Oops, that's minus another cow...

“[…]that idea that likeability is an essential part of you, of the space you occupy in the world, that you're supposed to twist yourself into shapes to make yourself likeable, that you're supposed to hold back sometimes, pull back, don't quite say, don't be too pushy, because you have to be likeable” Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

When I read this it resonated so well with me personally as a young Black woman. It articulated something I had always felt but feared mentioning. Scared that voicing it would exclude me from the various spaces one is conditioned to conform to in society.

In work spaces, it is ok for men to raise questions about a salary rise or negotiate payment, benefits terms without seeming intrusive. As woman, we end up working for years in a job, meanwhile accepting to do certain tasks as favors when in fact a man would have required pay for the same task. Women are uncomfortable to talk about money or be competitive for it as men are. We fear asking or researching what our male-counterparts are earning and accept our first offers because generations later we are still robbed the seat at the negotiating table. This leaves us not knowing our worth and letting it be determined by someone else first, that someone most unfailingly often being a man.

In churches, as we sit facing the priest in his long robe, with his mate Jesus nailed to the wall hovering above him. Remembering to cross our legs, because a proper lady wears a skirt to church.

Portraits of the White, long-bearded, blue-eyed man, scattered orderly along the walls of the church. Dare you not wear a skirt; He sees all.

We women get so caught up in this assemblage of “little acts of tidiness”; we forget to question why the person in the long robe before us is not a mirror image of ourselves.

Why does this White, long-bearded man on the wall have an issue with what I wear?

Dare we ask these questions, they will remind us of the eyes of the long haired fella and introduce you to the word “Blasphemy”.

Can he at least be Black then?!

Now with this question, you will be nailed like him.

Reminded of your duty to be submissively forgiving, obedient, quite, an ever-smiling-gentle soul. One that must always bend-over-backwards to please, be patient, and be understanding.

We; the baskets for pain, and carriers of burdens.

To me this seems the nailing of women in a different way, the everyday experience way, not just a once-off transcendental experience.

Trapped in this role, not knowing or exposing us to better, we take these selves with us to our homes. Yes, our homes and families; where we have been raised to believe the true test of our worth is realized and lies. This is where our treasure lies; in ironing crispy clean shirts, cooking mouth-watering meals. “Remember” he says “I paid 11 cows for you. I honored you with my surname.”

What happens if I like my surname and I enjoy cooking but despise ironing?

Oops, I guess that’s minus a cow?!

Then there are the frowned upon ladies who ‘come home late’. Who like loud places, mostly at night. “Why don’t you dance here at home in the daylight they ask? You have no need for these friends now; they are not married like you.” “Remember” he said, “I paid 11 cows for you. I honored you with my surname.”

But I love my friends and dancing with them, especially in loud places that get lit by the stars instead of sunlight.

Oops, I guess that minuses another cow?!

We women are reminded that we are not sexual beings till after marriage. Marriage is that remote men acquire, clicking its buttons to suddenly turn on our sexual desires.

“No sex before marriage” with an accent, the fully-uniformed old woman at church sitting next to you says, narrowing her eyes, and slowly turning her glance towards that blue-eyed chap on the wall. “What long, straight, blond hair he has”, I notice, thinking, as I follow her gaze.

For those women who have children before marriage, if you later marry another man, you may have to leave your child at home with your parents. The child grows up thinking their mother hates them. “Why else would she leave me to go have other babies, raise them and live with them while I’m here too,” her 16-year old son answers the social worker at NICRO after being caught smoking weed.

In manier such situations women are not accommodated or given power to create cracks in this understanding of cultural nuances, we accept such situations where we leave our children behind. As a woman you are expected to be fine with this, you are headed to the greener pastures of marriage, your calling and reason for being. To console ourselves we hide behind the thought that in the greener pastures of marriage, our child would have been mistreated, we get cornered into convincing ourselves this is a step towards protection for the child somehow.

For some reason you forget the times you watched how your mother struggled. Juggling a career, a household, tasty meals, and teenage tantrums. You watched her juggle this entire circus while your enthusiastically dad applauded her efforts.

He’s sitting on the couch, feet up, shirt-off, reading the newspaper.

“Remember” he said, “I paid 11 cows for you. I honored you with my surname.”

So what happens if I don’t want to juggle the circus alone, what if I say “Here, you handle the tasty meals, ill tackle the household? Can we come to an agreement together at least?”

Oops, I guess that minuses another cow?!