Kokolette
Onyeka, sometimes you wanted the mirror to lie that your buttocks weren’t as flat as the chalkboard in your school. You wanted to be as pale as Soursop. You wanted your waist to taper in and your hips to curve out like the number eight, just like Okwukweka’s. You bought bras and stuffed them with old clothes, hopeful that your breasts would morph from udara seeds to prime oranges. You wanted to be the toast of both the roadside agberos that called out ‘fine girl’ to every light-skinned girl so she could buy from their bales of colourful clothes. The market aisle was Okwukweka’s runway, and every man saw her as a potential customer; they always tried to convince her that their okirika clothes would suit her like a second skin and their shoes would slide over her slender feet like Cinderella.
Nobody called you ‘my colour’ like they called Okwukweka. Everybody wanted to marry her, from the vulcanisers down the street with their grease-stained uniforms to men who rode down your street with clean automobiles and expensive colognes. Anytime they hailed from across the street, both of you would turn, and they would point at her.
“Na the yellow pawpaw I dey call,” and Okwukweka would smile shyly as if she didn’t know how pale she looked.
Sometimes, you sat at the edge of Okwukweka’s bed, running your hands through the immaculate bottles of cosmetics — small and tube-like- that promised to maintain supple fair skin or brighten you by two shades. You opened them, pressed some of the transparent fluid onto the tip of your fingers, and applied generously on your face, hoping to wake up like Snow White in the morning. But nothing happened! You woke up the same Blackie; black, strong-faced and long-legged.
On television, the soap and cream advertisements were populated with girls who looked nothing like you; they looked like dolls manufactured from the same plant, light-skinned and curvy. Someone advised that if you wanted to be as fair as the girls on the Orange Drugs campaign calendar, all you had to do was pour a bucket of boiling water over yourself, and it would whiten you instantly, like Hermione from Harry Potter. You did the finger test by dipping your index finger in the water to feel the heat but snatched it away as it scalded your finger, sending multiple signals of pain cascading to your brain. You couldn’t do it.
“Nne, your sister cheated you,” the women who came to see your mother would say. They would snap their fingers and sigh while eating the rice and stew your mother cooked in the sitting room. They smacked their lips while securing Okwukweka for their sons who were outside the country or in Onitsha market and would arrive during Christmas, dressed in fake Yves Saint Laurent and Christian Dior bags loaded with cash to pick a bride amongst the teeming young girls that threw themselves at them.
“Nwam,” they told Okwukweka, “Okwy na Cambodia will take good care of you. By the time money touches this your fair skin, o na enwuke ka anyanwu ututu.”
Then, they would squeeze crumpled notes in her hand and urge her to buy soap and cream with it while waiting for Emeka na Vietnam to take her to the promised land.
Their words and your mother’s favouritism didn’t bother you, even though she didn’t let you do the things Okwukweka could get away with.
“Onyeka, pull that skirt up or go and look for something better to wear,” she ordered after scrutinising you from head to toe as you got ready to go for the evening lesson.
You both were preparing for JAMB and took after-school lessons with a teacher your mother hired to brush you up for the exam. You protested, stamped your feet on the ground, shook your head, and swung your hands in defiance, but she picked up her shoe to throw at you before you scurried into the house, searching for the shapeless gowns that showed no calf.
Your mother wasn’t an evil woman by any standards, and she wasn’t a bad wife to your father before he passed. She readily prepared his ofe onugbu and pounded his fufu to a smooth consistency, with love, but you could not tell if she was truly a good mother to you and Okwukweka. Did she fall short with sharing the love meant for you both by rationing the greater part for Okwukweka? It was evident that Okwukweka was her favourite daughter even though she insisted she loved you both equally. Despite the glaring difference in affection, you and your sister grew up with a strong bond. She came through any time the bullies pushed you to the ground. She was the younger one, but she had a bigger build and fierce aura that scared boys away.
It continued till your JAMB scores came out, and your score secured you a slot to study Mass Communication at Imo State University. At the same time, Okwukweka left for the Federal University of Technology, Owerri, to study Public Health. You had to write JAMB three times because of poor scores, and your younger sister met up with you and passed on her first try. Smart! Beautiful! Was there anything God didn’t bless Okwukweka with?
You stopped at the entrance of the university, heaving a sigh as you read the dilapidated sign,
WELCOME TO IMO STATE UNIVERSITY
The board loomed over you like a disclaimer at the beginning of a horror movie promising violence and gore. Young people like you were moving in and out of the gates, all in a hurry, avoiding honking cars, on their way to the different lecture halls scattered around. You would later learn that the warning was actual, and the university confirmed the Darwinian theory of evolution, only the strongest could survive. You were thrilled to discover that you shared a room with an equally beautiful roommate, Ugonma; she looked like a main character in music videos that extolled the beauty of Igbo women. Flavour called them ‘ugegbe oyibo’, the pinnacle of beauty - tall, voluptuous, and curvy. You met Ugonma when you dragged your big box and took the direction of the slip in your hands to room 4B. She had sprayed perfume on her clothes while stepping into her sandals to leave the room.
“Welcome, dear,” she greeted you.
You searched for the right words to say, your lips glued to the roof of your mouth.
“You are my new roommate, right?” She didn’t notice you had turned dumb.
“Yes...” you stuttered as she poured baby oil on her legs, and they glowed in the dark.
“Welcome to the great Imo State University.”
She flashed you a wide, charming smile, and you hoped her heart was just as big.
It was at this point you knew that there was no place for a dark-skinned girl like you. If they didn’t see you when you stood beside Ugonma, what chance did you stand amongst these that God created on the seventh day under the bright sun and with the lightest shades of clay? You saw girls pour out of hostels in the morning running to school, each lighter and thicker than the last, with clothing that left little to the imagination. You saw handsome boys, not the ones in your village who didn’t apply lotion to their dried skins or lip balm to their cracked lips.
Suddenly, you wanted the attention Okwukweka got. You wanted any neck not infected with meningitis to turn around and look at you like they stared at the girls whose waists bounced like there was spring holding them together and not bones. You were not yet a girl, and you were not yet a woman. You were somewhere in between, and you didn’t believe you would fully reach metamorphosis if you didn’t have the formula for the Golden ratio - fair skin, a guitar-shaped body and exaggerated bosoms; the starter pack for girls who got the most attention.
As the weeks wore on, you saw the gifts Ugonma got - the jumbo-sized teddy bears that occupied the space meant for two of you on the bed, the chocolate she shared with you, the love letters written in cursive, and the frequent calls by anonymous admirers. You wondered if she was a student like you because she went out every night with clothes that barely covered her body and a face full of makeup. She returned tired in the morning and slumped into bed, cradled by her teddy bears.
Whenever you returned from school, you would open your pot and discover she had eaten a small portion of your pepper jollof rice and suya. She often made up for it by giving you some spoils of her nightly adventures, and sometimes, she gave you decadent meat pies or chicken and rice from up-end restaurants. Though you two were fundamentally different, were two different peas in a pod, you grew to understand and enjoy each other’s company; you confiding in her about how you couldn’t keep up with the day-to-day rush from one lecture hall to the other and she warning you that the guys on campus especially the ones in final year with big boots and oversized shirts meant no good.
“They just want to join the October rush, chop, and clean mouth. Once they graduate, it is over, so don’t let them sleep with you. Even if you want to do that, always tell them to use a condom. You are easy prey with your innocence and naivety.”
“Jesus!” You made the sign of the cross, and she opened her mouth wide and laughed.
“How do you study here to pass? Do you go for night classes?” you asked.
She laughed out loud again like you had said something so funny.
“I go to a different type of night class to make up for my day classes” She bounced on the bed and drifted to sleep.
You floated through the orientation exercise, settling into your Mass Communication class and meeting new people. In the first week, you had already made friends with Jachi, an awkwardly shy girl like yourself who requested your MCC 101 notes when she showed up to class late, and you obliged her, letting her sit next to you. You called her to remind her of classes and reserved a seat for her in the cramped MCC hall that held over two hundred Year One students and a lecturer screaming at the top of his voice because there was no sound system to make up for the vocal inadequacies that had students straining their ear to hear him.
After one of those classes, the course rep stood to announce that one of the most critical nights of fresh students was around the corner. He called it the night of stars, booze, and dance, where Miss Mass Communication Fresher would be crowned in the ceremony. She would represent the department in the overall Miss IMSU Fresher, where representatives from all departments would contest for the crown. A ballot was passed around the class, and everyone put the name they wanted. You shrugged it off, writing a note until everyone voted and the course rep read the names loudly in the centre.
Chiago was the popular pick, and you looked at the typical feminine choices: fair like a knockoff Snow White, curved like the letter S, and strutting like a stallion. You weren’t surprised until the last name was read, Onyeka. The pen dropped in your hands as you looked up to see if it was your own Onyeka.
Onyeka Maria Uba
The course rep was not mistaken. It was you, but who dropped your name in the box? Was it a mean joke or something else? Everyone turned to one another, asking who the person was. Soon, fingers pointed in your direction, and many laughed, wondering what you were thinking by putting your name in the box. You were angry and fought to suppress the tears that welled up in your eyes. You packed your books and rushed out with Jachi in tow. The ride back home was quiet, and your eyes lingered at the window, staring into the vast nothingness.
“I will support any decision you make. This is the chance to prove whoever did that wrong.” Jachi squeezed your hands.
You were awake for a long time that night, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what happened that evening and whether it was a sign from God to come out of your shell and have your Cinderella moment.
As Ugonma prepared to leave to see her guest one evening, you opened up to her.
“I want to be a fine girl, Ugonma.”
She had been pressing her phone but dropped it, wide-eyed as you confessed to her.
“Are you sure? Why?” she asked.
“My department put my name for Miss Fresher, and I have a month to prepare.”
“Your department nominated you?”
She found it surprising, and you wondered what was happening in her mind. If you were the representative of your department, there was a dearth of fine girls in your class.
You just wanted to be a fine girl, even for a single day. She laughed for some minutes, thinking it was a joke, but she stopped when you didn’t laugh with her.
“An anonymous person nominated me maybe as a laughing joke, but I want to prove them wrong.”
Ugonma sighed deeply while looking at you, and you wondered whether you were making the right choice. If this worked wrongly, it would haunt you for the rest of your stay in school. She waved her makeup brush like a fairy godmother, returning to the mirror to apply the pink blush.
“Well, welcome to my class. I am your able Professor Ugonma Aku, and my course is How to be a Baddie 101, your guide to turning necks and being a fine girl. We have lots of work to do. First, you must get rid of those clothes you brought to campus that make you look like you are coming back from night vigil and stock your wardrobe with hot clothes like mine.”
You wondered how you would look in those short skirts, spaghetti-strap shirts, and high heels.
“Then, you have to make your skin pop.”
You thought she meant applying moisturisers that would seep deep into your skin, giving it that glassy feel like when the sun caught a mirror, but you were shocked when she said:
“I mean, tone your skin. It is called toning.”
“Is it not bleaching?” you asked innocently.
She smiled.
“Toning, Onyeka! The only way to get people’s attention is by lightening your skin, hiding that hair, and wearing hot clothes. I know a woman who formulates such creams with an addition of local oil called “Unere” that will attract the right people to you when they see your beauty.”
You agreed to see this woman who made potions of youth and beauty for fine girls. One evening, you set off for Egbema, a village on the outskirts of Imo State. You stopped at a Y-shaped junction before entering Okada and stopping in front of a big gate. You knocked for some minutes before hearing footsteps, and a hoarse voice asked for an identity.
“Mama, na me,” Ugonma replied, and the gate flung open.
A woman, clad in kiri kiri star wrapper, stepped out and smiled at Ugonma. It was getting dark, and you couldn’t tell how old she was as she ushered you in and gave you seats in the lobby. But you knew she was as pale as death and decked in black as if she had secrets concealed in the thick clothes. When she waved her hand, you could swear that it had patches of contrasting colours, like a poorly done colouring assignment by a kindergarten child. It was a lonely house coated with dark brown paint that was peeling in some places. Giant udara trees sat strategically with dark birds hopping from branch to branch, cawing to their fellow aves that the night was fast coming.
“Welcome. I see you brought a visitor. What can I do for you?” she asked.
Ugonma touched your laps. “My friend wants to be a fine girl, and she needs your magic touch.”
She looked at you closely as if trying to read your mind. “Are you sure you want to be a fine girl?”
“Yes.” You nodded your head. It was your dream to be the girl that all the boys admired. You wanted them to call you like they called Okwukweka anytime you went to the market.
She stood up and let you into a small dim room. A big pot with a wooden stirrer lay on a mesh and bubbled with choking fumes. A big table in one corner held bottles of different sizes and chemicals of different shades. Beside the bottles were leaves that she plucked from their stalk. Then, she put them in a mortar and pounded them until they reached a semi-smooth consistency before scooping them into a pre-prepared translucent bottle. She added a colourless chemical that made the mixture fume, releasing bubbles and hissing like a freshly opened Coke bottle.
It was like being in class with a bad Chemistry teacher who played with equations and yielded random reactions that looked like magic. You looked at the window, wondering if it was big enough to let you through. She must have guessed what was going through your mind as she tried to put you at ease.
“I don do this work for over ten years, my child. I am skilled in this art. Even your friend can testify. Calm down, I sabi the work.”
You exchanged glances with Ugonma, who nodded reassuringly.
She kept a big book on the table beside her bottles, which she read as if it were a spell book. Then, she poured measured cups of chemicals. Some turned blue on addition, and some gave out gaseous fumes. She made a fire and placed the cylinder atop a mesh, stirring as it bubbled for some minutes before letting it cool and transferring it into an amber bottle. She finished with a drop of an oily emulsion and shook the bottle very well so the constituents would reconstitute properly and reach each portion of the container. She brought out a piece of sticky paper, scribbled something, and pasted it on the container's body. It read,
MAMA CITA PURE OGANIK LOSHON.
She gave you the bottle and handed you two extra bottles with instructions. One contained a black, viscous substance, and the other held bright blue caplets.
“Shake this one well before you drink and take this one as jara. It will not only stop your biological clock, but it has spiritual qualities that will attract the right men to you. Swallow this pill every night before you sleep. It will add you in the right places.” She cupped her breasts and slapped her buttocks to illustrate the drug’s expanding capabilities.
You took the bottles, thanked her, and asked her price.
She smiled. “Give me anything. All I want is for you to see the results.”
You reached for your purse and retrieved some wads of one thousand naira notes that Mama gave you for feeding. If it was the price for beauty, you didn’t mind soaking garri or embarking on a hunger strike for the next few weeks.
You got home and arranged the bottles on the table in the room, waking up to stare at them and wondering when you should start using them. Ugonma advised it would be good if you started as soon as possible to get results for the pageantry in time. You soon summoned the courage and applied it generously that night before sleeping and many nights after, remembering to take the pills, too. Within two weeks, your blackness was giving way, peeling like a snake shedding skin, and you earned a voracious appetite that had you snacking on bread and yoghurt. Your skirts were getting tighter in the middle, and you could swear that a small bump was replacing your flat bum bum.
Ugonma helped you with some of the clothes she termed sexy, and you strutted down the hallways in them, much to everyone’s shock. You struggled with the kitten heels, trying to place one shaky, determined foot one after the other just like Ugonma taught you. Boys had their mouths open as you swiped your long weave and sat in your favourite position by the window. Even Jachi couldn’t believe her eyes.
“You look different,” she remarked.
“I want to be a fine girl,” you replied as Ejike, the class playboy, came over.
“Hey, pretty, can I get your number?”
You almost lost your composure as sweat lined your forehead. So, Ejike noticed you? So you were really a fine girl now? You couldn’t even focus as you scribbled the number quickly on a sheet of paper and gave it to him.
He bit his lower lip, tilted his head, and mouthed, “I will call you.”
Now, they could see that you were beautiful and had earned your place on the runway by tinting your skin and having curves.
After the quiz that week, you went home to see Mama and Okwukweka, who were also back for a short break. When you walked into the house, they stopped and stared like the opposite of lightning struck you. Even when you hugged your mother, she couldn’t return the warmth; you knew she was wondering whether this fair clone had replaced her daughter with a short jean skirt and orange crop top. You ran to Okwukweka, who was also in awe, looking you over as if a ghost had visited them. They had been cooking in the kitchen when you entered, and before long, the egusi and garri were set to eat before you went to your room to sleep. A timid knock came at your doo,r and you knew it was Okwukweka.
“Sisi, can I come in?” She asked in a tiny voice, and you relented.
She came in and sat at your bedside. You started by cracking jokes and discussing your different school experiences, how she was fending off boys that couldn’t resist fresh year one beauty like sharks drawn to blood. You knew where she was driving toward and that she would definitely ask you the dreaded question. She noticed the bottles on your table, picked them up and ran her hands over them.
“What is this?”
“It is a cream that promises youth and beauty. See, it is working on my skin. I feel and look ten years younger.”
“I see,” She nodded slowly, lost in thought.
Silence reigned in the room. Then, minutes later, she said, “You should stop.”
“Why? I want to be like you. See how the boys down the street look at you. Nobody has ever looked at me that way, and I am supposed to be part of a school pageantry.”
“Is this what you want? To be reduced to a spectacle?” she asked.
You had no answer.
“Go for the contest, but be yourself. Fine girl no dey pay.”
You stared wide-eyed at her.
“People flock to you like sugar ants because you look beautiful, but you never know their intentions towards you. In the end, age gets to us all, and it slowly fades. Look in the mirror. Black is your identity; do not lose yourself struggling to fit into standards or trends that change over time.”
She reached for your face and held your chin up.
“I know I haven’t said this before, but you are beautiful. You are one of those girls, D’banj called Kokolette because your skin is made from cocoa brown powder, and you just need a little oil to make it gleam.”
She was your younger sister, but she spoke with such wisdom and grace, crafting words on her tongue and spilling facts. Suddenly, your beautiful, vain sister had grown overnight; the first year in school had made her more mature.
“What happened to you?” You asked.
“I wanted to get into modelling in school, but my hips were too broad, so I stopped eating, only to slump one day when my body couldn’t take it anymore. And I realised I was foolish, trying to fit into boxes where others struggled to put me in. What if I had died? What would they tell Mama? The world can change its mind anytime about what to love, and you become water, taking the shape of the vessel they try to pour you in.”
You thought about her words as you went back to school. You were surprised to see Ugonma that evening, crying into her pillow.
“Ugonma, what is it?” you asked, unable to understand why she was crying.
She increased her wails.
“I look hideous! That woman lied! She said I would remain beautiful forever.”
You were still trying to digest the information before she raised her face, and you weren’t ready for what you saw. Her yellow tear-stained cheeks had green patches all through and were stretched thin. She looked dehydrated like she had donned the skin of an old woman. The fountain of youth had dried up, and the adverse effects hit her at once, like the Beast, which had been cursed by an old witch with a grotesque appearance. This was not the Ugonma you knew, and you didn’t know when you screamed “Obara Jesus.”
“I woke up like this, my beautiful face gone. I went to the woman and met an abandoned house. I heard NAFDAC raided her premises after multiple complaints by different women who slept flawless and woke up an older version of themselves.”
You didn’t want to hear anymore. You rushed to your bag, seized the bottles, ran out of the hostel, and flung them in the dumpster.
Ugonma kept crying until she left the room. The next day at school, you wore your uninteresting clothes and sat in the window space. Jachi came to join you.
“I guess the old Onyeka is back.” She smiled.
You gave her an intense look. “Yes, I will compete as my original self and put my haters to shame.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know you put my name in the box to make fun of me. The course rep told me. Who needs enemies when they have frenemies like you?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” The smile on her face faded as she stammered and looked away.
You ignored her, plugging in your earphones to let the music seep into your bones. You would not listen to another lie.
