Your mother says the problem is your short skirt. The problem is how it hugs your round bottom; how it exposes your thick, yellow thighs. She says it is the magnetic force that pulls men to you, the reason Aunty Ebimo scoffs and holds her husband's hand a little tighter whenever you pass by.

"He is mine," she seems to say, through her eyes, barely visible underneath her ugly, umbrella-like lashes. You want to tell her, sometimes, that you do not want her husband. You want to tell her that if you wanted to snatch a man, you would do a great deal better than a man who beats his wife like she's a drum set and it's band practice. But you allow her gloat, because you find some humour in her insecurity— something funny in her need to guard her husband against you.

“What is the point of dressing up if you can not cover properly?” Your mother asks.

“A woman’s skirt should stop just a few inches above her ankle.”

You never argue with her; she is your mother, after all. She believes your short skirts will attract the wrong kind of men: the men who prey on women, men that ruin girls. You nod quietly as she speaks, promising to do better, dress better. When you wear the maxi skirts that she buys for you to church, she smiles, looking at you with pride. You cannot help but wonder if she is oblivious of the stares; even with long skirts, even in church.

Tega thinks the problem is the gum between your teeth. He hates the way your lips move as you chew; the way the little bubbles you form sound as they pop. Tega says it is what entices them to you, just the way Mama Ebidou's palm wine attracts flies. He is a very jealous man, your fiancé. He is afraid that you like the attention, and he fears that one day you will fall for some other man. You do not tell him he sounds ridiculous when he talks that way. Instead, you spit the gum out and rub his thighs reassuringly.

"You're the only one for me," you say, and he smiles, his ego inflated.

Your pastor says girls that expose their cleavages work with the devil. "It is the problem!" He asserts, and you check to ensure your breasts are properly covered. He does not think girls should put on sleeveless tops, or shirts that hug the body tightly. He believes that girls who do so are trouble-makers, walking around looking for men to tempt, and he does not blame men who ruin girls like that.

“Well, they ask for it," he says.

The church applauds.

If you ask your brother about the problem, he will tell you it is the way you walk. One careful step after the other, gracefully, like a model on the runway. Your long legs springy, full of life; your waist swinging left and right. It is true that you walk like a goddess. He thinks you do it with intention, and you see him grit his teeth in anger when you walk past him and his friends. They like you, his friends, and it annoys him.

He doesn't want to share them with you. This does not upset you— you have shared almost everything with him, even your mother's womb, so you do not mind that he wants to keep this circle to himself. You find it somewhat insulting that he thinks you are out to seduce his friends, but you do not talk to him about it. You decide to dodge them instead, to avoid their routes and stay out of their view. Who wants them, anyway?

The problem, your father says, is moving around after six P.M. He does not care that the suya guy at your junction only brings his meat out by seven P.M. He does not care for church programs that run until late in the evening, even though your mother is a deaconess and the leader of the women's wing of the church. You have heard them argue severally about these programs, and you have learnt to mind your business, no matter how loud their voices are. Better to stay out of their way.

Your father does not punish you often. His only daughter, he calls you his treasure. When you were fifteen, you got carried away talking with your neighbors and stayed out until it was well past six. Your father gave you a stroke of his cane for every minute you were late, and you knew it hurt him to do so. He only wants to solve the problem, but you know, Pandora, like I know, that the problem is what lies between your legs.

The problem is that you were not born a man— you were born to grow breasts and have a round bottom, to be the object of a man's attraction. You are a living, breathing, beautiful woman, and your entire existence is the problem. You know this because you were not walking when your uncle stole your innocence. You were eight and you were sleeping, next to a man that called you daughter. You were a child. You did not have gum between your teeth when, four years after, you were raped on your way back from school. You were dressed in your school uniform and you were dragging your feet home, tired. You were only twelve.

You do not need anyone to tell you what the problem is, but you listen anyway. You wear tops that cover your cleavage, like your pastor advises. You wear long skirts that kiss the ground, as it pleases your mother. To make Tega happy, you try to save your twenty Naira for something better than gum, and you try to be home before the clock strikes six for your father.

But you know; you know it will not stop a man who decides to prey on you. So you carry around in your little purse, something that will.

Tasers.

Pepper spray.

A pocket knife.