I am not a girly girl

True I am really not a girly girl. I dont do girly stuff and this little short is about my disastrous attempt at girliness. I hope you like it!!


I am not a girly girl. I hate putting on make-up, dress-shopping, having sleepovers with other girly girls and just about any other girly activities you can think off. I just do not see the point in slathering one’s face with all manner of artificial chemicals to bring out one’s so-called hidden beauty. Neither do I see the point in spending more than five minutes to buy a piece of cloth which is intended to cover your nakedness. Or in wearing suicidal shoes just to give a false impression of height. However, just because I find these practices highly outrageous does not mean my family does not demand them. In fact, it is my urge to meet these demands, to appease those family members who frown on my boyish ways that has put me in this precarious situation. It is because of these demands that I am presently trying to balance my killer (emphasis on the killer) wedges on some perfidious stones while carrying a load that, I swear, was given to me just so I could fall in front of all the people watching the procession.

Sigh.

I might as well tell you how I got into this quagmire.
My uncle is to be engaged today and my cousin, Abena, and I are required, much to my chagrin, to wear matching dresses. If I were a photo, Abena would have been my absolute negative. We are polar opposites of each other. She enjoys indulging in all the antecedent unnecessary girly activities and is too much of an attention seeker. A chameleon, her personality changes to match that of those presently around her. She has transformed so many times that only her family members- me inclusive- can see through her ever changing facades. Needless to say, her interests and hobbies always morph to match the situation. For instance, when she is around me, Abena develops a sudden, yet false, love for books, anime and soccer. Ultimately, she is a shallow little chameleon who can walk in high heels and all kinds of neck-breaking shoes.

I can’t.

I went to my aunt’s house to try out the dress-modesty is impossible here- and I looked divine in it- at least that’s what my aunt said; I can never tell . I had filled out the dress so that all my curves were outlined beautifully (again quoting my aunt). Abena on the other hand- seeing as she had not completed her transition to adulthood and thus had no curves whatsoever- looked like a stick in a dress. It did not help that she had recently cut her hair. My aunt was so in love with the dress that she asked what shoe I was going to wear to the engagement and before I could force my mouth to bring forth a response, the durned woman suggested that I wear a wedge she gave me a while ago. (Obviously since there was no way I could walk in that ‘thing’, I had stored it somewhere hot so it would get damaged before I would be demanded to wear it. I was not lucky).

I winced and replied, “Auntie Eva, please Mummy said I should were a brown wedge that she bought for me.” A total lie of course, but the wedge I had in mind was considerably shorter than that death-inducing shoe.
Auntie Eva frowned. “Brown? But that won’t match the dress. Anaa Connie wonhu?” 
(Or Connie, don’t you think so?)  

(The dress was turquoise). Auntie Connie, Abena’s mother, who happened to be present at the meeting asked, “Wedge b3n na wop3s3 ohy3?” 
(Which wedge do you want her to wear?).

“Oh, tenten green no. Na Connie wonkae?”  (Oh, the long green one. Connie don’t you remember it?)
“Aaaah,” Auntie Connie replied. “Mekae, mekae. But woy3 sure s3 ob3tumi ananti womu. Wei de3”-she pointed at me, “, s3 w’anhw3 yie ah, ob3tofom oo.”  
(I remember, I remember. But are you sure she would be able to walk in it. This one (pointing at me) will fall down if you are not careful.)

“Herh,” Auntie Eva looked pointedly at me. “Wob3tofom?”
(Hey. Will you fall?)

I could have just told the truth right then. I could have just said yes. I could have avoided the mess I have gotten myself into. I don’t even know what came over me because I knew I could never walk in that green shoe. Not with less than a day to prepare. Or no. Scratch that. I do know what came over me. Anger. Jealousy. Urge to impress. Pride. Choose any one of them. These were the emotions that flooded through me when Auntie Connie stated that Abena was also wearing a wedge. I will not let Abena show me up! I will retain my dignity by towering over her during the engagement; I after all am older so my shoes will have to be higher than hers. I did not know that that momentary lapse in judgment will cause my dignity to be trodden upon by war horses with Abena-in green wedges- as their rider.

So I lied. Again.

“Auntie Eva, me pa wokyew, metumi ananti womu.” I said, smiling.
(Auntie Eva, please I will be able to walk in it.}
“Woy3 sure?” she asked
(Are you sure?)
“Oh! Oboa! Ob3tofom!” Auntie Connie cut in. (Oh! She is lying! She will fall down)

I should have stopped there of course. The Lord had given me yet another way out. My mind-in a futile attempt to warn me- had already conjured various vivid scenes which involved me stumbling and falling and never getting up. I paid no heed to these omens. Figments of my wild imagination, I called them.

“Oh, Auntie Connie, me pa wokyew, merentofom. M’ahy3 ako asore da. 3y3 just that menhy3da ny3 comfortable womu.” Still smiling. Still seeing myself fall. Still ignoring the signs.
(Oh, Auntie Connie, please I won’t fall. I have worn the shoes to church before. It’s just that I don’t feel very comfortable in them.)

“3na fa spare gu wo bag no mu eh?” Auntie Eva so helpfully suggested. "So when you feel ‘uncomfortable’ you can change.”
(Then put a spare shoe in your bag eh?)

“Me pa wokyew yoo.” I replied.
(Yes please)

The second I arrived at home, I put on the accursed wedges, and amid vexing post-monitions, I honed my drunken gait. Initially, I stumbled so much that I stopped practicing with the wedges and, instead, used one of my mother’s shorter heels. When I acclimatized to the height, I went for higher heels and worked my way up to the infamous wedge. My stumbling had reduced and I began to gain confidence with every step. However, I was practicing on the flat terrain of the corridor. What will happen once I got outside and was required to walk on rocky terrain and rough paths? (Sadly my country is plagued with them) So I moved my runway to the backyard, a much rougher runway than the corridor. Finally, when I had stopped stumbling and faltering, I retired into the house. I was pleased with the results- the only problem I had was balancing on stones, but it’s not like the place the engagement would be held would be packed with stones, right?

Oh, how wrong I was.  

The next morning-that’s today- I wore the shoes and set out for the engagement . I balanced beautifully on the shoes, no tripping of any sort and I looked stunning. Tall and elegant and whatnot. I was a bit annoyed when I saw that Abena’s wedges were nowhere near as tall as mine but I really didn’t mind because it just made me look more mature than she looked. Everything was fine and dandy until at the engagement grounds- my uncles fiancé-to-be’s house- I was giving a parcel to hold- a very heavy parcel if I might add. So heavy that it unbalanced me. Crap! During all the time I spent practicing balance I did not carry a load heavier than my handbag- which held only my phone and a book. I struggled to maintain my balance but the durned parcel kept slipping. We-my cousins and I- were asked to stand in a line in front of the house while clutching our parcels. A line. A line is never good. A line usually means a procession which also usually means observation. I did not like that word, but I could be worrying myself over nothing. A woman in white at the front of the line shouted something that sounded like “Agoo”. But that couldn’t be right because-  

“AGOO”, she shouted again.

Agoo. Knock, knock. Oh no. it was then that I realized why I standing in a line and carrying a parcel. This was the knocking ceremony. In Ghana, a man does not get engaged by simply asking for a woman’s hand in marriage- no. There’s a whole ceremony that is performed before one can have a fiancé and the first step in that ceremony is the knocking ceremony. This is when the man and his family literally knock (hence the “agoo”) on the door of the woman’s house in order to hand over the bride price and ask for the woman’s hand in marriage. The parcel I was holding was the bride price- or at least part of it. Any fantasies I had held of not being observed by anyone if I tripped quickly dissolved. A line. A procession. Everyone’s attention will be on the dowry. On me. Surely it could not get worse than this.

I should not have thought that. I should have learnt from every book that I had read and from every movie (or cartoon) that I had watched that every time some idiot says “Surely it could not get worse than this”, it always does. For as dowry passed through the gate, I saw that covering the compound between the gate and the door were huge stones.  Not cute, smooth and tiny stone, noooooo. Humongous, rough and unforgiving stones! The kind of stones that can wreck your heels.
I.
Was.
Doomed.

I could already hear the shouts of dismay stumbled and fell. I could see Abena’s smirk clearly and I could hear my aunts’ laughter. I saw myself falling again. And again. And again. And never getting back up. My mind of course saw it fitting to remind me of a quote from Julius Caesar. During one of Mark Anthony’s speeches to the fickle crowd, he said:            
     
   O what a fall was there, my countrymen!       Then I, and you, and all of us fell down. 

Oh what a fall there will be. And all my countrymen will fall down with me; they will fall with thunderous laughter.  The line started to move. I took on shaky step onto the field of stones. I concentrated on my steps; two steps and I hadn’t yet fallen. I could do this. I was walking with confidence by the time the line stopped abruptly.

“AGOO!” the woman in white yelled again. The woman’s (the woman to be engaged) family had to grant us permission before we could go through the door. As I stood waiting, I got cocky, lost my concentration and stumbled. O what a fall was there. Why did I have to recall that phrase? Damn you Anthony! I quickly regained my composure, looked around and let out a grateful sigh. No one saw me; they were too focused on the door of the house. Next time, I may not be so lucky. The already heavy parcel felt even heavier now and it was still slipping out of my sweaty hands.

So you now know how I ended up here. Let’s get on with the story then.

The parcel is slowly slipping but trying to grip it well will lead to me losing my concentration and consequently my balance. Just as I commence my prayer, the line starts moving again. I am so focused on my balance that I do not hear that our permission is granted. I continue to pray as I make my shaky and awkward trek across the treacherous stones and I finally present my part of the dowry and-thankfully- take a seat.

I do not fall, however it is obvious to everyone at the engagement that I cannot walk in the shoes and I feel the crack in my dignity.

After the engagement- and at the reception- I take out the spare wedges (the brown ones) my mother brought, in case I needed a shoe change, and wear those instead since they are considerably shorter than the shoes I have on presently. Abena, who notices the furtive little transaction I make with the bag, asks if she could wear the green wedges. I have a vision of her falling in public and smirk in my head. I ask innocently, “Are you sure? It’s way higher than the ones you have on,” in order to feed her ego. I know she’ll definitely wear them now and predictably, she says she still wants to try it on and wears them. She gets up and start walking on the stones. I see that she’s struggling to maintain her balance and I wait for her to fall. I keep waiting. And waiting. And waiting until I realise that the durned girl is walking splendidly in the shoes and I realize that her earlier staggering was just a ruse. My aunties start comparing my drunken staggering to Abena’s graceful gait as I seethe with envy. She is supposed to fall but instead of falling she shows everyone at the engagement what a boy I really am. A girl who cannot even walk in high shoes. While Abena looks regal and elegant, I look like a cheap imitation; the China version.

My dignity is now in shambles. I can feel them you know. I can feel the horses galloping-and crushing- what is left of my dignity and I can see Abena goading them to gallop even harder with my green wedges.

Sigh.

I am not a girly girl. I hate make-up. I hate sleepovers. And most of all, I hate wedges.