Everything you're about to read is true, except the "muscle arm"; that was purely imagined.
A simple walk into the church felt like a self-imposed public parade for assessment, like I was on a runway. What was I thinking?! I first took off Mum's fat faced bangle, then immediately after the homily began, I pulled off Mum's wrist watch too. Instead of sitting on the second pew, close to the wall on the left hand side, directly behind the church cathecist, which I had made my favorite seat for over two months on every sunday, I had to sit right next to my Mum.
I fixed my eyes on the speaker the priest was speaking into. Anyone else closely watching me would have assumed I was paying undivided attention to the homily. But between God, you and I, I was not. I was scared stiff thinking of how I was going to clap my hands, how I was going to walk round from the fifth pew, through the aisle with a few eyes if not all, on me and back to my seat during time for offering. I was deep in thought about how I was going to walk to the altar to receive holy communion, and how on earth I was going to stay without fidgeting, waiting until my parents were free and ready to drive us home, when conversing with the guy who annoyingly loved approaching me for the most awkward conversations, "the quiet girl" as he usually kick-start the conversations, refering to me, still with a few eyes or all waiting around, on me.
The church warden rolled the glass cased box forward, to the space seperating the altar and the congregation. It was time for offertory. I felt curiously alarmed as I probably would feel if I was caught breaking some rule.But this time, the rule was breaking me!
The peach coloured canopy of a headtie felt loosely rested on my head. The black blouse was the only thing close to okay that I wore but for the transparent material from the shoulder to my elbow which showed my muscled arms. And the black beads which now made me feel 40. Similarly, the peach coloured wrapper was so heavy and unexpertly tied that it changed my usually graceful catwalks to nervous shorter steps that reminded me of my sack race days in elementary school.
It was all Mum's clothing and accessories. My reward for good behaviour. The type of reward that only Nigerian kids, I guess would trully ever understand. And from Tuesday evening, right until 8:40 a.m that morning as I locked the door in preparation for mass, all through the short journey to the church and Dad's first turn into the premises, my thoughts were only occupied by how womanly beautiful I had dressed and the admiring gazes it was going to bring me.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Mum standing up, so I stood up as well. I turned right and clapped my hands but couldn't dance, not even as much as singing with the congregation. Why this burden?! Why meeeee?!! I was only trying to dress like my Mum and believe me, to look a more grown up version of myself.
I'm guessing something quite close to this has happened to everybody and especially the ladies. So, my point exactly...BE YOURSELF. But not so outrageously that you can't even act yourself as in my case. And in other to be yourself, don't entertain any bias at all to fashion trends or any other styles in culture, just dress and look your typical self!
My lesson for the day? The best you can ever be is to be your true self without apology. So, just be you. Not Mum, not Sister, not your best friend. But you as only you can be.