I no longer know how to be a woman. What’s strange is that I never knew how to be one in the first place.

*

Period.

My mother was never the typical Nigerian mother. She never spoke in parables about puberty, sex, or pregnancy, even when she gave me the lecture on the living room couch when I was only eight years old. She never gave the unpopular, “If a man touches you, you will get pregnant,” advice that my friends’ mothers had told them when they got their first period. My mum broke down everything about sex to me. To me – who had not even gotten my first period yet. This is why my grade four teacher, Miss Josephine, could not hide her surprise when she discovered I knew the ins and outs of the topic, after writing “Puberty” as the topic on the board. This is also why, years later, in SS2, I was not amused when my biology teacher went into the intricacies of human reproduction. My male classmates would giggle and teasingly ask the girls if they had started menstruating; if they were women yet. It never amused me, because I had grown too familiar with what it meant to be a woman.

I was wrong.

*

Grandparents.

I am twenty-three now. I am rounding up my Master’s program and since I am on holiday, I decide to spend a week with my grandparents who I haven’t seen in close to four months.

“So, after your masters, what’s next?” my grandfather asks one evening.
“I’m looking to pursue a PhD degree,” I reply as I decrease the volume of the television.
“Ehn?!” he and my grandmother exclaim at the same time, as though their response is rehearsed.
“O ni marry ni? You won’t get married? Education can always wait, but marriage and childbearing can’t. In your husband’s house, you can be reading. Even as your grandma is,” grandpa points at his wife with his shaky hands, “she can pursue her PhD.” This, I find very hilarious, because grandma is eighty-three. But I hold back my laughter as my lips crack a smile.
“No man would want to marry a woman who has higher academic qualifications than he does. Once he hears doctor, he would run away,” grandma picks up from where her husband has left.

I am very confused. I want to tell them that times have changed. That academic qualifications don’t mean much anymore. That these days, men pride themselves in their financial status rather than in how far the academic ladder they have climbed. That any man who would feel intimidated by my academic qualifications was never worthy of me in the first place. But I remember a conversation I had with an aunt who visited Nigeria from Canada last year.

We both laid down on the bed and she asked if I had seen any reasonable suitor. I told her I hadn’t, and she said there was no pressure, and that God would bring the right man my way. She then went ahead to tell me of a lady in Canada who was well-read and had a good job. However, my aunt was disappointed when this lady in question told her that the man she wanted to marry was a carpenter. Now, this in itself was not bad, my aunt explained. Carpenters in Canada were not like the ones we had here in Nigeria. They could afford to live middle-class lives, since they were highly-paid for their services. “But how can you look around and, of all men to marry, you pick a carpenter?” my aunty asked.

My grandma’s voice brings me back to their living room. She is telling me, “Ma shako fun won o. Shine your eye well, but don’t do shakara too much for the men that are coming. Sho ti gbo? Have you heard?”

When I was younger, I used to see young women in Nollywood films being pressured by family members to get married. I have become these women. They have become me. I do not know who is watching this film.

*

Aunts.

I hear a knock on my door. It is my mother. “Fancy, come out. I have not seen you since I got back from work. Come and greet my friends.” Greet. That is the word she uses when, in fact, we both know she means, come and serve the guests.

4 pm. This is when her first friend arrives. I do not come out of my room, hoping everyone would think I am asleep. I have finally found the time to quickly work on the article I should have submitted a week earlier. I promise the editor that I would submit it on Monday. Today is Thursday, and I have not even gotten beyond the second paragraph. If I did not spend the entire week attending to guests, I would have been on the second draft by now. Truth is, even with the busyness of my week, I could have stayed up during the nights to work on the article, but my beloved country deemed the week the perfect time to announce that the national grid had collapsed. Again! This is the umpteenth time they will make this announcement this year. So, with a dead laptop, I have an unproductive week – save the meals I produce from the kitchen daily for my family and the guests. The guests have left now and the national grid has magically uncollapsed, but my mum’s friends have come to replace the guests who left last week. Now that mum has knocked on my door, I am forced to abandon the blinking cursor on my laptop.

When I join everyone in the living room, before I have the chance to genuflect with an accompanying, “Good evening, Ma,” I am bombarded with, “Fancy, how are you? It’s been so long since I saw you. You’ve grown taller. I can’t believe how big you are now.” I force a smile and respond to whatever questions I can. Just as I am serving them some yoghurt, one of them comments, “I’m sure all the men have started flocking around.” I smile. She says this every time she sees me. She said it when I was sixteen. She did not forget to repeat it when she visited last month. She is saying it now. Again.
The other aunt – my mum’s friend, really – who has just gotten back from the US says, “Don’t say things like that to her. It’s a bit insensitive.”

I am shocked. This is the first time I hear another Nigerian woman stand up for me on this matter. Perhaps it is because she has been away from Nigeria for so long. Perhaps the Oyinbos have washed away the Nigerianness in her.

“Don’t pressure her. We have also been twenty-three before,” Aunty 2 continues to argue, disregarding Aunty 1 who keeps saying nothing is pressuring about the harmless comment she made. Aunty 1 insists that she has only stated a fact – men would flock.

*

Men.

Men indeed do flock. They flocked in secondary school when they were still boys. But I was never interested in a relationship until last year. I never really saw the need for one, because I have always believed it is a waste of time to date someone unless you have plans to marry the person. So, when Loba and I began dating when I was twenty-two, we had marriage in mind.

Every guy I had met before Loba bored me out of my mind. I remember one – Korede – who found me very strange. When I told him my hobbies were reading and writing, he said, “You have to have other things you enjoy doing. Are you that boring?” He tried to force me into normalcy. Normalcy, for a girl in my generation, is playing dress up and posting GRWM videos on TikTok and Instagram. It is pouting and bending your head sideways for every selfie. Tufiakwa. I do not even post pictures on any social platform. This, he found super weird. I was not surprised as I watched his interest in me fizzle out quickly.

Normalcy. This is the same expectation people have when they ask, “Why are you pursuing a Master’s in English Literature? You can’t possibly get a job with it.” My friend’s father even once went as far as asking, “Hope there is a way you can connect your Literature course with AI? You know AI is the reigning thing now?”

*

I sometimes wonder if I know what I am doing studying Literature, especially as art is no longer appreciated. During my research for PhD scholarship opportunities in foreign universities, I realised there are more scholarship opportunities for STEM courses than for the Arts. This is the same realisation that made people ditch their careers to pursue tech-related ones during the COVID pandemic in 2020. I would have become a millionaire if, since 2020, I got a dollar every time I heard, “I am now into UI/UX” or “I am a data analyst. You know tech is where the money is at.”

It is sad that even a dear friend of mine, after commencing his Bachelor’s programme in Computer Science, had to stop after his first academic year. It was great news, really – he had gotten a scholarship at an American university, and chosen a program he enjoyed: English Literature. In his penultimate semester, reality hit him hard. He realised he needed a good job to pay the bills, and could not achieve this with English Literature. He had to switch courses. Again. Now, he is currently studying – and struggling with – a Master’s program in International Economics.

*

Despite all this, my love for art would never die. And this is why I cannot be with men – like Korede – who do not understand or appreciate art. Because to understand art is to understand me. Because through every line of poetry or paint brush stroke or musical note, I am a step closer to understanding myself. And because if a man does not value art, how can he ever understand the poetry of a kiss? The poetry of mingled tongues dancing to a known rhythm that can’t be explained. The poetry of intertwined lips speaking an unfamiliar language without uttering a single word.

This is why Loba was my perfect fit.

I never had to explain these things to Loba. Abnormalcy or art. He somehow always understood. He loved art. He read books. He did not see the need to publicise your life on social media. He did not, unlike Korede, utter the irritating words I had heard too many times: “How can a fine girl like you not take pictures? I need to see your fine face on Instagram every day.” A statement I find offensive, because it implies that if I am not pretty, I am not worthy of putting a camera in front of my face or posting my pictures on the almighty Instagram.

I never had to explain these things to Loba. Loba, who hardly had an active social media account. Loba, who thought GRWM stood for Grown Woman rather than Get Ready With Me. We connected in so many ways words can never encapsulate. So, when our 8-month relationship-headed-for-marriage ended, I cried.

*

I cry my eyes out. This is strange because, I am the one who brings up the idea of us splitting. Before the breakup, we have an argument that lasts three days. Three days because it is via WhatsApp texts, due to our long-distance relationship. We argue about what financial responsibilities will look like when we get married. Are we going to split the responsibilities 50-50? Is it going to be 70-30? The argument ends with both of us having very different views and no one willing to bend to the other person’s opinion. He calls me selfish. Me, selfish? How abeg? Because I believe in having my own money as a woman, apart from the joint account we will collectively own? Normally, this shouldn’t cause a breakup, but I am tired of it all. Three months ago, I stopped seeing a future with him and forced myself to keep up with the relationship. I know that this argument offers the perfect way out. Finally.

So, it is strange that I cry when it all ends. After all, it is what I want. When I explain it to people, they ask, “Why did you cry? He was not the one that broke up with you.” They make it seem as though pain is pain only when you don’t see it coming. As though if I should take a knife and cut myself with it on purpose, it would hurt less simply because I know what to expect.

*

No one ever explains how your self-esteem becomes shattered after a breakup. So many things go through my mind for the four months that follow. Was I not good enough? Was I too much for him? Would I connect with someone like this ever again? If I do, how would I find the courage to bare my soul, exposing my deepest insecurities, fears, and love, all over again? Can I ever trust again? My thoughts might as well be the lyrics to a heartbreak song. I do not know who is singing this song.

*

If.

My friend, Sayo comes over to my house and we catch up. I have told her to leave her daughter at home with her dad so that she would have my time today. As with the case of my grandparents, I have not seen Sayo in ages because of my schoolwork.

“You’ve lost some weight. Hope everything is okay?” I ask, worried. Too tired to reply, she asks for water. She comes to weave my hair because I can no longer afford to get it done in my estate. I think of cutting my hair again, just like I did in 2019, and just like Sayo has.
She talks about how stressed she is. “Some days I feel like I would soon die,” she says.
“What kind of rubbish talk is that? Stop it please.”
“I’m not joking. I am tired of everything.”

She talks about the hassle of juggling two jobs with motherhood and wifehood. To make matters worse, her husband does not help with the chores. This further deepens my resentment for men. Is this the same marriage that grandma, grandpa, Aunty 1, and Aunty from Canada disturb me with?

She goes on to give me the gist of her husband getting upset at her when she tells him she is pregnant with their 2nd child. Irritated, I ask, “Oh, so you impregnated yourself? Why are men like this?”
“You will never understand. When you get married, you will understand,” she defends.
“If,” I whisper. If I get married.

She talks about how she comes back from work tired and her husband still requests dinner though he has been home all day. She concludes with, “I wish I had waited a year and made money before getting married.”

If Loba were here, he would point out that this is selfishness. Afterall, a woman should not be allowed to think about her future.

*

Pus.

I have a cut on my finger which gets infected three days later. It begins to secrete a combination of water, pus and blood. It is so painful. So, freaking, painful. My mum says that for the wound to heal up fast, I should avoid doing the dishes or cooking for some days. This way, the reduced contact between the finger and heat or water would speed up the healing process.

But guess who attends to the guests when my mum has to leave for work? Guess who cooks for them and does the dishes? Guess who my mum calls when they need someone to attend to chores in the house? Definitely not my brother. Because how dare a man do kitchen duties? Let’s call the woman with the infected and inflamed finger instead.

*

Three years ago, I was in the car with two women, my aunt and her colleague. They are both medical doctors. They complain that whenever a man finds out they work in the hospital, the man always assumes they are nurses.

In Yoruba, one woman says to the other, “Why can’t I be a doctor? Because I am a woman? If a man told them they were working in the hospital, they would never assume he is a nurse o.”

*

I remember the exasperation in their voices. The exasperation is no different from the one I feel now in the kitchen as my throbbing aching finger touches the wet sponge that I rub against the plate.

*

Aunty Mercy.

Aunty Mercy is one of the guests I have to attend to. She arrives from the UK the same day Sayo arrives at my house. She arrives the week before Aunties 1 and 2 arrive. One evening, she and I have a conversation in the kitchen while I do the dishes with my hurting finger.

“I can’t marry without having a stream of income o, Aunty Mercy.”
“I agree with you. I also give the same advice to the young girls who come to me for counselling in church,” she says.
“Ha that’s good o, because I cannot imagine having to ask my husband for every single thing I need. I should be able to get things done as well.”

Similar to Aunty 2, Aunty Mercy’s Nigerianness has been washed away with hypo by the Oyinbos.

*

Madness.

As I pack my bags to resume my final semester for my Master’s program, I reflect on the conversations I’ve had this holiday. I realise I no longer know what a woman is – Period? Marriage? Abnormality? Art? Chores?

Somehow, if given the chance to do life again, I will still choose to be a woman. It is a madness. Woman, a madness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Johnnathan Tshibangu on Unsplash