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When I Became a Woman
By
Vera Ezimora
When I
was in elementary and secondary school in Nigeria, I
always thought I was grown and sexy. In fact, I could
have sworn I was grown and sexy. The boys in my school
always liked me; I was not that light-skinned, but they
called me ‘yellow paw-paw’, and the young men on my
street assumed my name was ‘Chi Chi’ because in their
limited minds, only Igbo girls were light-skinned. It
flattered me then, but I now realize it was ignorance on
their part and mine.
When I
was in JSS2, my French teacher told me he thought I was
a little Chinese; apparently, I have ‘Chinese eyes’. To
be politically correct, this would be called ‘Asian
eyes’. I thought he was crazy for thinking I was a
little Chinese, but when I came to the States, a few
people said I had ‘slanted eyes’, and therefore hinted a
little bit of Asian blood. Well, I have asked my
mother, and she is quite sure that neither she nor my
father has any Asian blood in them. Furthermore, she is
also very sure that my father is my actual father.
So I
was pretty much at the top of the ‘grown and sexy’ list
even though I was only about 10, and I put myself at the
top of that list. No need to discuss that I had no clue
what sexy meant; if I did, I could have sworn it was a
dirty word. Everything was great. Life was great. I
was sexy. Life was sexy. I remember how I always used
to wear a ‘shimmy’ under everything I wore.
Thinking back on it now, I do not know why every woman
in Nigeria felt the need to do so. But I have to say
that I wore the heck out of them. I had the ‘long
shimmy’, the ‘half shimmy’ (otherwise known as under
skirts), and the ‘singlet’ (also known as vests). My
favorite was my white mini long shimmy; it stopped right
above my knees. Every time I came back from school, I
would take my school uniform off and walk around in the
shimmy.
My God,
I was on fire! I was so hot that you could have fried a
crispy chicken on me, and still had to use a fire
extinguisher. Yes, I was that hot – or so I thought.
Everything was going great. Every day, I would put on
my blue school uniform, sparkling white socks (which
were now looking blue because I soaked them in ‘blue’
the previous night. Remember ‘blue’?), and shining
brown sandals (which my aunt sent from America, so you
know that even increased my hotness level), and I would
march out the door feeling too hot for my own good.
Sure, I had to trek to my friend’s house to catch a
ride, but I was still hot. As far as I was concerned,
that only gave me ten extra minutes to show a few extra
people just how hot I was.
I
thought I had it all until things suddenly changed.
Without notice, I became the bottom of the food chain.
What happened, you wonder? I’ll tell you what
happened. My friends started growing peanut-sized lumps
on their chests and I did not! Do you know how
humiliating that was? Night after night, I cried and
begged God for breasts. I told him to give me a little,
just a little bit! I had absolutely no breast at all; I
did not even have enough to qualify for a training bra!
My friends complained that their ‘lumps’ hurt and
itched, so I too started pretending that my invisible
lumps hurt and itched. I would kneel beside my bed,
praying and crying to God for breasts. I made all sorts
of promises, if only He would give me lumps! I would
never lie again. I would never insult my class mate. I
would never cheat in a test. I would never use markers
to draw on Ngozi, the house help’s face while she
slept. I even fasted for lumps!
Just
when my lumps started showing and I thought I was back
at the top of the list, something else knocked me off.
One day, my best friend, Uchenna came to school feeling
down. All day, she had her head on her desk, not really
talking to anyone. Finally, she revealed the reason for
her downcast attitude.
“It
came yesterday.” She said to me.
Confused, I asked, “What came?”
“My
menses. And I’m having cramps.” She whispered. I
neither know why she whispered or why we called it
‘menses’. Today, I will gladly tell anyone and everyone
about my monthly visitor, Ms. Flow.
“Cramps?” I asked her. I had no idea what cramps
were. Uchenna, on the other hand, knew everything
because she had two older sisters while I had none.
I am
ashamed to say this, but I was green with envy. I knew
that almost all of my class mates had been getting their
‘menses’, but it did not hit home until my own best
friend started seeing hers, and mine was no where to be
found. I asked her what the pain felt like, but she
could not really describe it. She just wanted it to
stop. That night, I was back on my knees, praying,
crying, begging, and promising to keep all the promises
I failed to keep earlier.
Did I
mention I was fourteen by this time? I fasted some more
too. Everyday, I eagerly ran to the bathroom and pulled
my underwear down, hoping for at least one spot of
blood. I even bought a pack of Simple Sanitary Pads.
Remember Simple? It came in a bright yellow pack. I
only wanted it because my favorite aunt who was now
married and living in America used to use it when she
lived with us – although I had no clue that it was for
blood.
Can you
imagine how betrayed I felt by God when I found out that
my friend, Isabella whom I was fourteen whole months
older than not only had much bigger breasts, but also
had her ‘menses’? Isabella, on the other hand used
Always pads, which I experimented with a few times –
even though I had no ‘leakage’. I prayed for my
‘menses’ and everything that came with it. Yes, I also
prayed for the cramps. Without my ‘menses’, I did not
feel complete; I did not feel like a woman. It did not
help that I was round and had low cut hair – not that
I’m no longer round, but my hair is long now.
I was
fifteen when one day . . . voila! A drop of red
appeared. I was so excited that I could have had a
seizure. So off I went to put on a Simple sanitary
pad. As soon as I put it on, I sat on the porch outside
my house, feeling accomplished and complete. I had done
it all. I was now officially a WOMAN. I sat down
confidently with one leg crossed over the other, chin
held up high, and there was no stopping me now. I
waited a few hours to go and change the pad; I was sure
it would be full and almost pouring out by then, but to
my greatest surprise, there was nothing! I cried. And
cried. And cried some more. The next day came, and
there was still nothing. Where did my drop go? My
mother explained to me that it was not ‘regular’ yet.
Ms. Flow disappeared until I was sixteen when she
reappeared and has continued to do so every twenty-four
days.
These
were the big stumbling blocks I faced in becoming a
woman. The little stumbling block was being teased
for having too little hair. I am not a hairy person, so
if I shave my underarms, the amount of hair that will be
there after a month would probably be as long as the one
a regular person has kept for only a week. I used to
think it was a problem. Now, I am grateful for it. But
once upon a time, I begged God to give me more hair.
And do not get me started on begging for pimples. That
is a story for another day.
After
all has been said and done, I now realize that Ms. Flow
did not make me a woman. She only made me fertile.
Everyday, I realize that the day before, I knew less,
and as I grow, I continue to learn. I am a woman today
– I think. But tomorrow, I will be more woman than I am
today. Needless to say, I no longer beg, pray, or cry,
or fast for lumps, hair, pimples, and Ms. Flow. But I
especially do not ask for any shape or form of cramps.
Been there. Done that. Do not ever want to go back
there.
Source:
Vera Ezimora
blogspot.com
Vera Ezimora was born in Leningrad, Russia on the
14th of January at some point in history. She was born
to parents from Anambra, Nigeria and currently resides
in Maryland, USA, presently writing a novel, which she
hopes to finish and publish soon.
www.verastic.blogspot.com
verastic@yahoo.com
posted 8 August 2007
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updated 6 November
2007 |
