BareNaked.

The cool night breeze blew across her face. She closed her eyes and inhaled. She could smell it coming. She started twisting her waist slowly to the beat of the Konga.

She doesn’t remember much of the childhood. Maybe because there is not much to remember. She remembers a bit of the teenage years though. Being the timid do-gooder. Yes ma’am. Yes pa. Whatever they wanted. Model child. Model grades.

The wind picked up, the smell grew stronger.
The pace increased; of the konga and of her writhing.

She remembers wanting to be a teacher. She can’t for the life of her remember why. Then her cousin became an accountant and of course… . She was good in the sciences but medicine was out (couldn’t stick all those animal experiments in biology) and so engineering it was. And then it wasn’t. And then she did well in Economics. Plus Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala. You’re going to make a fine finance minister one day papa said to her. We’ll send you to do an MBA and then a PhD after. Then you’ll work overseas and then come back and become the finance minister. Yes papa.

It started to drizzle. She smiled; she’d been expecting it.

No. NO! I disagree. I don’t feel like talking. I’d rather do it this way. I just want to be by myself. I disagree. I think you’re wrong. I THINK YOU’RE WRONG. But she couldn’t say that. Yes. Oh yes you’re right. I totally agree. You guys are so cool. You like this? I do too. She just wanted to be accepted. Wanted to be like them. With their fancy talk and shiny baubles. Didn’t want to be so different. Isn’t that what we all want?

Her heart was racing now. She undulated faster. The drizzles turned to showers.

She knew exactly what they wanted to hear at every single point. Knew when to give and the exact moment to pull back. It was like she was in their minds. She never baited them but they always came. She watched them come to her. They could not resist. They wanted to play the game. She indulged them. She knew she probably shouldn’t do that but… Hey baby. Hey. I like you. I like you too. I love you. Yeah right back at you. Let’s get married. What? Fuck no.
She likes to keep her options open. Does she have commitment issues? Is that why she hates to even plan her days ahead, preferring to wing it? So that she can pick the best out of all the options?

She moved faster. The beat followed suit. It was pouring now.

She never used to cuss though. No way, God forbid that she talked like that. Model child and all. But now, sometimes, even she herself is taken aback by some of the words inside her head. Does this make her a bad person? Does it??
Who decides which words are acceptable and which aren’t? The same people that made them? Who made the words?

Lightning flashed, the beat went faster and louder. The sound of the thunder almost drowned out the sound of the beads that adorned her waist, ankles and wrists.

Is she crazy for the questions? Is she crazy for wanting to take the next year off and go? Just go. Anyway. Italy perhaps. Explore. The world. The whole wide world. The world is too damn big to be stuck there in that small corner of that small mind of that small house of that small state of that small country of that small continent.

It was a full blown storm now. Yet, she continued her dance in oblivion.

Shut up. No you shut up. Stay home, read a book, watch a movie. Go out, have drinks, go dancing. Stay in Lagos. Get out of Lagos. Get an office job, earn money, climb the corporate ladder. Finish that novel, and then write another one and then another one after that. Stay with him; he’s stable, dependable and he loves you to bits. He doesn’t give you butterflies; never did.
SHUT UP! Both of you!

Surely she is crazy for the voices.

The konga crescendoed, approaching a climax.

The words though. She’d always had the words. Right from when she wrote her very first ‘How I spent my last holiday’ essay (She had just been promoted to ‘biro class’). Mrs. N. Okonkwo made her stand in front of the class and read it out loud; she particularly “loved her use of punctuation and parenthesis”. As she read, she looked up at them and saw their faces. They were in awe. They loved her. She loved it. Some people say the words are like therapy; that they could heal her, purge her even. She’d never felt that way about them. But they were faithful. They’d never left her. From that moment she knew; She would use the words. She would make them love her.

She slowed into a gentle sway, moving almost as if in slow motion.

Will she let them see this? Perhaps on someone else’s platform? Too many people who know her read hers. Too many. Who know her. They know her. They say they know her.

She spread out her arms…

Who is she?

Raised her head to the sky…

My name is….

With one final twirl, she let out a guttural soul piercing scream.

NO NOT YOUR NAME! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU CHILD?!

She stopped. The beat stopped. The rain stopped. It all stopped. She fell to the floor.

Bare. Naked.

And she wasn’t ashamed or afraid. For the first time.