VULNERABLE

MIRROR,ARABIC AND ARMAAN

ABIDAT

I gazed wearily into the mirror, halfway through pulling up my underwear when I came face-to-face with the most judgmental, unmotivational object in the entire house. The full-length mirror Mama had insisted on installing in my closet was a daily reminder of everything I hated about myself. It had taken her three relentless months to convince me to have it, and even then, I avoided it as much as possible. I kept it tucked away in the corner, out of sight and out of mind - at least, that was the plan.

But here I was, staring at my reflection, my eyes drawn to the belly that jutted out like I was a few months into a pregnancy. Mama never missed an opportunity to remind me of it, always hinting with a worried tone, as if she expected me to burst any moment with a baby that didn't exist. My thighs were no better, thick and solid like tree trunks, making my already dwindling self-esteem plummet. I had worked so hard to lose weight, but it was never enough. Society still labeled me as fat, as if my entire worth could be summed up in those three letters.

Not that I minded all that much - or at least, that's what I told myself. Over time, I had learned to block out the whispers and the stares, the offhand comments that cut deeper than they should. The worst part was that some of those people were supposed to be my friends. Friends who were quick to laugh with me but even quicker to judge when I wasn't looking.

"Friends, my ass," I muttered under my breath, a bitter laugh escaping my lips.

But despite all the negativity, there was one thing I knew for certain: I was pretty. Not just the kind of pretty that got a passing compliment now and then, but the kind that made people do double-takes when I walked into a room. It was the one thing I allowed myself to take pride in, the one aspect of myself I could never hate. My chestnut brown eyes, often described as sleepy, held a certain allure, a mystery that made people want to know more. My straight nose, perfectly balanced, and my plump, slightly pink lips, though shapeless, added to the overall appeal. My face was a blend of round and heart-shaped, a combination that seemed to mask the flaws of the rest of my body.

I wasn't that fat, I reminded myself, trying to push away the negative thoughts. Sure, my belly was too big for my age, and my waist gave me a chubbier appearance than I liked, but my thighs - though large - did give me hips that most people would kill for. And without the stretch marks, too. My arms weren't too flabby either; I had seen girls half my size with arms twice as fat. And if there was one thing the workouts had truly helped with, it was keeping those dreaded love handles at bay.

Then there was my ass. If I had to be fat, at least I was blessed with a backside that turned heads. It was the one feature I absolutely loved about myself. No one in my class could compete with me in that department, and that, at least, gave me some satisfaction.

I turned my gaze to the blue-patterned disaster laid out in front of me, the skirt that was part of my school uniform. It was too short for my liking and made my waist look even larger than its actual 35 inches. The plain light blue blazer and white shirt did a decent job of hiding my belly and waist, though, and for that, I was thankful. The blazer, a mix of light blue and turquoise, complemented my brown skin tone beautifully. It was oversized, just the way I liked it. The shirt, however, was a different story. Short-sleeved , it was a mistake I regretted every time I put it on. I had asked the school tailor to shorten the sleeves, thinking it would be more flattering. Now, I couldn't walk around without my blazer without feeling exposed, like everyone was staring at my arms, judging me silently.

The school's name was embroidered proudly on the pocket of both the blazer and the shirt: NAIJA-BRITISH INTERNATIONAL (N.B.I.). I still had a year and a half left in this judgmental building they called a school. Half a year if my parents agreed to let me take my WAEC and NECO this year, alongside SS3. But that was a conversation I wasn't ready to have just yet.

I shook my head, breaking free from the spiral of self-pity. Staring at my pathetic reflection in my blue undergarments wasn't going to help anything. I grabbed a plain white cotton vest and slipped it on, more out of habit than anything else. I didn't want anyone catching a glimpse of my underwear. The oversized white shirt came next, its short sleeves stopping just after my elbows. I left it untucked - no need to rumple the neatly ironed fabric just yet. I pulled on the skirt, adjusting it so it sat just right, before slipping on my knee-length white socks.

My eyes fell on the black cap sitting on my dresser, next to my blazer. I grabbed it, pausing only when I reached for my hijab and veil drawer. Instead of the usual neck hijab, I decided on a jersey veil. The blue one caught my eye, but wearing that would mean I'd need to switch to a white cap - another one of the school's ridiculous rules. I was too lazy to change, so I settled on the white one, wrapping it around my head with little care for neatness.

I glanced at the mirror one last time, my reflection now almost fully covered. I wasn't one for makeup - not even lip gloss or chapstick. But today, I felt the urge to do something, anything, to make myself feel a little more... alive. I picked up the kohl from my desk and carefully lined my eyes, making them pop against the backdrop of my veil. A thin layer of Vaseline on my lips and lashes was the final touch.

~~~

I stopped on the stairway, where I could hear voices. I didn't need more than two brain cells to know that it was Mama and Baba fighting again. They always did this thing early in the morning.

I liked the way they fought; it was kind of cute. It just showed how much affection they still had for each other, and I longed to have a relationship like that when I grew up.

Mama was shouting something in Shuwa, and Baba was replying in the same language. The fact that he loved her so much to learn her language will forever surprise me.

I sighed and slowly walked into the kitchen, glancing at the clock, which read 6:45. I needed to be in school before 7:10. What I saw in the kitchen just proved that they were bickering rather than fighting.

Baba was holding Mama's waist while she screamed in Shuwa. Though she didn't make any attempt to release herself from his embrace, Baba was also replying in an even tone, unable to help but smile at her 5'4" self as her lips - which looked oh so similar to mine - formed words too fast for me to understand.

I took after Mama's hair length and her lip shape, though hers was much prettier than mine as it matched seamlessly with her fair skin tone. Her eyes were bigger than mine and always gave her this innocent look that I absolutely admired. Her nose was longer than mine, and her face was a lot more round; she was petite - something I DEFINITELY didn't inherit from her.

Baba was tall, extremely tall, which made my height fall in between them. He had a chubbier build than Mama, and his extremely soft, full hair - which I also inherited - sat on his head, dripping wet, a sign he had just washed it. His eyes matched mine perfectly, though his eye color was lighter, and his nose was an exact replica of mine, blending seamlessly with his caramel skin tone that shone in the sun.

Further investigation showed that Baba's family trait was the source of my weight, along with Mama's constant feeding and delicious food.

I cleared my throat, and their gazes shifted from each other to me. Mama quickly pushed Baba away and turned off the gas.

"Sabahul khair, mama" (Good morning, Mama) I said to Mama in the Arabic I was used to.

"Sabahul noor habibti, kayfa halukhi ?" (Good morning to you too, love. How are you?) Mama replied, placing the plate of eggs and bread in front of me.

"Alhamdulillah" (Praise be to God) I replied.

"Baba jam banɗuna" (Good morning) I said to Baba in Fulani, and he replied to me, smiling widely.

I always found greeting my parents in their respective languages better, even though that was about the only thing I could say.

I finished my food, and Baba offered to drop me off, which I gladly accepted. I grabbed my blue tote bag that had my essentials in it and made a dash for the door.

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First chapter done I'm so happy, my 1st story is on hold so please bear with me hope you enjoyed.

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