I’m hungry. I’m really hungry. In fact, I’m starving. My tummy rumbles in agreement.
Walking back to my hostel, I see that the African Studies department is hosting an event. I seriously consider attending the event, mainly because a buffet has been laid out.
I shake my head.
A friend of mine got a Galaxy S4 just the other day. I’ve been trying to save for a phone for the past four months. The same goes for everything else. Groceries, clothing, shoes, rent. I always have to be very careful before I make any expense, because mehn, Ice cream and pizza today can equal garri and peanuts tomorrow. These other girls though, they only have to pout their perfectly stained bottom lips, and their needs are met. Just like that.
I have long since resigned myself to the fact that I am not like them, and would never be like them. There are two main reasons why not. There is God, then there is my pride. Sometimes, though, I’m sorely tempted.
Later that day, I’m invited to an event.
This man, he’s fifty, same as my dad, and says he wants us to be good friends. I laugh my delightful little laugh, and ask what what exactly he means by that. I am overwhelmed by the alcohol in his breath as he guffaws. Then he tells me good friends are friends that take good care of each other. I smile and take another sip of my drink, stealing a glance at the gold band on his ring finger.
Looking into his face, smiling as I watch him speak, listening to what he is saying, and hearing what he actually means, my mind wanders. I imagine not having to walk under the hot sun to hustle for a bus when I have to go somewhere. I imagine having all the latest tech toys at my disposal. I imagine ignoring, as opposed to frowning at the price tag on a coveted dress. I imagine the marvelous state of abundance in place of this state of want. I flashback to all the other promises, always made with that infamous clause.
“I can actually get you an internship at KPMG…”, “I can get your articles published in the national paper…”, “I can pay for your ticket to SA…”, “You should come with me to this beautiful resort in Togo…”, “I can get your pictures in that magazine…”
After all, like a dear friend of mine concluded, the whole sex thing is over in five minutes.
But no. There is God, then there is my pride. I will not turn this temple of God (my body, in other words), to one of those oriental fertility temples. I will not sacrifice my dignity for material things. I will continue to support myself. I will learn to sufficiently provide for myself. No man will be able to take credit for the amazing success I know for a fact that I’ll become.
I will not lie on my back, but will stand on my two feet.
And in other news, I am woman, hear me roar (couldn’t help it, sorry).