So I do. I feel. I feel from the tingles in my toes right to the hairs behind my neck. I feel when I shut my eyes, where I’m that little girl again, hating herself even more than she hated the bullies.
“Tell me,” Jacqui says after I quieten. She offers another tissue and I blow my nose. “Was there ever a time when you felt beautiful?”
I train my eyes on her rug, squeezing the tissue, praying for my tears to go away.
“You know, my daddy used to call me beautiful, but now he’s dead, so . . . so, I don’t know.”
For what feels like the first time in forever, I talk about the loss of my dad, the bullying, and how when Daddy was alive he reaffirmed my beauty, and how since he died I’ve always been looking to men to make me feel better about myself.
“You see, this belief you have, that you’re not beautiful enough. It’s not a fact, it’s a by-product of your life experience. And Black history. You’ve heard of colorism?” Jacqui raises her brow. “It’s been dividing our people for generations. And do you know what the sad thing is? It has made our people believe this lie—that the closer one is to being white, the better one is. Sounds silly when I say it aloud, doesn’t it? But a lie can appear true when it has been told for centuries.”
While we were talking, I couldn’t help but think of Mum and her obsession with long hair. Colorism. Texturism. They’re part of the same thing.
“And what about your mum?” asks Jacqui as though she’s read my mind. She’s still sitting on the sofa beside me. “You’ve said a lot about your dad, but where does your mum fit in to all of this?”
I surprise myself with a laugh. “Sorry, it’s just . . . she’s part of the reason I’m here. She’s always pressuring me to get married. But I don’t see what talking about her will achieve. She’s set in her ways. She’s Nigerian, so—” I bring my tongue to a halt. I realize that I don’t know Jacqui’s heritage. “That’s not to say all older Nigerian folks are set in their ways,” I backtrack. “It’s just the way my mum is.”
Jacqui’s smile is reassuring. “Don’t worry, I get what you’re trying to say about the generations. I grew up in a Caribbean household so there are many similarities. Now back to your mum—I know you said you don’t want to talk about her, but you already have.”
Jacqui is like a human bat. She picks up everything.
“I guess it’s just something I have to live with.”
“But how does it feel, this constant pressure to get married?”
“Annoying! Sorry, I didn’t mean to raise my voice. And it’s not just my mum. My Aunty Debbie puts pressure on me too. Well, maybe pressure isn’t the right word to use. Basically, she goes out of her way to help me with my love life but only ends up embarrassing me. But I don’t see her all the time, so I can cope with that . . . to a point.”
Jacqui does another one of her iconic slow nods and after a while of me not saying anything, she asks, “Do you think your mum is aware of how you feel?”
I open my mouth to reply then close it again. Surely, Mum knows how I feel. She must. Or does she? Maybe all this time that I’ve been refusing her potential suitors for me, she just thinks I’m being . . . stubborn.
“Do you know what, Jacqui?” I say. “I really don’t know the answer.”
“But would you want your mum to know how you feel, if you had it your way?”
“I guess so.” I shrug. “But we don’t have that kind of relationship where we can be open with each other over a cup of tea. Oh no. Don’t tell me that’s my homework for next week?”
Jacqui smiles. “Don’t worry, it’s not. For next week, I want you to write a letter to your younger self, preferably handwritten. It’s a way to get things off your chest. But for now”—she places her notebook on the floor—“I want you to engage in a therapeutic exercise called chairwork. Yes, chairwork,” she repeats after I look at her as though she’s speaking a foreign language. “Basically, this exercise is when you have an imagined conversation—in this case, it will be with your mum. I understand that you’ve accepted the relationship you have with her, but it’s clear that the pressure she puts on you is causing some pain. So this is a chance for you to speak your inner mind, even if you never get the chance to do it in person. Now”—she nods to the empty chair opposite—“in your own time.”
Later that day . . .
Dear Yinka,
You are now a full-grown woman! Can you believe it? I remember the days when you used to say you couldn’t wait to move out so that Mum would stop nagging you about your homework. Well, congrats, you. You’ve got your own place now. Do you know that you’ve also got a degree from Oxford? Anyway, I’m not writing to you to tell you about your achievements—and trust me, baby girl, there are many—but I would be lying if I told you that the bullies who called you dog poo are the only challenges that you’ll face.
You’ll grow older and face many more challenges as you navigate this world as a dark-skinned woman. There will be days when you’ll take pictures and feel like crap when you look at the photo and can hardly see yourself. And there will be days when you’ll look at Kemi and wish you had her skin tone. The thought, “If only I was lighter” will cross your mind, and you will think this each time a guy shows no interest in you, and when the love of your life breaks your heart.
Dear younger self, I am telling you this so that you can save yourself from many years of pain and insecurity. My message for you is . . . be ready. Be ready for the world you’re about to enter. Because the world of today doesn’t fairly uphold women who look like you. As a dark-skinned woman, sadly, you do not look like today’s standard of beauty. So be ready, baby girl. Be ready and stand ready. Be ready to walk into any room with your chin held high and your shoulders rolled back because, yes, your rich chocolate skin does deserve a seat at the table. Define your own definition of beauty. Don’t wait for society or any poxy magazine to do it for you. Don’t wait for social media (oh, you’ll find out what that is). And most definitely, do not wait for any man to affirm the beauty that you are. Tell yourself that you’re beautiful each and every single day. Remember, Yinka, you are God’s handiwork. Remember what Daddy said about the midnight sky being just as beautiful as the sunrise. All shades of brown are beautiful, including yours.
You are enough, Yinka. You. Are. Enough.
Proud of you, baby girl. So, so proud.
I love you . . . I love myself.
Yinka x
In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen
SATURDAY
I am beautiful. I am beautiful. I am beautiful.
It’s like Kemi and Uche’s wedding all over again, only in a less fancy venue—a community center in New Cross. Today is the day of Chinedu’s christening celebration and the hall is buzzing.
Sitting cabaret style are at least three hundred guests—Mum went crazy with the invitations—and we’re all now eating and drinking our way through a mountain of jollof rice, yam pottage and red gizzard stew. Pastor Adekeye is the MC, while the best of Shina Peters plays in the background. Wearing matching white traditional lace, Kemi and Uche are at the high table on the stage, taking turns carrying a restless Chinedu. At my table are Mum, Aunty Blessing, Aunty Debbie and her husband, then there’s Ola, Jon and their three kids. I’m glad to see there’s no awkward vibes between me and Ola. In fact, she gave me a proper hug earlier and whispered in my ear that she starts her counseling next week. At this rate, Jacqui will have to start paying Donovan commission.
So far I’ve been able to avoid having a direct conversation with Mum, but not for much longer . . .
“Yinka,” she leans over. Reluctantly I bring my gaze back. “Things didn’t work out with Emmanuel, ehn?”
Oh, for goodness’ sake. Are we really going to have this conversation now?
“No,” I say simply. I take a sip of my Supermalt.
“What happened this time, hm?” says Aunty Debbie, rolling her eyes.