BEHIND THE VEIL
The Beginning of Rebellion
By Miskilu Aminat
I am that girl who is content with others' oblivion to her presence in a room. I have mastered the art of blending with my environment because my voice is never heard. In a family where other parents come bearing gifts to show gratitude to my grandma for housing their kids but no one to check on me as an orphan, I decided to be my grndmother's perfect daughter hoping it will compensate for the care she is giving me. I never had the luxury to rebel as a teenager even though my cousins would throw a feat at the slightest provocation. I chug in the dissatisfaction and struggle to be my grandmother’s perfect little girl.
The street I lived in is a close-knit one where a family knows the other family and my family is popular for early pregnancy among the female children. You can call it the Rasheed’s family legacy. With every step I take, I feel people’s stares boring into my back and waiting for my protruded belly. Because I wouldn’t want that, I changed the way I walk to mimic the steps of a man; wear a hard facial expression and constantly update my character to fit the societal definition of perfection. I adjusted thinking that it would help relieve the burden of watching over me.
The more unexpressed thoughts I have, the more I feel an inner discontent, and begin to harbour hatred for human relations and withdraw from mingling with my other cousins. When my uncle came with his agenda to ensure his female family members wore hijab, I resisted with so much force I never knew I was capable of. While others rushed down to attend Asalatu, I was busy priming and smoothing over my white flower dress with cap sleeve and pink fringes at the helm.
My uncle stormed into the room with dry freshly cut and long sticks from the bush opposite Iya Iyabo’s provision store. As the the heavy strokes of sticks lashed to wretch ugly marks on my skin, I screamed in agony and strings of curses escaped my gnashed teeth. Neighbours pleaded and struggled to wriggle the cane from my uncle but he wouldn’t budge until my beautiful white dress was soiled with blood. He left with a smug satisfaction on his hideous face. He thought he had passed his message but something hatched within me on that day: the fierce determination to escape my family's repressive grasp and tear that veil of constant physical abuse. I was gasping for the air of freedom.
To be continued...
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