I
The words come out of his mouth rather awkwardly. You can sense his trepidation as if he is about to cross a line. Perhaps he has no business having this conversation. Is this a territory reserved for her mother? Do I have jurisdiction in this particular instance? You can see the thoughts that go through his head. He is now sweating profusely. His lips are forming a pout and moving in and out of it. His clammy hands have around the driving wheel. Parenting is difficult, you know, but there are breasts involved, and he considers himself to be a man who ‘protects his own.’ So, does this count? “Why can I see your breasts?” he said, turning down the music. This is the reason why women are raped! Are you desperately attempting to attract the attention of men? Don’t put on that outfit again. It’s not very ladylike.” Silence. Bimpe’s face remains expressionless as she hears this. In fact, you’d never guess he was speaking to her. This is frequently her sole means of protest. Another path she takes is when she says, “Sorry, what did you say?” Bimpe hopes that by asking, the recipient would reconsider the stupid thing they said and abstain from doing it again. It’s why she wears Air Pods even when she’s not listening to anything.
In this moment of verbal violation, Bimpe’s genuine desire is to grab the steering wheel and swerve the car into the nearest tree on his side. Nothing too serious so that he does not die; her tuition expenses must still be paid somehow. A concussion, a bruising here and there, will suffice while she shouts in his face that he can see her breasts since they are out. After all, she had chosen for them to be out. Last she checked, these were her breasts. She wants to educate him on the true meaning of rape. It is not because women have their breasts exposed; instead, rapists rape. She wishes to inform him that he is a rape apologist and that she would not be shocked if he had raped a few women or girls because males can do anything. Cue It’s a Man’s World out there. She wants to inform him that he plainly knows nothing about his daughter since if he did, he would see that she is not dressed to desperately attract men. Her breasts are protruding in an attempt to entice men and women. Bimpe, on the other hand, chews her tongue. Her rage is as fierce as Abuja’s sweltering heat. She smiles as she watches the man she frequently refers to as “foolish” bounce his head to a Wizkid song as if nothing had occurred and recalls seeing porn videos on his phone when she was nine.
II
Yetunde knew she was up to no good when her mother arrived at her house weeping, her chest heaving as she battled to regulate her breaths. Mama Yetunde was a tiny woman, but her theatrical antics were enough to fuel a stage show. Yetunde constantly told her that she would have made it famous in Nollywood if she had tried harder. As an actor as well as a stage director. She knows how to make good use of space.
Mama Yetunde never failed to see every choice made by Yetunde as a personal attack. Yetunde’s mother assumed she had something against her and was attempting to ruin her life when she opted to pursue history instead of law. But, as if that wasn’t enough, she had to proceed to her dorm room at the University of Lagos and virtually strip nude while convulsing and muttering inaudible phrases. It took a lot of persuasions to get her to pull herself together. She was a mess. When Yetunde announced she wanted to work in Australia rather than England, her mother grieved for a week, mourning how Yetunde was attempting to deprive her of her only daughter. It didn’t matter if Yetunde had always stated that living in Australia was her desire. Mama Yetunde’s personal desire to have her children as near her as possible justified the ambush. And, even though Yetunde had informed her mother about this development months in advance, Mama Yetunde decided to play astonished and roll on the floor in total agony on the day she was leaving for the airport. She was depressed for weeks after
Yetunde left.
This time, her mother arrived at her house, asking that Yetunde marry and give her grandchildren as soon as possible. She came with her sisters, Aunty Iyabo and Aunty Bisi, who were clearly there for moral support based on their bewildered demeanour. Mama Yetunde stumbled over her words as she screamed about how old she was and how she wanted to see her grandchildren before she died. Yetunde halted her performance by saying frankly, “Ma mi, I am not getting married anytime soon, and if you want to see your grandkids before you die, I advice you to start praying to God for long life and quit bothering me.” The stillness that followed resulted from the shock that raced down Mama Yetunde’s spine, and it didn’t last long. Yetunde’s mother let out a piercing scream and sank to the floor before she could turn around and walk away. She began to repeat, “she is attempting to kill me.” “She’s trying to kill me,” she said so quickly it appeared she was speaking in tongues. Her sisters fanned her with their scarves as she returned from what seemed to be a religious experience. Mama Yetunde’s eyes were dry, yet she cried like a bereaved widow.
III
Patrick was a pervert. We could see how his gaze hung around breast level during talks with female students. My best friend, Tobi, and I were both in JS3 B. We had decided to study together for our junior WAEC exams. To be honest, she needed it more than I did. I was inherently intelligent and had always been, so I was sure to succeed no matter what.
On the other hand, Tobi took a bit longer to grasp things. She struggled a bit more than I did. While I consistently finished first throughout our whole year, Tobi always finished second, but there was a huge difference. I generally average 96%, and she averages 86%.
Patrick taught us math, so we couldn’t get away from him. It was the topic that we all took, and it was the one that the majority of them struggled with. With dreadful eyes, I would watch as girls entered his office. Their stance had shifted. They slouched and concealed their breasts beneath A4 notebooks. Chisara, one of the girls, began wearing tights beneath her skirt during his office hours. This all started after Patrick refused to stop touching her thighs. It was so awful that the poor girl had bruises. I didn’t want to go, but Tobi urged that it was vital in her defence. We were both unfamiliar with this subject, yet it was critical.
When we arrived at his door, I knocked twice. “Come in,” he said. He was surprised to find the two of us at the door and informed us that he only admitted one student at a time. I told him firmly that we should come in together because we worked best as a team, but he wouldn’t budge, so I walked in first. I sat opposite Patrick, leaving the door slightly ajar. It may have been the lack of timidity in my eyes or voice that drew him in, or possibly my sensuous form, which could not be covered no matter how enormous my garments had been instructed to be by the vice-principal. Either way, Patrick’s mental state was pretty evident as he rose up to close the door. I maintained a straight expression, unaffected by how outrageous things had already become. He returned to his seat to begin the meeting.
Patrick licked his lips throughout office hours and nodded his head towards my breasts. My facial expression showed how disgusted I felt. The fact that his tongue was orange irritated me. The culprit was a half-empty Fanta bottle on his table. Before answering my final question, Patrick stood up and walked around his table towards me, asking whether I was aware of how lovely I was. Yes, I said. I was used to responding to this question from men his age and older. He was once again taken aback by my response. “Well, if you’re so beautiful, why don’t you get up and kiss me?” he said. Another one I’d heard before. I stood up and stepped closer to him with a smirk on my face, pouting my lips. When he closed his eyes, I punched him in the face with both of my hands, drew my palms to his lips, and squeezed firmly before running out of his office. Patrick had reported me to the vice-principal the next day, stating that a JS3 ‘temptress’ had strutted into his office offering him sex, and when he respectfully declined, she went berserk and slapped him. I told my side of the story, but no one on the Board believed me. After the ‘investigation,’ I was expelled, and my parents were called to pick up their harlot daughter.
On my last day of school, the vice-principal, Paula – a breastless, hairless miserable old woman who despised me slightly less than I hated her guts looked me in the eyes and remarked, “You are too sugary! You act like a slut, and there is no room for that in this school.” The words were meaningless and fell flat on the floor. It wasn’t the first time I’d been called ‘sugary’ because my breasts were larger than the other girls’ or my thighs were full. That day, I informed her that we were all sluts, even her dead mother. Lord rest her unfortunate sugary soul. I assumed her mother was dead since Paula appeared to be wildly old. It was not unimaginable for the hollow womb that gave birth to her diabolical soul to still be in a live object unless by an unnecessary miracle. I told her the same thing. I turned my back on her and walked away, leaving her stunned. I made a point of swaying my hips vigorously so she would die of shame and jealousy.
