“But my mark is the reason I am beautiful and alive, if it wasn’t there I wouldn’t have been here.” Story by Onyinye Ezulofor
Because you survived Death
FOR MANY YEARS, I lived in shame. Everyone around me disliked me, and those who tried to like me never stopped pointing at what they disliked about me. They weren’t different from the others, just that they were closer. I dreaded everything about me, especially standing in front of the mirror, except when I had to question myself. I’ve never had an answer to my questions, but I have a new question every day. Nothing stopped me from questioning myself, not even my lack of answers. I was becoming uncomfortable with what people were uncomfortable with, the reason they considered me deformed.
I have often been told I would’ve been a beautiful lady if not for the mark on the left side of my face. And in the bid to become a flawless beautiful lady, I adopted the northern culture of face covering; covering my face, hiding my shame and exposing only my beautiful parts.
I was called UGLY
My pointed nose was what often attracted the people who paid the bad compliments I received. And my fine long eyelashes were everything many women went to the market to buy. My lips were red enough, and I didn’t need lipsticks most of the time. Despite all that, most people still called me ugly.
The pains of my Past
The word UGLY is one word I hate to use on people, and it pierced my heart that most people preferred to use it on me. Even if I lose my memory, I doubt I will ever forget that word. It was the first word I heard when I regained consciousness at General Hospital, Mubi. I recall the blurry view of my mother standing hand akimbo as if ready to fall into Doctor Peter’s mouth. Doctor Peter, was the surgeon assigned to me.
How I lived the Accident
I recall the blurry view of my mother standing hand akimbo as if ready to fall into Doctor Peter’s mouth. Doctor Peter, was the surgeon assigned to me.He speaks in a very calm manner and I consider his voice capable of making sick people well when he speaks to them. I heard him say, ‘UGLY situation’ but didn’t know the rest of the things he said. When he noticed I was awake, he came to me and asked how I was feeling. I was feeling okay only that the left side of my face was heavy, and he assured me I would be fine. The heaviness transitioned into pain the night we left the hospital, and my mother administered painkiller drugs just as Doctor Peter recommended. My best friends whose houses were opposite mine sat beside my bed, waving their right hands at intervals and saying sorry to me. The next day, a stack of children’s slippers buried our doormat, and I was seated quietly with my bottle of Lucozade Boost in my hand alongside the children in my neighbourhood who came to visit me.
how my marks became my Strength
As days turned into weeks, I felt less pain but began to feel itching coming from inside the cotton wool and plaster. I told my mother about it, and she was excited. She pleaded with me not to scratch it because the wound was healing and suggested I tap the plaster slightly instead, so I did that every time, resisting the temptation to scratch. I don’t remember exactly what happened to me, but I know I was going to buy tomatoes for my mother at Sabon Kasuwa when a vehicle swaying at high speed hit me while I was running to safety. That’s all I remember. And the next time I opened my eyes, I saw Doctor Peter; the doctor my mother and I ran into the day we came to visit my mother’s friend and couldn’t locate her ward. My mother told me that I didn’t open my eyes to the brightness of day for 14 days, and those were some of the worst days of her life. She’d heard different scary stories of what happened to me from different people, all of whom claimed to be eyewitnesses. She refused to believe that God sent me to live with her for only 10 years, and she cried a river every day at the entrance of the Intensive Care Unit.
How my Friends turned their backs on me
Her friends and doctor Peter assured her I would be fine, but she didn’t stop reminding them that she was a poor widow. Those days are past, but the mark is still there. Many times, I wondered if the reason I came out of the hospital alive was to parade the street with a wicked mark that has refused to leave my face after 13 years, yet remained the reason people called me ugly. No one cared to ask about the mark, and those who asked never listened to know my story because they’d christened my mark with the name ugly and everything about me answered that name. What hurt me the most was the fact that some of my childhood friends, the same children who nursed me when I returned from the hospital, also called me ugly. Those who tried to be polite among them would say, you used to be beautiful when you were a child but now, you’re not. I considered those who attempted to be polite the rudest because they remembered my story yet chose to stigmatize me. Even while I covered my face and looked beautiful, I wasn’t accepted. People still refer to my mark as it is covered. I only had peace when I was at home with my mother, who every time she touched my mark called me a warrior. One night, I asked why she calls me a warrior, and she answered, ‘Because you survived death.’
I learnt to live through my Pains
The next day, I dressed elegantly and left my house without covering my face. Some people met me and said, you look beautiful but— I didn’t wait for them to complete their statement before I answered. —but my mark is the reason I am beautiful and alive, if it wasn’t there I wouldn’t have been here. I saw the shock in their eyes, but it didn’t stop them from accepting the truth about my reality. My mark which was the reason I was shamed became my strength. But most importantly, I began to notice marks on other people’s bodies which had long been hidden. More people brushed aside their shame, revealed their marks, embraced their true reality and told their stories just like me.
Comments
annabrown
Good Blog!
cmsmasters
Thanks.