A Look Into The Mirror

The cascade of bougainvillea, roses and sunflowers was always a sight to revel in. So, as I sit today on this old wooden bench, taking in the beauty of nature the park offers, I only wish I was as beautiful. I guess people would be attracted to me then, and not treat me like I didn't exist. When I got any attention, it was usually a forerunner to very distasteful ridicule. The words pierced deeper when people saw me in the company of my sister and asked where I had come from in a tone laden with a mix of surprise and mockery. This has been my life since I was a little girl. I'm supposed to be used to this already. But how can I? The wound in my heart seems to be in a never-ending cycle of clot-and-open-up-again, especially now that I've moved into the teenage years. The words seem to hurt a little more now so that I can't shake them off as easily as I used to. Not that they were ever easy to shake off though.

I hate to look in the mirror and see the outbreak of pimples spread across it. I wish there had been a break out of womanly curves instead. I once heard someone say that guys don't look the way of girls who are straight as a rule. Not that I cared about guys anyway. I liked to think I didn't care. I liked to believe I wasn't bothered that the guys didn't stop to say hi or pat my back. But deep down, I knew that wasn't the case. I craved attention. I yearned to hear some dude holler at me in his rich baritone.

'Omo, you're smart. Focus on your studies, become somebody great in life and people will flock around you. Then you'd be weary of all the attention coming your way,' Father said often, only that he did so in different ways. He was like the only person in the world who didn't love my sister more than me.
He also said, 'People are beautiful in different ways. While you think you'd give anything to be pretty, there are people who'd gleefully give away their pulchritude to have your quick mind and intelligence.' And I looked up the word, pulchritude, in the dictionary. People say I got my intelligence from him. Well, I didn't have mother around to compare him with. She died when I was 4 and Ibhade 5.

When Ibhade, my sister, fell pregnant I felt sorry for her really. I also prayed for her, that she'd find the physical and emotional strength to scale through. But there was this part of me- obscure and faraway- that thought it was good riddance to bad rubbish. Ibhade had been too proud of her beauty. While my skin was a dull shade of black that I had tried to improve with oils and lotions, hers was as smooth as shea butter and its brown colour was the hue of chestnuts. People who had met Mother said she had Mother's bright eyes and graceful gait. And she, Ibhade, dressed to kill. She was the typical slay queen. I wanted to see how she'd slay now with a baby bump. She's due in two weeks, an indication that, inspite of me and the little traces of evil lurking in my heart, God answered my prayer to help her.

I glance at my watch. 5.30pm. I had better hurry home before Daddy returns from work and begins to worry about his little girl. Besides, I was beginning to feel sleepy. I pick myself up and make my way out of the park and into the route that leads home. Immediately I arrive home and the four walls of my room, I settle into my bed to catch some sleep.

I was on a grand stage, and my teeth shone beneath the golden lights as I received an award. It seemed to have been a very important award. Perhaps a Nobel prize or something close. In the succeeding scene, I had been flanked by my husband. And as we walked down a red carpet, at least a hundred cameras clicked.

As I get out of bed, reliving the dream, I remember Father's words last week. I had been sulking over what the meanest girl in my class said to me. Father had cupped my face and looked into my eyes as he said, 'You're gold, my girl. The world cannot wait to see and experience you because what you have in you is priceless. Get up and show them what you've got!'

And I sure will show the world what I've got.