No Scar to Your Beautiful – Maryam Ayooluwa Agoro

After a tiring day filled with never-ending lectures, I collapsed onto my bed the moment I reached my apartment, letting out a deep sigh. I muttered to myself, “One day, I go graduate sha.” Completely drained, I lay on the bed, surveying the dimly lit room, allowing my gaze to wander. I fixed my attention on the ceiling, where I observed the three brothers chasing themselves in action. Shifting my focus to the wall on my right, adorned with words of affirmation and the highlighted notes I recited daily to commit to memory. My eyes were drawn to a framed photograph. In that picture, I stood, stylishly posed with a radiant smile in front of a glass hotel building, a flower pot at its entrance. I gracefully wore a red chiffon scarf, an embroidered white blouse with half sleeves, and stylish high-waisted trousers. Memories of that moment flooded my mind; it was taken during the Ethical Leadership Retreat organised by The Initiative of Change, Nigeria. I cherished the photograph so much that I not only had it printed and framed but also used it as my profile picture on various social media platforms; Instagram, Twitter, LinkedIn, and Medium. The Instagram version was in black and white. Now, looking at the photo filled me with irritation as the hurtful words of Ronke echoed in my ears.

We hit up our all-time favourite restaurant for lunch. I ordered what I could take in at once; three scoops of rice, sausage, and meat. 

“Is that all you’re having?” Ronke, my coursemate, peaked slightly over my shoulder as she put food onto her plate.

“Yeah.” I shrugged. 

She raised her brows and scoffed. “I can’t believe you.” 

“What do you mean?” I quipped. 

This tiny portion wouldn’t fill a five-year-old’s belly. Moyosore, are you anorexic?” I stammered in response, “I prefer eating in smaller portions.” She scoffed, “Eating in bits, huh? Don’t you realise you look so frail?” I thought to myself, “That’s a first.” I may be slender, but I’m definitely not frail. She went on, “As a woman, you should be curvier. That’s society’s definition of beauty. Look at you, no curves, nothing to catch anyone’s eye. Your figure is practically the same as a guy’s: straight.” She even emphasised “straight” with her index finger. “How do you then hope to hook a guy? No wonder you’re single, unlike the rest of us.” Fed up, I decided to put an end to the ridicule by filling my plate with more food. 

“You shouldn’t take her words to heart, Moyosore. Can you finish this food?” Funmilayo said to me when I got back.

“I believe I can. I should probably eat more,” I mumbled with a tight smile. 

After about 30 minutes, I asked, “Is there anyone generous enough to help me with this extra food? I’m stuffed, and I hate to see it go to waste.” Ronke couldn’t resist a final jab, saying, “You can’t finish even this small portion? Let me help you. May God bless you with some weight.”

I gazed more carefully in front of the mirror in my room, Ronke’s words cutting deep into my heart. The au naturel doppelganger stared back, her sheening dark skin oiled after bath, and in towel.

Then my hands cup my bosom, slowly moving down to my waist then my thighs..

I may as well be too thin, I frowned. 

Had Ronke’s words cut deep? Curse that girl.

I know I shouldn’t let her get to me, shouldn’t make myself vulnerable, and should cut her off, but I did nothing. “I hate myself, my life, my body, my very existence!” Unable to hold back my pain, I let out a piercing cry. “This is bullshit!” I slammed my hand against the mirror, shattering it into pieces.

I heard the jingling of keys, signalling my sister’s return. As I rushed to clean up the mess, I realised I had hurt my hands in my fit of anger, blood dripping from my palms. I wrapped a cloth around them to stop the bleeding. My sister burst into the apartment exclaiming; “What happened here?”

“The mirror slipped from my hands,” I lied but she saw through it. With a stern expression, she questioned, “Did you self-harm again?”

“Honestly, I shattered the mirror in anger. I promise, I didn’t self-harm. Morenike, this time I tried to let her words roll off me but she hurt me so bad. She heaped scorn on me.” 

“Who?” my sister inquired.

“Ronke.”

“Moyosore, you know you should distance yourself from those people, right? They’re not worthy of being called your friends. How long will you let others define you with their words? How long will you keep hurting yourself?”

“It’s not as easy as it sounds. I felt so humiliated.”

“But you’re not taking any steps to stop the humiliation. You bottle up your feelings. You know what? I had a tough day, and I’m too tired to deal with this right now. Pull yourself together and clean up this mess.” She yawned and retreated to her room.

I’m the second child in a family of four. My mother is a radiant beauty with a fair complexion and a delicately slim figure, while my dad, a tall and imposing figure with a noticeable potbelly, has a dark complexion. I inherited my mother’s physique, making me the only one among my siblings to do so. My mother proudly recalls that I was the slimmest at birth, weighing only 3kg, whereas my sisters took after my dad’s stature.

Initially, looking younger than my age was a cool advantage. No one could guess my age, and everyone complimented my petite yet beautiful appearance. The taunts about my body didn’t begin until secondary school. My stature became a source of frustration, an easy target for ridicule. One day, a classmate attempted to assert dominance because she was bigger than I was. During lunch, I had an injury on my hand and had to use a fork to swallow. Annoyed by the presence of the fork in my food, she snatched it away, claiming the presence of a cutlery disrespected the swallow. “Swallow should be devoured with bare clean hands.” She had uttered. Confused, I politely asked for my fork, but she resorted to aggression, demanding to know who I was and how old I was. I couldn’t hold back and shouted, “You think you can bully me because of my size? I’m probably older than you, or we’re about the same age. I was born on 27 August 2001!” I felt silly for spilling unnecessary details to make my point, but my outburst made her realise she had picked the wrong target. She returned my fork and walked away, snapping her fingers.

Secondary school had its ups and downs, but I learned how to stand up for myself. My charisma earned me the nickname “Small but mighty, Mama-no-nonsense.” As I moved to senior secondary school, I transitioned from wearing a pinafore to a blouse and skirt, the uniform for senior students. One scorching afternoon, a junior student asked, “Is this uniform also meant for juniors?”

“It’s for seniors. I’m in SS1,” I replied.

“SS1?” she repeated. “Sorry, how old are you?”

“I’m 14.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Ma,” she apologised and walked away. I felt belittled that day, especially because that junior student could easily pass for my elder sister or even my senior due to her size. While my female classmates and even juniors were developing, I remained “flat.” I looked in the mirror every day, hoping for even the slightest change. However, until my last year in secondary school, I remained flat-chested. Everyone gossiped about my petite appearance, but no one had the courage to say it to my face, until one day during an argument with a classmate. I made a joke, and in retaliation, she resorted to body-shaming me, igniting my anger and resulting in a physical altercation. When the incident was reported to my mom, she said, “People say what they see. If you weren’t slim, no one would have called you that.” I felt hurt and betrayed by the person who was supposed to be my biggest supporter.

This incident changed me and made me self-aware. I attended a boarding school where girls of different sizes walked around the dorms indiscriminately and bathed together to save time but that day marked the end of anyone seeing me in my naked form. I waited until everyone had taken their bath before I went for mine and dressed up in tight corners. People speak the truth about what they see so I was determined to change what people see but first, I wouldn’t let them see anything. Instead, I became determined to change the image people saw me as. 

Gaining admission to the university, I made gaining weight a priority over my education. I gorged foods that made one put on weight and so when my dad gave me money for textbooks, pizza, chocolate, yoghourt, oats, milk, banana, cheese replaced the textbooks I was supposed to buy. It seems the universe was against my weight-gaining because I didn’t gain a single pound. When my dad discovered how I had squandered his money, all hell was let loose. He flared up even more when I confessed to what I had used the money for. He threatened to stop catering for my education since I had chosen the path of foolishness. Eventually, he made me write the list of books and went to the bookshop to procure them himself. I never went scot-free. My one month allowance was withheld as punishment. 

I had always been hesitant about going into relationships. I was convinced I lacked the allure to capture a man’s attention because my beauty didn’t meet societal standards. I didn’t have the body men desired. Till I met Femi. Femi changed my perception. He made me see that probably there was something special in me that could attract a man. Femi was like a godsent angel- perfect, loving and kind to stupor. Perhaps this was my first undoing because Femi was too perfect. Everything about him was unlike life itself. He seized every opportunity he had to tell me how beautiful I am, and how much he loved me. Until suddenly, Femi wanted OUR children to look more like him because he had the stature and looks. Until Femi started mandating me to stuff myself with more food because he could only introduce me to his friends if I added weight as he didn’t want to be laughed at. Eventually, Femi broke up with me OVER A TEXT. 

“I met a beautiful hour-glass sized lady last night. Has all I need in a woman. Good in bed too. I hope you get the banging body to attract a man.”

“What would happen to our “Oluwasoromidayo and Oluwapamilerinayo?””

I texted back, receiving no response. I knew my relationship with Femi was like pouring water into a basket the moment he had issues with my body but I edged in on. What was I thinking about “together forever?” Kids? That was obviously the joke of the century. Femi leaving me crushed me further validating my thoughts and opening my eyes to my reality; I had nothing to attract or keep a man. For weeks, I punished myself for trusting a man by consistently cutting myself with a sharp object and putting a lighter to my pudendum. One day, my sister caught me in the act. She walked in and screamed. “Moyosoreoluwa, what are you doing to yourself?!” I sobbed, “He left me. Said I wasn’t presentable to his friends. I would never be good enough. I am worth nothing. Not worthy enough to be loved.” 

“Moyosoreoluwa, you don’t have to hurt yourself. Especially not because of a man. No one in this world can love YOU more than YOU. You should give to yourself the love you crave and desire. You should be proud of your body.” 

I grew to resent anyone who complimented my appearance. The words of my sister disgusted me. It screamed lies. She didn’t have to lie to make me feel better. She didn’t have the right to call me what I was not. Once, I was cladded in a flowery pink jumpsuit, a lady walked up to me and said; “Oh my God, I love your jumpsuit. It fits your body perfectly.” I scoffed. This was definitely the highest level of insult. What did she mean by “it fits my body perfectly?” 

Now, the urge to light myself was here again. I recalled that I had promised Morenike not to indulge in the act. She had been kind enough not to report me to our parents and kept it a secret. I was more frightened of what our parents would say. I decided to keep myself from the reality of things and bury myself in my imagination. What better way to do that than finding solace in Buchi Emecheta’s Second-Class Citizen? I picked up the now squeezed, rough pages from my library and travelled to Adah’s world. 

Engrossed and fascinated by Adah’s struggles, a shrill sound rang from my phone. Looking at the caller and seeing it was HIM. I let the sound die down, waited for a minute, before I texted “What’s up? I missed your call.” 

“Yeah, just checking up on you. How was your day?” 

“And how’s that your business?” I replied back fuming. Buchi had a way to bring out the feminism and hatred for men I didn’t know I had in me. 

“Chill, what’s with the tone? We cool, right?” 

“I don’t know whatever game you are trying to play but I can already see it won’t end well. I guess this is where we say our “byes”. You should delete my contact. I will do the same.” 

“Moyosore, where is this coming from? I thought we had something beautiful going.”

“I’m not sure of whatever we had going but it’s high time we called it quits. It was nice knowing you.”

“Did I do something wrong? What’s the matter? You sound so cold.”

“I’m simply not interested in whatever this is. I know where this is going to end and I’m not going to enter a ditch with my eyes open. I know you just want to use and dump me. I’m not fit to be called a woman. Not attractive enough. There’s no need to cling to an ugly body. I’m not going to postpone my judgement or give myself high hopes that things might turn out well. Let’s just go our separate ways.” 

“Where’s this coming from? Girl, have you seen yourself? And who said the worth or beauty of a woman is measured by how big her boobs or ass is? Who said that’s what I seek in a woman. Moyosore, I find you attractive and beautiful. In and out. Not like you need any validation from me or anyone. Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. Look into the mirror with clear eyes devoid of what anyone might have to say and you’ll see the beauty in yourself. Moyosore, you are beautiful. In this age we are, where literally all ladies parade themselves to be a model or have hopes of becoming one, your stature is one that ladies your age would kill for. You might have had terrible experiences when it comes to men. I know this might sound cliche but I’m not just here to say I love you and spin you over with words. I’m not here to say I’m different from them. I’m here to say “I love you” and prove it to you.”

“Does my opinion really matter when everyone thinks otherwise? Everyone thinks I’m not good enough. Everyone says I’m unattractive. The ones who say I am not let me down at the end of the day.”

“Care about what people say and you’ll always be their prisoner. You should not let the words of others cage you. Only your opinion matters to you. You are the pilot of your destiny. Believe only what you say to yourself. 

I could feel the sincerity in his tone, the passion in his voice. His words made me calm. Maybe he was right. Or was he just saying this to make me feel better? I sought clarification; “Do you really think this or you’re just saying this to make me feel better? 

“If I do make you feel better, that is never my intention. I just want you to see the light. To see the beauty in you. You are beautiful and you should recognise that.”

My eyes opened to the darkness. Confused, I reached for the switch and turned it on. The time on the wall clock caught my eye. It was 3.25am. I tried to recollect what happened. I had slept off, engrossed in Buchi’s book. I recollected what transpired in my sleep and it occurred to me that it was all a dream. “What a dream,” I said to myself.

I recollected the song recommendation my sister had given me to a while ago. “You should listen to ‘Scars to your Beautiful’ by Alessia Cara. Grabbing my headphone, I let the lyrics of ‘Scars to your Beautiful’ wrap me in a warm comforting embrace letting the melody carry me to a place of serenity. The lyrics providing the peace and love I have been searching for all along. I decided to see myself. Just right there, I saw the light. Everything Alessia said in the song made so much sense to me. “I’m beautiful and perfect!” I cried out ecstatically. 

Though being an avid lover of music tried to mend my broken pieces, it didn’t quite fix it. To be honest, my path to self awareness was met with a lot of obstacles as one single comment, or a video took me back to square one. With conscious effort I was able to win the battle of insecurity. Today I look into the mirror and tell myself beauty is not defined by perfection. I AM BEAUTIFUL!

Maryam Ayooluwa Agoro is a final year student of English at the University of Lagos. Maryam is a literary enthusiast and a book critic. She was hortlisted for the Atipo Book Review Prize organised by Book O’clock and has been published in The Kalahari Review. 

*Image by Emiliano Vittoriosi on Unsplash