Coconut. Oreo. Different. Not black. But too black.
What is a black female? What does it mean to be the right black female? Does it start with my hair? The liberating yet stressful big chop to the quick and convenient self-actualising corn rows, Fulani, Goddess - braids. Never once in lace-front, too cheap for that extravagance. Excuses to avoid the laced exploration and mask the anxiety of 1A locks against my very black skin.
Is it skin? Iya Dudu, 'all I see is teeth', and your skin is flawless. The skin tone both revered and dispaired. The complicated nature of complexion. Not the Brown Skin Girl. The dark skin one trying to glow all the same.
Is it the body? Lepa Shandy, 'where's your back, you must have the bunda'. And what if you don't? Are you ill? Why are you so skinny? You need to eat. Several doctor visits later, certified healthy, but that wasn't enough.
Why this un-African, un-black, un-feminine shape? Where were the joyous, Maya-proclaiming curves of black femininity? Just this shell, neither desired nor glorified. Yet.
With time comes a realisation. There is no such thing as the right black woman. There is no such thing as the right anything. It is a process. Yet, those voices of inadequacy still boom. Still, I slowly nourish the vision that stares back at me. We are all each other has, so I'm learning to be kinder to me. This is what it means to be black and a woman.
What is a black female? What does it mean to be the right black female? Does it start with my hair? The liberating yet stressful big chop to the quick and convenient self-actualising corn rows, Fulani, Goddess - braids. Never once in lace-front, too cheap for that extravagance. Excuses to avoid the laced exploration and mask the anxiety of 1A locks against my very black skin.
Is it skin? Iya Dudu, 'all I see is teeth', and your skin is flawless. The skin tone both revered and dispaired. The complicated nature of complexion. Not the Brown Skin Girl. The dark skin one trying to glow all the same.
Is it the body? Lepa Shandy, 'where's your back, you must have the bunda'. And what if you don't? Are you ill? Why are you so skinny? You need to eat. Several doctor visits later, certified healthy, but that wasn't enough.
Why this un-African, un-black, un-feminine shape? Where were the joyous, Maya-proclaiming curves of black femininity? Just this shell, neither desired nor glorified. Yet.
With time comes a realisation. There is no such thing as the right black woman. There is no such thing as the right anything. It is a process. Yet, those voices of inadequacy still boom. Still, I slowly nourish the vision that stares back at me. We are all each other has, so I'm learning to be kinder to me. This is what it means to be black and a woman.