Smack Your Goddamn Daddy
Written by Zoë Egbuta
Image courtesy of Yana Van Duffel
I’m afraid of many sensible things. The color yellow, pregnancy, getting into a fight because I rage baited too close to the sun. But as of now, my biggest fear is ending up as a miserable African auntie. The one that has so much to say about the way your parents raised you or the way you’re dressed like a boy. The ones who must always start a conversation with you with,“ When I was your age, I could/would never..” The aunties that you hate going out with because once they see a girl with a mini skirt on, it’s hell on Earth for her and you.
As of now, I shiver in my timbers imagining myself becoming these aunties, and because of this very valid fear, I’ve decided to be dedicated to living a life authentic to myself, and you need to do the same.
A couple weeks ago, my dad looked at my fit and asked me if I would change any part of my appearance to give my hypothetical in-laws a good daughter-in-law to look at. For reference, I wear very baggy clothes, my hair must always have some color in it. Obviously, I laughed in his face because, what the hell is he talking about, but it got me thinking. If I was a yes-man who agreed with the ideal mental and physical appearance my parents had for me, I would in fact be the auntie that plagues my nightmares.
Now, I was nowhere near offended over my dad’s hypothetical, but it was just proof of the way Nigerians ascribe bad character to having colorful hair and a sharp tongue. Honestly, I’m a little saddened by this because those preconceived behaviors are what are stopping a lot of children in Nigeria from expressing themselves authentically.
The thing about expectations is that they continue to grow the more you adhere to them. The minute you start bowing to these expectations, the lower you will be expected to bow. Every freedom I have at the moment is one that I have fought for, and the fear that it can all be taken away once I give in to one expectation, causing me to join the apocalypse of the dreaded African aunties.
To some extent, I understand these aunties. It must be a bitter reminder to see a young lady, from the same country and tribe as you, with the same complexion as you, with the same body you had at that age, live a life so authentic to herself, reminding you that you never had the chance to“ rebel” or tell your father’s friend,“ No, I don’t want to bring a bowl of water for you to wash your hands in.” You never got to disobey your parents, or experiment with different aesthetics. It has to be a terrible reminder of the life that you could have lived when you see young women gallivanting around in such a manner.
But this is why I encourage young women, particularly young Black women, and even more so young African women, to wear the shortest skirt imaginable, put on multicolored eyeshadow, get that tattoo you want, do the crazy hobbies. Wear those long ashawo boots, dye your hair neon pink, get your piercings. And most importantly, do your braids down to your ankles.
“Wear those long ashawo boots, dye your hair neon pink, get your piercings. And most importantly, do your braids down to your ankles.”
When you are in your fifties, you will see girls experimenting with the way they look and instead of that visceral reaction your Mom’s friend has when she sees an anklet, all you’ll feel is nostalgia.
