Still Imperfect, by Grace Omolola Odukoya, Winner, Adebisi Amori Literary Contest 3.0

It has been a year since I last let my frustrations drip from pen to paper. The future feels bleak, my bank account reflecting my pain and joy—unstable, like a graph of y against x. After two sessions of chanting “academic comeback” and celebrating being a mere 0.1 point away from a first-class degree, my grade point slammed me into a solid second-class upper. A bitter taste lingers in my mouth as my long, chocolate fingers caress the white paper. 

MOTHER

Maybe it would have been soothing if my mother had let the little girl in me dance whenever I came home. Instead, she made my head a talking drum, its voice shrill, screaming, “Run!” I never listened, and my mother would hammer another crack into my make-believe.

It hurts that we sit before a pendulum of lies with our eyes closed, exchanging sweet untruths. Mother, I love God and also enjoy dolling myself up to look pretty. Why can’t I have both? Each moment, you pierce into my soul with your tired eyes. You sigh. In many different ways, you silently say, “I am scared of you. You don’t want to earn a man, and yet you desire a soft life.”

Iya Ibeji, how do I explain that I wish not to collect the pulsing baton of African womanhood? I would rather die than bear the cross of being a womb-man.

GOD

For the longest time, you have been a distant figure looming over me. Father says you are a jealous God with anger issues, and I am supposed to fear you all my life.

I still remember the eight-year-old in a brown “Mummy GO” gown, dropping to her knees in trepidation, her hands trembling as she mumbled, “God, I… I do not want to become burnt meat in hell. Forgive my sins.” She had been bowing for forgiveness every Sunday, but that night, she clung to her “oddly” found salvation with all the energy her tiny frame could muster. Images of her left breast being chopped off by the anti-Christ beast with black horns plagued her sleep.

UNIVERSITY

For years, my classmates stomped on me with their white canvas shoes and spat vile words sharp enough to unalive a girl. Then the University of Ibadan offered a fresh start. I would braid my hair and change my wardrobe. I would raise a middle finger to everyone who had ever tried to make me feel less than I am… or so I thought.

I believed Grace or Omolola was stronger and better. But my mouth dried up when that annoying classmate touched my precious Dell laptop without asking. I was weak, and they still stomped on me emotionally—the shrimp at the bottom of the food chain.

At least I knew I was pretty. That was the one gold plaque on the broken shelf of my self-worth. Still, those horrific days haunted me, when my large frame would sink opposite my cracked mirror, and I would wipe away tears, begging God to make my cheeks slimmer and my eyes more tilted. Sleep would eventually embrace me as I whispered, “God, make me prettier when I wake up.”

My eyes would flutter open, and I’d rush to the mirror, only to punch the wall in anger and curse at my ugly body.

GOD

July 2022

So I found out that you’re not so terrible—still a little scared of you, though. I think you’re misogynistic. You don’t seem to like women. Why? I love you regardless, so I’ll keep my distance and worship you from here.

September 2023

I want to get closer to you, but my heart palpitates. What if I find out you truly are anti-women? My soul would shatter, and life would lose all meaning. I don’t ever want to know for sure, so we’ll play this game of chess and chase.

UNIVERSITY

I flunked out of the College of Medicine. My ego was crushed, and I lost touch with the fifteen-year-old who believed she could achieve anything. My brain felt like it was rotting. I laugh now when I recall how I used to chant, “70 is easy. Just get 15 out of 20 in two tests and 40 out of 60 in the exam. How hard can it be?”

I got my answer when the results were posted in the class group: 222091… 8/40. My school fees had gone up in smoke. Like a fish on land, Grace or Omolola struggled to find joy in her classes. It all felt so wrong, but she didn’t know how to tell her parents she wanted to drop out. “Delulu is the solulu,” right?

So, she joined the Legislative Council of her department—Human Nutrition. They swore her in and signed the letter approving her transfer out of the department.

*

Another clean slate, a fresh start to rebrand myself. Like a thirsty fish, I seized the opportunity and crossed over to Sociology. Transforming into Grace Omolola turned my life around, moving it from South to North.

After countless hours of research, I’ve discovered the best colours for my skin tone, the right lipstick, and the ideal skincare products. Books have become my closest companions, and I am obsessed with becoming the best version of myself.

GOD AND GRACE OMOLOLA

I feel you breathing down on me with knots on your forehead. Quivers run through my body as the day finally arrives. You accuse me of not building myself in you, of relying too much on secular knowledge—especially Sociology.

My brown adire shirt clings to me, soaked in rotten sweat, as your words pierce through: “Let me love you. Know me for who I am, and not what they say.”

At first, I am more confused than ever. Then, I resent you for shattering the strong walls I’ve spent years building. Now, I no longer know who I am.

And yet, I want to trust you. I want to flow with the tides. Hopefully, the horizons beyond me will bring the peace I have been seeking for so long.

Grace Omolola Odukoya is a 400 level Sociology Student of University of Ibadan. A multiple-award-winning creative writer, she loves to read African fiction and nonfiction books on self-development, productivity, healing, and relationships. Her passion for empowering women and decolonising the minds of Africans heavily influences her works, where she displays African lives in the most humane way.