At least not in the general sense.
Not in the way everyone seems to think it is. Not in the way it is portrayed by media, by religion, by vain imagination… No, not in that way.
It is not in the curving of my hips(good thing too because I haven’t got any prominent curves in that region)…
It is not in the swell of my breasts(not much there either)…
It is not in my complexion… Even table cloths come in different colours too.
It is not in the way that I walk… that cat walking phenomena is the wrong way to walk even. Improper gait. I would know… I am afterall a physiotherapist.
It is not in the colour of my lipstick or in my pout either… I should not pout so much maybe… My lips are full enough as it is.
It is not in my cooking skills… Please… any dolt can cook up a storm if they follow instructions. Many thanks to Google.
It is not in my clothes… With all due respect, “Kardashianism” is a tad overrated.
It is not in the amount of toasters that I have… Some kidnappers and ritual killers would have had to “toast” their female victims too before nabbing them.
It is not in the soprano of my voice… Ha, have you heard me talk? Did any of you watch the original cartoon of The X-men? Remember Aurora a.k.a Storm? My voice is like hers with a side dish of the voice of Pink the artiste. Husky extravaganza!
It is not because I can birth a child… Monkeys and Goats birth their young too.
For me, being a woman has less to do with the list above but more with my mind… my composition.
In the way that I speak up for myself… In the battles that I have had to fight… In the way that I have had to sometimes smile and suck it up when all I wanted to really do was cry and pout prettily… In the way that I’ve had to sweat and take care of me and still manage to do the beauty queen wave at the same time… In the way that I maintain balance, in my life and in the lives of those closest to me… In the way that I can drink bitter and call it sweet… In the way that I think… In my choice of music… In the way that I drink my tea… In the books that I read… In my experiences. All of these… they make me who I am. I could be male… or female… or both… the container shouldn’t matter as much. It’s the insides… they tell you if a person is really woman or man or toad.
I have seen males with breast-like features on their chests and well rounded and padded behinds… does that make them women then, because of those features? I have seen females with flat chests and narrow hips… does that make them men? This need of ours to constantly label and tag things.
I will tell you this though… according to society, to media, and even maybe some people’s ignorant interpretation of who God is, I am sooo not a woman. Not one from planet earth anyway… and hey, if I tell you say I no dey gbadun the parols ehn, na bombastic lie be that. I’m loving every colour filled part of it.
Shoot me, sue me, love me, leave me… I am definitely not a woman.
Not in the general sense.
See y’all next Wednesday… and may your skies stay sunny and blue till then!
NOTE: I wrote this piece whilst listening to “Nothing in my way” by Keane… Head bobbing up and down… Heart was swelling… Tunes to write with and live by. Aye!