I guiltily reflected on the heady feeling I get when called beautiful and the very thoughtless judgement on others I might have dared to call ugly like they had a choice.
I am here behind this keyboard and like many times in recent months I feel
like there is much I want to write about but my fingers wouldn’t heed the
voice in my head and as always this might just end up as one of many
uncompleted 344 lettered words on my laptop. A cold air passes through my
body, I imagine it is what a politician that used to have the support of
the people, when caught between the elite and the people he used to care
about passionately feels. A feeling of loss, like a part of me is gone,
the part that could put words to feelings.
I am trying very much to make sure this write up isn’t about me. See, I
read somewhere that a good writer writes more from empathy ‘cause if one’s only source of inspiration is self, best one can do is get lucky with a few good poems and probably a book. Even if I am not a good writer yet, it’s one of my aspirations so I find myself trying to understand every situation more deeply and my environment received more colour in my mind.
Beyonce’s ‘I was here’ is playing somewhere in my head and I am getting locked back in the center of thoughts I want to get rid of (Yes, I wanna be known and remembered after I’ m gone but today ain’t about me).
On my way to work today, I saw this tall dude whom I guess even his
friends wouldn’t be able to recognise ‘cause he was scarred from head down
probably from a fire accident . I tried stealing glances at him, I tried to form in my head what complexion he used to be, I couldn’t get a good look at his eyes but I think he has a great one, his lips were chapped and burnt pink. I wondered if he has a girlfriend; if he still looks at a mirror, if he cares about how badly the sun beats him, I wondered about myself and the shallowness of it all.
I wondered about the pimples I had from the week before and the different products I used. I wondered about my weave and the sweet smell of my cologne. I tried to imagine what people see when they see me. I guiltily reflected on the heady feeling I get when called beautiful and the very thoughtless judgement on others I might have dared to call ugly like they had a choice.
It’s funny how most of us are quick to claim deep, trust me, this isn’t a
cry out for spongy hairs and non usage of deodorants. Waking up last week
to that piece by Chimamanda about African women and weaves got me thinking about who we really are. Now, it is natural for me to have India Arie’s ‘I am not my hair’ playing in my head ‘cause my opinion about looks has
nothing in common with Chimamanda’s.
I agree with India, we are all souls and we are not to be defined by our physical appearances. It is ironic how our society works though, beautiful people can walk in a room as cool as they please and everyone wants to be at their service even before hearing them speak. I saw an ad where it was boldly written “attractive females needed.” Whatever happened to other values? I thought.
The question I have been trying to answer in my mind is; when will the
society start creating the avenue for the soul to shine through? Are we to
be judged by our dreads or expensive weaves; are we to pay the price for
being born ugly?
Op-ed pieces and contributions are the opinions of the writers only and do not represent the opinions of Y!/YNaija.