I wrote this version of me (above) out of my life because she was not strong enough to survive my circumstances. Her nails were too long to write novels and her soul too weak to take rejection. Her hair was chemically relaxed and tangled up in string and synthetic tracks; she was ruining her edges and conforming to the wrong standards of beauty. There is too much make-up on her face hiding her skin. She was struggling to maintain her individuality- her obedient stare exemplary of this. She was so young, so broken and so unsure of who she wanted to be.
This girl (above) is not much better, but she is at least sure of who she is not. She is not the girl with the silky, soft flowing hair and she will never comb chemicals through her locs to make them straight. She detests long nails and is strong enough to face rejection because she is desperate enough to chase freedom. She is still insecure but not about her Africanity, not about the texture of her hair or her individuality. She is scared of many things but she’s also a lot stronger. She is still broken, a little older and not convinced the path she has chosen is one that has been paved for her.
I don’t know exactly who I am or what I’m becoming but I know I’ve never been a banana. Always plantain. Never white rice, always jollof.
That’s something anyway.