Hello Ndi nkem!!
Hope you are all doing well. This week has been so hectic for me. My sisters returned from Nigeria. My youngest sister is starting college and I’ve been doing the running around preparing for the start of school. This pseudo motherhood life is not easy please. My baby girl lifestyle is not very accommodating of the hecticness, but I’m surviving. How about you? What have you been up to? Let me know in the comments below.
Today’s story is something I’ve been wanting to share for a while. I’ve been gathering up the courage to be vulnerable on this platform, and I think I’m slowly getting there. So please bear with me.
I was 8 when I first started noticing men staring at me. I remember the age cause my last sister was just over a year old. That was the age I realized something was happening to my body. I couldn’t bath outside with my siblings anymore. I couldn’t go shirtless when it was hot. Wear certain clothes without disapproving looks. My boobs had started growing and I was becoming a woman. I hated everything that came with this process, but most especially I hated the looks from men.
There were men everywhere. I never really noticed them until I realized they noticed me. But they didn’t look at my face, they looked at my chest. I was 8, only in primary three, but I was no longer a stranger to the gaze of men. And my mother noticed it too.
She called me into her room one day and told me to go and get a bucket of hot water from the kitchen. When I fetched the bucket, she told me to get ready for a shower but in her bathroom not the kids’ one. It was very strange but growing up we never questioned my mum so I obliged. Inside the bathroom I entered the bath while she got a stool and sat in front of me. She began pressing my developing breasts with the hot water and towel. God I screamed. I cried and begged wondering what I did to deserve such a punishment. All she said was that she didn’t want men looking at me.
This torture continued three more times after until I guess she gave up. Each time, I just resigned to my fate. I couldn’t hate my mother. All I could do was hate my breasts. I hated my breasts so much. She was the object of my torture. She was the reason creepy men stared at me. She was the reason I was molested. She was the reason I grew up too early. She was the reason I hated myself.
It’s been 15 years since I was that girl whose boobs were punished because of the eyes of men. And it’s taken me just as long to have a better relationship with my boobs. Some days I just want to chop her off. Other days I can’t but admire her beauty. We still have our moments and challenges, but we’ve come a long way. I’m on a journey to love every part of my body that society told me was unloveable. I truly hope I succeed.
Thank you for sharing in this journey. If you have experienced breast ironing before, feel free to share your story. How has the journey been trying to love your boobs? I can’t wait to hear what everyone has to say. Till next time. K’odi!
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