I"D RATHER RESENT NO ONE

“I choose myself,” those words echoed in my ears every time my buttock hit the cold black tiles of my empty house, the blue walls closed in on me, and my chest constricted. The bread tasted like sandalwood as my bittersweet tears slipped into my mouth. I looked at the mural on the wall, its chaotic spirals calling me in. It'd been six months since that heart-wrenching statement - when I had been forced to provide a resolution to a question that had always badgered my mind day and night. I had fought for years to have my cake and eat it, playing a race of cat and mouse with my happiness and my parents’ contentment.

But the only times I really felt sane and real, was when I was far away from the ringing bells and the judgemental eyes boring into my soul, “What would people think?.” It was those golden moments when I could hide my chains of “Remember the daughter of whom you are” under my bed, open my box of jewellery, and unveil the mask of the perfect daughter. Like drops of water, the happiness filled the depth of my soul until I left for my parents’ home. Immediately, the ocean emptied itself and was replaced with the tumultuous tides that wreck my mental being and place in my hands, the chain and mask that I had abandoned in my naivety.

I never knew love and hate could exist in one body. Like yin and yang, I loved, feared and hated my parents. The worst part was knowing that everything they did, was because they loved me --- that was their only way of expressing their love - shielding me from a life of eternal destruction. It was another Sunday at my home church where my father’s deep voice thundered, “And those who use jewellery and paint their faces shall be thrown into the lake of fire. Those fake pastors with jerry curls and long fingernails like witches deceiving people that we are doing too much… We will have the last laugh when Jesus comes.”

My head banged and my stomach quivered. My brows knitted and I chewed on my bottom lip. I do not believe that. If that were true and we were the real Christians, then why did God use those other people. Why was it different overseas? If trousers were men’s clothing, why did Jesus wear a gown? Why was it a sin to wear trousers here but it is somehow good once I am abroad and especially if I wear a skirt over it? Why were extensions ungodly but threading excluded?

Nothing ever made sense and these questions agitated me, nagging deep in my spirits. My heart pounded harder like the pestle in the mortar whenever I was dragged to crusades where the booming voice of the preacher screamed about the demons thirsty to cling unto my hair. I would never forget the evangelist who, several years ago, stopped me, “Look at the hair you did. You are going to hell.” It was threading but my long hair had stretched in the twines, cascading my shoulders.

That evening, I told my parents, my shoulders heaving but their frowns stopped me. Mom’s cheeks sunk, “He is very right. This is what we tell you every day. I need to meet that man.” Unsurprisingly, they became friends - two fabric cut from a cloth that gave only nightmares. I could never enjoy a peaceful outing or a simple show. Mom would lean in, her voice low and disapproving,“See what she’s wearing. She should just walk naked,”. Her words would shatter the little bubble of peace around me.

It was not better when we went for shopping. They controlled every tiny detail of my life, sculpting, moulding and re-moulding. They were the potters and I was the clay. They were my gods and their wishes were my command. They quelled every resistance with religious gaslighting and emotional manipulation. When I was preparing for my secondary school graduation, they had followed me to the market. They stood between me and the vendors, “Bring that shoe. It looks like a banker’s. That heel is too high and only befitting for prostitutes… That cloth looks hideous for a child of God.”

After a tiresome trip to the market, mom had handed me two hundred naira to make suku for my D-day. My head had whipped to the back, a storm of fury curling up my throat. My mouth was dry but I summoned the strength of saliva, “This will not do anything.” Immediately, water spilled from mom’s eyes. “This child wants to make me unhappy. After all I have done for you…well…it is your life.” She paused for two seconds, placed her hands on her head, her smile down-turned, “What will people say? Ehn…after what we have preached against on the pulpit. Ahhh…my family will mock me. The war I fought before you were born, all in vain. They will mock me o.”

A sharp pain ran through my head and I sighed. I was familiar with those antics but I did not have the strength to fight and fold. I felt my being shrink as I let them have their way again. Notwithstanding, she gave me more money to buy two Brazilian wool and make twists under certain conditions. I should have known that my cage was only going to become smaller.