Becoming

She stood, with a little wince from the discomfort in her shoulder region. She needed one of Kora's massages but everything would be fine. That was the result of too much celebration. Her book had just won her the Nobel Prize.

She glided through the wide dimly lit room to the wall mirror. Her right hand, seemingly with a mind of its own, rose. Her fingers touched the wooden frame of the mirror tentatively — like it would the cheeks of a lover.

The frame was laden with projections and indentations that left it in a pattern that screamed beauty most exquisite. It matched the room — a comforting melody of brown in many shades.

She watched her fingers move in deep adoration of the fine wood, then she looked in the mirror. In it was a lady, clothed in a fine silk robe with a silk nightgown beneath.

Her skin was light, and her hips curved nicely under the smooth feel of the silk. Her lips wore a soft pink, and her skin no longer bore blemishes. Her spirit was whole and gleamed a dazzling gold.

She smiled.

***

Yadiba looked at her ten-year-old reflection and felt sudden terror. It was Sunday, the day before a new school week. Everything had been going as smoothly as an egg until she looked in the mirror.

How could she be so ugly? Even uglier than Cynthia. Oh, bad thinking. But why? There was no way she could go to school looking like that.

But was there really a way to avoid the school with an excuse this lame? She could already hear mother's shout. Her skin panged with the familiarity of the cane on her buttocks. No, there was no way to avoid school.

The tears pricked painfully beneath her eyelids.

"Ugly me."

***

She walked into the church with a deep churning in her belly. Her head was hot but she knew wouldn't faint. Yes. She knew this feeling. Not that the knowledge helped.

The voices emerged. The same came when she wanted to do things right in front of Mother. Or when she walked past the dark-skinned boy she had a crush on.

"Your head is too high, oh, now it's too low."

"Are you sure you're not walking somehow? I think your shoulders are bent."

"What if your dress has a tear?"

"Why is everyone looking at you like that?"

"Maybe you're really ugly and they wonder why."

"Warning! Don't laugh too hard or you might have a snot explosion."

"Don't talk too much or the adults will think you lack manners. And of course, you barely know how to articulate your thoughts like a human."

The walk to the empty seat felt like a 20-hour journey with her buttocks on her head and a metal bucket as a dress.

It was the voices that fueled her inferiority complex and pushed her further into an abyss of obsessive self-awareness.

"Proverbs 1:7. The fear of the Lord is the beginning…"

That was all she heard the pastor say. She had to focus on keeping her back straight and the voices quiet.

***

"Your writing is horrible," Her head said.

"You should quit calling yourself a writer. You come up with the most ridiculous fantasies. You can't even articulate your thoughts. Look how blank the screen is!" It continued.

The tears pricked painfully beneath her eyelids. For the gazillionth time. Tears and fear were her greatest companions. What was the use of trying?

She powered off the laptop.

She walked to the mirror and took a look. A young adult glared back at her.

Maybe she dreamed too much. Maybe she truly was wallowing in self-deceit. She saw herself, ten, in front of a mirror with the words "ugly me". That's what she was — ugly! She barely even had curves. Ew!

"Lousy, unintelligent, and ugly."

She slammed the mirror.

It shattered.

***

Wow, Yadiba, this story is something else. You're a natural. I'm at our personal place. Be quick ;-)

Yadiba smiled. The text was from Toke, her editor friend. She was handling the editorial process of the book she just concluded.

Let's hope it hits the market like a bomb, I'm always quick, Lol, she replied.

The restaurant was everything she wanted at the moment. You can try to deny being Nigerian but Nigerian food will bring you back home. Heads turned as she breezed in. Maybe it was the gait with which she moved. Like her legs never made contact with the floor. But she took no notice. All that was on her mind was sinking her fingers deep into some fluffy fufu.

Her head was high, and she had a priceless smile plastered on her face. She wore a black gown with a pretty necklace seated elegantly on her neck. There was a peculiar air about her that made her eyes linger as she melted into her seat.

"Yes, you're always quick. Usain Bolt, check your time," Toke teased and rolled her eyes.

Yadiba laughed heartily, almost carelessly.

She checked for the voices.

"What do they think of you?"

She shrugged and picked the menu. That's their problem.

"Toke, you look so good. What's going on?" She smiled in that weird way friends always do.

Time for gist.

***

She stood, with a little wince from the discomfort in her shoulder region. She needed to fix an appointment with Kora.

The book hit the market like a missile. An award for the book was sitting proudly on the shelf. She glided to the mirror. The brown of the frame reminded her of Earth; How it could harbor a seed in its within till it made its way out as a young plant; nurture it till it blossomed beautifully into a formidable tree.

Sweet, fresh growth.

She looked in the mirror. 

The Yadiba who used to look back was no longer there.

This one knew when to tell the voices in her head to shut the fuck up.

 About The Author.

Bernice Ihesiaba is a young adult. She is a student medic, writer and storyteller. She is referred to as The Creative Tale-or, which is no wonder as she sews stories. She has written tons of short stories and participated in a number of online contests. When she isn't studying, writing, reading or implementing, she's up, daydreaming about a world of red roses and pretty butterflies.