Tummy Pudge: Internalised Feminism (abridged)

Glorious tummy pudge

‘You know, I really don’t like going out dancing these days. Last time, my clothes didn’t fit right and everyone could see my ‘tummy pudge’. 

That’s what my 28-year-old sister Káyọ̀dé said with a concerned look as she surveyed Brighton beach whilst visiting me at university. I’d always looked up to her all my life, mainly as our 8-year age difference meant I was still in primary school when she herself was at uni, that big, brilliant place of learning. Her higher education status had meant she was a genius of immeasurable proportions in my young eyes, so now aged 20, I wondered why she’d said such an unintelligent thing regarding her body shape. A split second after her self-doubting declaration, I replied with a big enthusiastic smile on my face ‘Oh, I LOVE that!’ Her equally instantaneous response was to whip her head towards my face, her concerned look replaced by disgusted confusion. Her negative reaction to my positive one put me off explaining the nature of my self-assured stance. 

Big Black Girl Magic!

Not too long before, I’d been out clubbing along the same beachfront dressed to look good (cute flowing top) but more importantly to comfortably bust my killer dance moves (flared black trousers). After seeing my jovial vibes on the dance floor (seriously though, I can move people!), some guys came to join in and I let a tall, dark, handsome one hug me from behind. As he did, his hands made contact with my own tummy pudge that my flowing top had concealed, particular with my ample bosom forming a protracted ridge. Clearly surprised by my considerable mass juxtaposed to my considerable hot-stepping, he’d quickly patted his hands across my mid-section inspecting just what I was working with. Then a second later, he actually grabbed both sides of my pudge and started bouncing it up and down, like gently shaking a tambourine to the music beat. I started laughing at his mini journey from dancing queen interest to pot belly surprise to playful acceptance of my body shape, which aligned with me being happy as a UK size 20 at age 20. 

Neo-Eurocentric aesthetics inducing insecurity 

Surely it was the mature thing to recognise that different physicalities, and indeed personalities, can be attractive in their own way (okay, and killer dance moves!) So that really flew in the face of my more mature sister’s irrational concern as a UK size 12 at age 28. The fact that she was a full foot taller than me further demonstrated the proportional distribution of her body fat, never mind supposed ‘tummy pudge’, was negligible in comparison to mine. Yes, there is a valid health concern regarding abdominal obesity which should be acknowledged. But that certainly wasn’t the context or sentiment of Káyọ̀dé’s apparent indignation on the subject, she was worried about neo-Eurocentric aesthetics vs morbidity/longevity. So it begged the question, why this significant mismatch of outlooks between siblings? It would take several years after that Brighton beach interaction for the answers to finally come to me… 

Matriarchal vs patriarchal mindset

Background: Growing up in the same Yorùbá-Nigerian family, Káyọ̀dé and I had the same DNA from the same parents, in the same household, sharing the same culture, language, etc. But it took me a really long time to extrapolate that we’d in fact grown up in completely different social circumstances. This was due to our father’s death when she was age 13 and passing into puberty, whilst I was 5 and just emerging from infancy. This meant that for the first 13 years of her development, Káyọ̀dé had seen a patriarchal husband-wife dynamic as the norm, which I’d only seen (and hardly remembered) for 5 years. The rest of my development was defined by a matriarchal single-mother dynamic as the norm, leading to our two very different tummy pudge perspectives as adults… 

Matriarchal conditioning = confidence building 

So I now understand that appeasing the male gaze is what drove Káyọ̀dé to worry so much about her negligible tummy pudge from her wider exposure of patriarchal norms….That’s why she and so many other ladies at that Brighton beach club as I was shaking it and getting down to the music felt they had to be ‘showy’ through certain hairstyles, colourful makeup, and alamode flamboyant fashions to attract males dressed in comparatively dull colours… Though…when I went clubbing, …my matriarchal conditioning and subsequent self-confidence meant …I primarily dressed not so men thought I was pretty, but because I thought it was fun, even artistic, and certainly comfortable enough to bust my big girl moves! 

Woman Power

Most important though will always be not how I, woman, interact with men, but how I, woman, interact with myself. …So, my message would be, stop having the wool pulled over your eyes, ladies. Cast off the patriarchal chains, wear what you want, look how you want, and be happy in yourself. Do you hear me big sister?? 

internalised sexism vs Internalised Feminism

...Truth be told, all those years after dancing up a storm on Brighton beach, I still have and still like my tummy pudge. To what extent 8-year-older Káyọ̀dé became comfortable with her own curvaceous glory (negligible as it may be), I’m still not sure. After all, without a shadow of a doubt, it was my earlier introduction to death that helped me recognise what is truly important in life. In any case, I do hope over time she moved away from seeing her value through the male gaze (internalised sexism) and more through the female one (internalised feminism), bringing our mismatched sister outlooks into closer alignment. 

And above all else, remember that God made us this way. If we are good enough for God, we are good enough for anyone, with added tummy pudge and all.

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If you enjoyed this abridged ‘women empowerment feminist manifesto’, the full version of ‘Tummy Pudge’ delves into biology, psychology, sociology/anthropology, and linguistics in a fun and relatable way. Coming soon...

Check out a live reading of this abridged version at the iEMPOW3R International Women's Day Spoken Word & Poetry Event 2023:

Strong Tea

What’s in the dried tea leaves for you? 

What stories emerge of the future true? 

What tales rise forth from the darkened wet? 

What twists and turns are yet to be met? 

But wait truth seeker, not quite so fast 

To know your future, first know your past 

There’s geographical, historical mystery 

That surrounds the roots of this ‘Yorkshire’ tea 

Where are hillsides of unfiltered green, 

With comb-lined bushes till horizons seen? 

Where are warm rainfalls to soak rich grounds, 

Infused with aromatic nutrients found? 

Who are the workers that roam the tracks, 

plucking carefully-eyed foliage for their basketed backs? 

A milky-skinned jolly Yorkshire laddie it be? 

No, sun-kissed Indians and Chinese gather this tea 

Millennia ago, the Asians did start 

Consuming this beverage with ceremonial art 

Only in the 1660s did Charles II then think 

To popularise this…ahem…‘British’ drink 

With colonial minds, they had crossed seas and lands 

Draining resources with pillaging hands 

Then PG, Tetley & Twinning capitalised the lie 

That theirs was the world’s ‘best’ sugar-lumped chai 

With fragile china and dainty tea pot 

They tried to sway their cultural appropriation plot 

But no, I’m not fooled by how they dare 

Associate eastern herbs with West Yorkshire! 

As the seasons change, the jig is up 

Brown truth storms in your brittle cup 

So as the days swirl into what will be 

Know the genuine roots of your future tea.

Identity: Global Roots

‘You’re one is a million’, a special stat.,

though one in 8 billion more pivotal than that.

Each human perspective, all quite unique,

but more vantage lies from airborne peaks.

With privileged travel, I was blessed to see

through childhood’s eye, continents-a-three.

Onto African, European and Asian marks

my young life journey did oddly embark

Yorùbá-Nigerian, surface to core,

vibrant clothes and spice galore.

Zuma Rock with crimson sun-kissed clay

governs over Abùjá each passing day.

From northern desert to southern green,

Palace of Zaria to Great Walls of Benin,

See how Saro-Wiwa’s passion roused and stirred,

Hear sweet Fela Kuti’s music and Chimamanda’s words,

With assiduous spirits and bookish minds,

Nigerians are truly one of a kind

The British Isles, my place of birth.

Snowy winters, my first glimpse of Earth.

My northern school, ease did inspire

with diversity from across past empire

But street lessons differed from class

with many a racist laddie and lass.

To combat the ignorance I truly abhorred

Addai-Sebo & Bellos brought Black history to these shores

Still, ‘Why come to this forsaken land?’,

looped in my mind for hours at hand.

Japan, land where I regained the sun.

With chopsticks and manga, I did have fun.

Kimonos and green tea filled the air,

earthquakes and Godzilla aroused slight fear

I marvelled at beautiful narrow eyes

My wide ovals’ equal praise, quite a surprise!

deftly shy, yet defiantly daring

mixed with Kuroyanagi and Takato’s caring

In this friendly eastern community

Again, I embraced humanity.

Here I stand in the faithful present

Surveying my international development

With learnings both glowing and dull in tone

I advanced along these world steppingstones

Through many twists and varied turns

Body, mind and soul were both nourished and burned

Still, with all weighed up, it's clear to see

abiding love bonds our global family.

The Present Future

 

Today I am.

Today I am doing lots of self-reflection: an activity I feel grateful to have the time and space to do.

I’m residing in a home paid for (by the skin of my teeth) with the humble salary from the part-time job I managed to hold down through the pandemic.

I’m sitting at the table and chair already in this furnished flat that I could instantly settle into and start living, versus traipsing around Ikea trying to select bits and bobs.

I’m wearing a purple ‘dirac’ airy dress from my Somali friend further wrapped in a red ‘kain sarung’ from my Malaysian friend for more warmth, feeling lucky as a Yorùbá-Nigerian clothed in such international community.

I’m working on a computer honing typing skills developed through poetry collections, uni essays, work assignments, even creating teaching materials and assessments for my students, and more.

I’m drafting my narrative writing ranging from poetry inspired by Roald Dahl nonsense rhymes to memoir pieces inspired by Maya Angelou’s life of global creativity, activism and love.

I’m interacting with online communities enticing me with dramatic theatre, thoughtful debate, inspirational fellow creatives, intelligent discourse, impromptu dance parties and virtual Christenings of newborns oceans away overloaded with cuteness.

I’m seeing all this through healthy eyes, hearing with healthy ears, processing through a healthy brain, supported by a healthy body, and today I know I am blessed.

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Tomorrow I can be.

Tomorrow I can be the embodiment of hopes and dreams from past todays as well as this today now.

I can be face-full rather than faceless, unmask and let the covid-safe world see happy smiles and plump cheeks, communicating beyond a muffed voice behind surgical fabric as the pandemic gradually subsides.

I can be a homeowner, have a foray of differently themed rooms, decorated with keepsakes from trips across the world spanning 5 continents, but ultimately centred on Yorùbá vibes.

I can be close to more family in London, visiting cousins, attending weddings, seeing nieces and nephews grow as childhood spirals into newfound tallness accompanying both academic and emotional intelligence.

I can visit more friends near in other cities and far in other countries (preferably sunnier) after the lockdown lifts properly, definitively, finally.

I can march for a new day of justice, pounding the road, threading the streets, joining global voices chanting in unison ‘Black Lives Matter’, honouring loving fathers like George Floyd, Sheku Bayoh and Mark Duggan as well as devoted mothers like Dorothy "Cherry" Groce and Cynthia Jarrett, taken away by law un-enforcement.

I can create training spaces where others can hone their language and communication skills, facilitating more life opportunities, driving job prospects higher, bringing aspirations ever closer.

I can discuss the premise of an enthralling page-turner with interested readers, engaged editors and eager publishers whilst drafting the bones of its sequel a la J.K. Rowling, and tomorrow I’ll see ever new horizons.

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Yes. Today I am, tomorrow I can be…and the present future will always be full of promise.

Purple Girl

purple girl in a purple world

You know, I’d like to understand what’s led me to liking the colour purple so much.

My preferred colourful Nigerian palette has shifted with each life stage. During my cold northern UK early school days, generic black and white appealed as they were easy to match clothing-wise, particularly with the principle blue colour of casual jeans and their associated relaxed vibe. Truth be told, I always enjoyed bright colours and would dress as such with many patterned jumpers displaying a full rainbow spectrum. This all-season summery preference blended into the background until I went to university, however.

cool blue jeans and bright colours

During a freshers week meeting with a group of 60+ students mainly from London (land of the ‘cool’), I saw near everyone was wearing darker colours: darker jeans, darker tops & jumpers, darker jackets & scarves, darker everything! ‘Ah, I could die (or perhaps ‘dye’) right here…’ I thought. With that, night seemed to fall on my subconsciously sunny preferences as I consciously became aware they made me stick out in this new social setting.

London (land of the ‘cool’) darker shades

Upon graduation, I wore my ceremonial cap and gown…and the traditional scholarly yet obscure black seemed to rub off on me. I went through a phase blending with my own shadow, ‘mainly in colder weather as dark colours help with heat absorption,’ I told myself. I recounted the same thing to my host parents from my hot southern Japan latter school days when, during a visit in my early 20s, they bought me a bright orange scarf. They insisted, ‘a young lady shouldn’t be wearing such dark colours all the time!’

‘a young lady shouldn’t be wearing such dark colours all the time!’

In any case, them throwing shade on my shaded tones seemed to have kicked me up the bum. In the ensuing years, my mid-late 20s wardrobe was always filled with colourful options. There were scarlet rose hats, marmalade earrings, lemon tops, lime belts, ocean spray trousers and chestnut shoes. But I and others soon started noticing there were often also lavender caps, beetroot shawls, aubergine blouses, violet dresses, fuchsia coats, plum denims and lilac sandals. Yes, I’d developed a passion for the passion fruit hue.

a passion for the passion fruit hue

So why was this the particularly purple case? On reflection, was it because back in the day, one uni flatmate said it was her favourite colour…then one uni workmate wore it always to the point I started calling her my ‘purple girl’? She’d looked perplex when my Cheshire Cat grinning face addressed her as such. Then the next day she said she’d caught sight of her laundry basket and the entire thing was indeed a pretty pile of pleasant purples.

Cheshire Cat grinning at the pleasant purples

Had an incognito indigo seed been planted in my psyche since then? Perhaps. But ultimately, I think it’s just a colour that straddles nicely between hot red and cold blue to make the perfect compromise of the two palettes.

hot red and cold blue = perfect purple

Now all my friends know I’m the ‘Purple Girl’ and the rainbow’s last arc is often their first thought when selecting travel souvenirs for me from their own colourful life journeys.

Interjection

Aunty and nephew playing up a storm!

The sky interjected with strong sun beams that summer morning, surely heralding the joyous day to come.

I'd just returned to the UK after an extended work assignment abroad and could finally catch up with family. This meant visiting my big cousins in northwest London and finally getting to meet my 2-year-old nephew for the first time. I'd already seen photos of the little guy growing from babbling baby to toothy-grinned toddler. Now I was excited to see if the personality coming through in his 2D renderings were also true of his 3D self. Upon arriving at their home, the little guy did indeed meet all expectations being mega cute, chatting loads already, and emitting lots of happy vibes. His home was a sea of toys and we soon selected one and made the living room floor our land of playtime. His mum was glad for our interaction as it gave her time to focus on a pending work project. Always a bit of a chancer, she then asked if I'd take our playtime outside for fresh air at the local park.

My mouth interjected, ‘NO!!’, accompanied by my wide eyes and furrowed brow.

Surprised at my sudden total apprehension, his mum asked why? I fired back,

'He might fall down!'

'Or a car might hit him!!'

'Or someone might grab him!!!'

'No, I don’t want to take him outside!!!!'

In that moment, I was having the aunty version of what mothers experience immediately after childbirth. Going into overprotection overdrive from the big, bad world for their new little one that’s just arrived. Except whilst his mum had had 2 years for that over-apprehension to somewhat dissipate, mine had just kicked in big time. Seeing my clear discomfort from taking him out of the safety of her 4 walls, his mum relented. But also seeing her clear tiredness, I reversed my assertion, decided to be brave and venture out with the little guy. He was entrusted to my care, so for now, he would be my young one.

Aunty and nephew on way to park

Stepping out of the door, my attention distribution inhabited an interesting dichotomy. In my eye periphery, all guns were blazing in case anyone tried to mess with us. Though in my eye focus, all cylinders were firing with love bugs towards my nephew: bombarding him with speech describing our surrounding residential world to activate his mind and showering him with praise when he named his colours and shapes right to activate his heart.

London park playground

After 5 minutes, we reached the local park, a nice patch of extensive greenery with lots of colourful playground apparatus near the entrance gate. My young one knew exactly what to do in this new land of playtime and I soon had him swishing on the swings, bouncing on the seesaw, and swirling on the roundabout. One of my spins was a bit too strong though and he almost lost his balance causing him the same apprehensive look I'd had back at the house. Before he could break into a full-on cry, we left the swirly roundabout and headed for the stoic bench. There we sat so my young one could get his bearings, holding him close in a squeezy hug, telling him how brave he was.

Lime-green leaves serenely swaying

A gentle breeze interjected, rustling sunlit lime-green leaves in its wake.

We sat a while absorbing the parkland serenity when another family arrived through our same entrance gate. It was a father with his own young ones in tow: a daughter circa 9 and son circa 7 years old, all with Scandinavian vibes being very blond-haired and blue-eyed. This parent clearly had the same idea as my cousin of giving the kids a chance to stretch their legs playing around outside. So they began doing just that on the flat turf in the playground corner. By this time, nephew wanted to try the climbing frame and I stood by him diligently making sure he didn’t slip despite the rubber surface below ready to insulate any fall.

Blond-haired, blue-eyed father, daughter and son

As always, it was nice seeing other people at parks, with each group’s fun times amplifying everyone else’s joy. When certain jubilant vibes expanded beyond each familial bubble, some park goers usually comment on other groups enjoyment as they play around.

'Hey, good tackle!'

'Hey, nice kick!'

'Hey, you did it!'

And this distant, friendly banter might well also be needed for the new additions in the playground corner as they started a fervent game of rounders. The smiling father started giving a full-on commentary of the proceedings as the son threw ball here, the daughter batted ball there, the son bombed it after the ball, the daughter bombed it to the next base, the son got the ball, the daughter was too fast and had already made it safe to home base, yay! Though this particular cheerful rounders commentary and laughter kept throwing me for a loop. Why? Because this Scandinavian-esque family in this northwest London park were speaking in fluent Japanese.

Surprise hearing Japanese speakers

My brain interjected, ‘huh?’

Now, an East Asian family speaking fluent Japanese in a London park, okay. A blond-haired, blue-eyed family speaking fluent Japanese in a Tokyo park, fine! But this blond-blue family communicating entirely in East Asian fluency in our Western European surroundings got me doing quite a bit of rubbernecking. So, now my attention distribution inhabited a new dichotomy. In my eye/ear focus was still the cuteness overload that was my nephew clamouring on the climbing frame. But in my eye/ear periphery was the curiosity overload of the backstory of this European family's Japanese aptitude.

Japanese family playing in the park

After a while, my little one decided he wanted to try the slide. With its gentle slope and elevated edges it was safer than the climbing frame, so my peripheral rubbernecking of the curious family slightly increased as they continued their latest round of rounders. By that time, it was the brother who ran to base, beating his sister there. With that, their amplified joy caused mine to spill over and I said with a huge smile on my face, 「 hayai sugi!」, declaring ‘too fast!’ in Japanese. And in that moment, suddenly their game slowed down as they clocked I understood the language too.

Scandinavian-esque father, daughter and son’s brains clearly interjected, ‘huuhhh?!!’

Though unlike my brain interjection leading to curiosity, rubbernecking and smiles; their brain interjection led to silence, no eye-contact and deadpan faces. Without saying a word to me or each other, they stopped their game, held fast to their bat & ball, and slowly began walking towards the same park gate they had entered through. The fun had completely left their beings and it was time to leave our shared land of playtime asap. The change happened so quickly that I was still smiling widely at them, waiting for...I'm not sure what. Perhaps a little banter on how each non-Japanese party had come to acquire the East Asian dialect. Maybe the father’s career had taken him to the far east where his kids were exposed to the language from my nephew’s infant age. Maybe I could then share I’d spent my final secondary school years in Japan after winning a scholarship from the Japanese embassy in central London just a few tube stops away. But all that happened was, as the mute father followed his mute kids towards the gate, he momentarily jolted his head towards me, gave me a half sarcastic smile/half annoyed sneer, before exiting the park.

Blond-haired, blue-eyed sneer(!)

My brain interjected, ‘What the…?!??’

What had just happened? Why hadn’t the fact that my Japanese fluency matching theirs been met with a jolly ‘hey, that’s cool, we understand each other’ rather than a dejected, ‘we have to get out of here asap…’, leaving the good vibes amongst the sunlit lime-green leaves rustling in the gentle breeze behind? I started brainstorming. Speaking Japanese for that family was some kind of bonding agent, something special that they could do that no one else could. Hey, I get it, I used Yorùbá the same way with my family growing up in the British north. The difference being, meeting other Yorùbá speakers was always welcomed with great excitement...whereas here, meeting another Japanese speaker was rejected with shift contempt if not ‘alarm’. The fact that they had seen a Nigerian woman with her small child as the only other park inhabitants probably meant they felt safe in their unique linguist bubble that no one else could penetrate. That was probably true for their fellow European Londoners, surely even more so of this African Londoner too! But no, I had penetrated their lexical bubble of grammatical safety and phonetic security, and some sort of ‘panic’ had ensued. In that public British park, my Yorùbá-Nigerian self had somehow broken into that blond-blue family’s private Japanese home.

Surprise hearing Yorùbá speakers

My mouth interjected, hmmm…

My periphery now being empty, my full focus went on my young one. He had been oblivious to the corner family throughout, enjoying himself too much running to the slide ladder, climbing to the platform, then slipping down the shiny metal sheet to the bouncy rubber ground over and over again. His smiling face emulating pure delight reset my own smiling face that had momentarily sported a furrowed brow whilst pondering the odd interaction. I was happy my nephew hadn’t picked up on the Japanese-speaking blond-blue family’s vibe. London was supposed to be a multicultural haven, an ethnic salad bowl of social cohesion. He would have enough negativity directed towards him walking the world as a Black person, best for him not to clock that such social rejection could also apparently come from being friendly in Asian languages(!) Indeed, of all the things I’d initially been worried about happening to him outside the comfort and safety of his mum home, it’s fair to say that was the least probable that my overactive imagination could have stretched to.

Happy nephew still enjoying the park

My young one interjected, ‘I’m tired!’

Okay, time to take nephew home.

He still had some residual bounce as he skipped along the pavement during the 5-minute stroll to his front door. I then delivered him back to his mother, filled with fresh air, fresh fun and sleepy eyes. I had done my aunty job well as he drooped off to bed, giving his mum more resting time. Soon afterwards, I bade my cousins goodbye and headed out to return home. By that time, the sun was setting on my day of tangentially encountering rising sun land. The interesting events swished, bounced and swirled in my mind as I ventured into the global village contained in one city: multi-ethnic, multi-lingual, multi-parkland London.

My memory interjected, ‘Well, I won’t be forgetting that anytime soon!’