Abundant

It is your sister’s wedding and you are wearing a pink dress. The dress is made of the itchiest lace that stretches across your bare shoulders and flows toward your ankles, hugging your body, keeping you together. The lace is embroidered with tiny, luminescent stones that refract light when you move across the room, drawing more eyes to the body you wish to hide. You do not exactly love the color, but it is what they picked, and your mother had it sewn for you. The stitches are tight and dig into your flesh, forcing you to shift from leg to leg, fidgeting. The heaviness of your body has always angered your mother; you wonder what she is punishing you for this time.

Eleven years ago, on your ninth birthday, in a crowded clothes shop in Ikeja, your mother screamed at you to lose weight so she can find clothes for you to wear for your party. Nothing you tried on covered the circumference of your body. And you were not even so fat then. Maybe your cheeks were a little full, but what is childhood