Arewa toured her body like she was beholding some golden image for the first time. No doubt, her dark skin was smooth and luminous, like she had just bathed in the finest African oils. Her slender body perfectly suited her tiny waist and well-framed hips. Her hips weren’t large, but they would certainly cause a second stare from a beholder. She slowly caressed her arms, her eyes fixed, peering into her reflection. She moved her fingers over her face, feeling every contour of her marks. The four marks on both sides of her cheeks seemed to grow deeper and darker every day. They looked like glaring memories of a lion’s scratch that would never fade off. She clutched her cheeks tight. A deep crinkle formed on her forehead, and anger bubbled up her chest. Her chest moved in an ostentatious rhythm. She wanted to tear down this face that brought her nothing but shame.

Every rendezvous with the mirror reminded her about her imperfections. She would never fit in and be like others. Not even in this school, where every eye gawked at her like she was some plague to be avoided. Didn’t their forefathers ever carry scary marks on their faces? Like they’ve never seen anyone with tribal marks. And even if they never did, weren’t there a lot of people in Ibadan, right from the school gate, who had different kinds of scarifications? They’d find old hawkers with deep lines of tribal marks drawn in different sizes across their temples down to their chins. So, why should people stare awkwardly at her face like her type uniquely fell from the gods of the land?

It was yet another day to hide under the mask of cosmetics. She dabbed some foundation powder on her cheeks, gradually covering up the four horizontal marks that lined up across her cheeks.

She strode down the road, heading to the faculty. She wasn’t going to get numerous annoying stares today. All she wanted was to exist unnoticed by any human who walked her way. As she walked, she surfed through the internet, taking a quick glance at everything that popped up. She read through her class’s group chats.

Ladies, we have a challenge for you. Y’all should send pictures of your face without makeup. Let’s just have fun, nothing serious.

Judas, the course rep, had to be the dumbest and most annoying person she had ever had to deal with. This challenge was going to be more than fun. Her heart palpitated. She definitely wasn’t going to participate in it. It wasn’t her business. She entered the lecture room and settled in the middle row. She was ten minutes early for the class.
“You guys should start sending your pictures!” She watched Judas with disgust as he shined his teeth like someone who had just won a lottery. He was starting to have some fun with this. She adjusted uneasily on her seat as she felt his eyes fall on her. Why was he staring at her? “Arewa, at least let’s see your bare face. We know you are fine,” he stated. “Some of you girls just like putting on makeup every day.”

Her stomach dropped. She felt more eyes staring at her. Two ladies sitting behind her giggled; their muffled laughter and whispers scared her to death. She froze on her seat, wishing she turned invisible in their eyes. She didn’t dare to come back at him. Everyone was going to join the banter uninvited, and she’ll either get false support from people who would start another round of gossip behind her or have blatant enemies shower insults on her for expressing her disapproval over Judas’ harmless words. So, she kept mute, patiently waiting for the lecturer’s arrival to put an end to the nuisance’s morning madness. After the lecture ended, she resumed being a loner on the road as she headed for the hostel.

“Kilodé Arẹwà? You don’t sound good today.”
“Mummy, I still don’t understand what sort of tradition caused you to watch my face scarified. Even as a baby,” Arewa was irritated. She paused, waiting for her response. Her mother remained quiet. She was going to live with this guilt for the rest of her life as long as her daughter kept bringing up this matter.
“Do you know how hard it is for me to live with this?” she continued.
“Arẹwà, I’ve told you. You are my first child. Máàmí won’t hear of it that you wouldn’t be given Ìlà,” her mother explained.
“I’m your first and only child,” Arewa added, indignantly. “I shouldn’t have been given one.”
“It doesn’t matter. You are my first child. Boṣeyẹ ko ri ni yẹn,” her mother’s voice was firm.

Is this really how it ought to have been? Really? This was her fate — to carry the face of a ninety-year-old woman for the rest of her life.

“You shouldn’t have allowed this, mummy,” Arewa was close to tears.
“Ọmọ mi, ọmọ Óyò ni ẹ. You can never get lost with the marks,” her mother sounded rather confident. “Or how do you want people to identify you when you are far away?”
Arewa gave a sneering look at her ugly face over the mirror. She has heard her mother’s explanation for the umpteenth time. Same words as always. “Who gets lost at this age?” she muffled her words. “Mummy, you don’t have this stupid abaja mark or whatever you call it. You have no idea how it feels to live in this deformed face. You don’t,” she raised her voice, almost cracking it to tears.
“End this now! Ótitó” her mother barked. But she instantly added calmly, “You know those marks make you beautiful, ehn Arẹwà mi.”
“Never! You know they don’t, mummy. You know.”

She remembered the first time she had attended a lecture with her bare face. She became an object of exhibition as everyone couldn’t conceal the surprises and shocks on their faces. Someone even dared walk up to her to attempt touching her face. She shoved the stupid boy’s hand, accidentally hitting it against a desk. He scurried away from her in pain while others took joy in the free cinematic scene that was being displayed. Since then, she always wore makeup.

“I’ve heard. Bye ma,” frustrated, she dropped the call.

The next day came by with the same monotonous routine. Piercing into her reflection, hating her face again and again, and being all by herself throughout the lecture period. It, however, took a different turn when someone finally noticed her existence. Témi.

“Hi Arewa. How are you?” the girl smiled.
Arewa felt awkward. She almost did a quick survey to confirm if she was the Arewa being spoken to. “I’m fine, thank you,” she quickly responded, making brief eye contact with her.

Sometimes Témi was reserved, busily scrolling through her phone and would barely raise her head to acknowledge anyone’s presence. Other times, she was all smiles and lively, spreading her small lips and waving at whoever greeted her.

“Arewa, just so you know, I admire your beauty. You are beautiful even without your makeup,” she complimented.
Arewa stood, stunned.
“I mean it. I saw you the first day we attended class. That was Professor Babajide’s class. Remember?” she added when she sensed that her words might have been perceived as unbelievable.
Arewa nodded. She remembered. She had been naïve then. She remembered happily walking into her first class as a fulfilled fresher until she was assailed by discomforting stares and harassed by a fellow course mate who nearly touched her face. “Thank you, Témi. Thank you,” she slowly said.
“Alright, bye. I will see you around,” the girl waved, turning to leave.
Arewa threw a short-lived smile and bade her goodbye.

When she settled on her bed to read a novel, she paused and ruminated over Témi’s words. No one had ever walked up to her to compliment her. If a guy had told her, she wouldn’t have been too surprised because she believed such flattering words spurt out of guys’ mouths carelessly. But from a fellow lady? She believed it to be a sincere and heartfelt compliment.

She stood up and walked to the mirror. Here again, facing herself, her body, her face, everything she embodied, and it fell back right into her eyes.
“I am beautiful,” she whispered, almost unsure of her own words.
“I am beautiful. I am,” she spoke again. This time, with more certainty.

A surge of freshness and confidence suddenly emerged in her. No more makeup. She was going all out, portraying her best self. No extras to compliment her beauty. Her mother was probably right; the abaja marks on her face are a means of identification of wherever she hailed from. However, more to that identity is her beauty. She shone regardless of the scars on her face.

It was Friday. She slipped into a well-fitted ankara dress, wore slipper heels, and neatly arranged her notes in her tote bag. She was starting a new life in the best outfit and with a new sense of confidence. She smeared her face with sunscreen, gently rubbing every part of her face. She affectionately caressed her lines. This time, there was no iota of hatred. Her fingers gently drew the lines of each mark. They looked beautiful, perfectly aligned. Her dark skin and glittering forehead added to the glory of her beauty. She stepped out of the room, ready to boldly exhibit herself.

 

 

 

 

 

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