There’s a famous story about me in my family. It goes thus: on a Sunday morning, while driving with my mother’s guardians to church, I resumed my daily routine and asked my mum a plethora of questions. 

I have always been a curious person, and if you explained something to me, I would ask, “Why?” My mother could say Moyo, the sky is blue, and I’d answer why? Why is it blue? What of the white, pink and grey I saw sometimes? Weren’t they colours of the sky too? Why change its identity to blue?

It was my truckload of questions that led to my Mum’s guardian turning away from the wheel to look behind and say to me, “Stop talking; you talk too much.” I replied, “I’m not talking to you; I’m talking to my mother.” I am now 23, and this story is still told in whispers as proof that I’m rude. Because people will tell your story for you, I have chosen to say to mine. 

My name is Moyosoluwa. I was a stubborn child, and I guess I’m a stubborn adult. There were times I’d argue with my senior cousins, and my mum would punish me to kneel till I apologise, and while I could say sorry and end the pain, I wouldn’t. I’d sleep on my knees, refusing to apologise; I’d only stand up to go to school and come home to resume kneeling. Everytime I was forced to say an apology I didn’t mean, my throat would clog. My brain knew what to say, but my mouth would not obey. On the days I wanted to apologise, I would require that the elders apologise, too, as they had wronged me. After all, they can say sorry too.

Sometimes, I won, and the elders apologised. No matter how mocking it sounded,I was happy to have gotten it out of their mouths even if their faces showed that they were not happy to say it. Other times, they didn’t say it even though they were wrong. I knew that was the real pride, a refusal to acknowledge wrong because of an inflated self-importance, but really, who were they? That’s for them to say.

Stubbornness got me bullied. That is a lie. Bullies got me bullied. I remember in js3; an ss3 student set his leg in a position that sent me falling, hitting my head against the school tile. I do not know if he expected that I would swallow the pain and let it go, but I told my dad. I didn’t tell my mum first as she was a teacher in the school and would probably have him apologise. No, I didn’t want that. I wanted justice. I told my dad this story and made sure to cry again as I said it; I refused to go to school the next day because I was in pain. Yes, I was in pain, but it wasn't physical. My father pulled up a storm that had the bully’s family coming to the house to apologise. It turns out his father and mine worked in the same industry. They apologised with money that I felt was hush money. I don’t remember seeing the bully apologise, but I remember his father saying, “You know these kids” That irritated me; I did not know these kids; I looked at his son and saw a monster. After that, he never bullied me physically again; he only taunted me that I was a crybaby who reported. Abusers always love silence. Their strength lies in darkness.

When I got to ss1. I was in a new school and came to art class solely for literature. I knew I loved literature, and I always had. In the first term, a boy named Onyedikachi earned 1st position in literature, followed by me and another boy. The difference in our scores was less than three marks. I swore to get 1st in the second term, and I did. In the third term, they stopped putting the position on our result slip, almost like they knew I was calculating. Still, my dedication was evident; if boys were going to top this subject, then I, as a girl, must be the best. I graduated overall best in literature, but by then, I was already seeing how women needed to prove themselves extraordinary for a smidge of acknowledgement. At this point, I had seen how if two people had the same grades and one was female, the man would likely be picked for the position. So, the girl had to be better in every sense to stand a chance.

I do not consider myself stubborn, but I no longer argue when people call me that. Stubbornness is “having or showing dogged determination not to change one's attitude or position on something, especially despite good arguments or reasons.”

So yes, I am not stubborn. I am just hardly ever presented with good reasons to change my mind. When someone tells me, “Moyo, do it this way”, and I say no, and their incentive to get me to perform is “You know you’re a girl”, of course, I’m not going to listen. People say I’m stubborn, but how am I stubborn for rejecting stupid arguments? But words, words have a way of sticking to your mind. 

I’m ashamed to say it, but there was a time when I accepted that I was stubborn even though I knew the reasons to do the things I was asked to do were, at best, half-baked. I received this narrative for a while before one day, I passed a mirror, and my eyes stared right through me; I didn’t recognise myself. I started retracing my steps to speaking up and speaking out, but I was wiser this time. Years of hits had taught me that some people were not worth proving wrong or right. The people around me, though, got me in the whole 5d experience.

There are still stories about me. Ask a few people, and you’ll hear I’m petty as if the small things don’t make up the big things. Others will say I’m stubborn and ‘proud’ has found a way to the list of adjectives used to describe me. Not that I care; I tell my own story.

Who I am is a woman who was born at a better time for women's rights but still not as progressive as she’d have liked. I am a person who was told that my mum must have prayed for a boy because I was reluctant to accept gender roles. I am a soft girl who constantly tries to be hard; I can’t focus on movies if I’m not watching them at least 1.5 speed. I am lactose intolerant, but I took milk today; I’ll take it tomorrow, too. I'm exhausted every time I socialise. I hardly turn the other cheek. I’m a struggling Christian because of the misogyny that surrounds religion. I am a writer and a soon-to-be author. I tell my story so no one else twists it for me.

I am a woman; I do not have one definition. I am leaving behind pretty cages that tell you women should be this and do this and that. I hate washing clothes, and I’m grateful for those who fought before me, the angry, bitter, proud women. They did not sit still. They fought so I could go to school and write this. I will not let it go to waste. I will use my voice. Every pain wants a witness, and every story needs a reader. I will tell my story. 

Firstly, because I can, I have the privilege to do so; I do not have to hide under male pen names to speak so that I will write and sprawl my name at the end of every story, and secondly, because reading stories inspired me, my stories can reach another girl and spur her on because even while I tell my story, I can’t wait to read yours.

Happy Women’s Month! Document your life.  

#WM2024

Moyosoluwa