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Student @ Federal University of Agriculture, Abeokuta
WHY ALWAYS MY BREAST?
<p>The first time someone made a comment about my body, I didn’t understand. “You’re so blessed,” they said with a knowing smile. I thought blessings were supposed to feel good, but something about the way they said it made me uneasy.</p><p>Then came the stares. The whispers. The unsolicited advice. “Cover up.” “Don’t draw attention.” “Be careful around men.” As if I had done something wrong just by existing.</p><p>I was still young when I realized that respect wasn’t freely given, it came with conditions. Some people thought kindness meant entitlement. That a compliment excused a lingering gaze. That admiration gave them permission.</p><p>By the time I was older, I had mastered the art of deflection. Wearing looser clothes. Avoiding eye contact. Laughing off comments I didn’t find funny. “Some people wish they had what you have,” they’d say, as if that justified everything.</p><p>Then someone I liked admitted, “I won’t lie, this was the first thing I noticed about you.” Like I was a collection of features before I was a person. Another one told me, “Most people are drawn to you because of that.” As if I didn’t already know.</p><p>So I ask “why always this?”</p><p>Why not my intelligence? My ambition? My kindness? Why do I have to wonder if people like me or just what they see?</p><p>I’m tired. Tired of shrinking. Tired of questioning every compliment. Tired of being told to take it as a joke.</p><p>But this is where it stops.</p><p>Because I am not just this. I am my voice. My mind. My presence. And if the world doesn’t see that yet, I will make them.</p>
WHY ALWAYS MY BREAST?
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Christianah Oparinde
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Christianah Oparinde
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