! 𝐴𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔? 𝐹𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑒, 𝐶ℎ𝑖𝑜𝑚𝑎 𝑖𝑠 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑢𝑔𝑙𝑦 𝑖𝑓 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑢𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑡.” I didn't know how I was to feel or what I was to feel when she said this but, I was hurt—still am. All these while, I've been trying to nurse that broken heart. I've been trying to heal the part of me that shattered when she made that statement, but even the mere thought of beauty echoes those words in my head.

I may not like what I look like; I may not appreciate the face I've been embodied with. I might look at my sister's and everyone around me—which I still do— to check if I am ‘girl enough' or ‘qualified enough' to be called a belle. But today, while I flipped the camera to see what my face looked like amidst the stress in school, while the camera displayed a scary representation of myself, I understood one thing: beauty may be everywhere, but it is a million and one miles away from me.