We All Wear Masks
I am about to wear my mask again. I wear it often, in my room, in front of my sewing machine or the glistening mirror sitting gently across the room that reflects my blazing beauty and shields my inner chaos
I am Debby, the preacher’s kid with creamy chocolate skin and luscious lips. My friends think I am voluptuous, I don’t agree with them, but when I fondle my C-cupped breast in front of the mirror after my morning routine and cast a lazy glance across my glistening legs, I am tempted to agree with them. Call me a narcissist, but I love to gawk at my shimmering skin and watch its pores glisten in sparkle as the glint twinkle and fades like the constellation of stars across the clouds. Shouldn’t we all love our skin?
Everyone’ calls me Toluwalase, it means God’s will is final, but my life has been caught in the web of many wheels, mine, my parents and God’s. Enslaved to religion, I wear my pious cloak amongst the hypocrites who makes saints feel like sinners and surrender to sullen sobriety that sink the strangling storm in my head.
Sometimes, we are all chameleons wearing different colours the society dictates, aren’t we?
I was thirteen when I saw thunder and lightning, the one that flashed from my mum’s palms sprawling across my face, do you see stars when your mother slaps you too? My offense was having a boyfriend named James, who sent love texts to my Nokia, the express music brand, to be honest with you, I looked forward to them. Remember how you giggled innocently when the new boy told you he liked you? I wished we were taught that boys love what they see but get bored of what they see after capturing who they see.
Being a preacher’s kid is a daily trip to Golgotha with the cross of Dos and donts strapped across your shoulder, and I was not shocked when I was taken for a deliverance because my mum thinks I sew clothes for mammon and propagate the devil’s agenda, when the home becomes hell, we seek heaven from strangers.
Talking of strangers, a wolf in sheep’s clothing once visited me. Tall and handsome, dark and awesome with charm that led us to Eros’ bliss. Don’t we all find solace in strangers when friends and families become foes?
I am a kingdom with broken walls, a graffiti with scattered arts, a heart shattered with bones battered, a soul longing for solace.
My calendar says it’s my birthday, another cycle of finding myself.
Written by Anonymous.