Nobody likes to be judged. Especially not after you spent hours trying to make yourself look beautiful enough for yourself. Most people don’t understand that while convincing people you are pretty might be a walk on the park; convincing one’s self is a totally different story. Once you are hidden in the privacy of your room, standing nude next to a big mirror, you get to see all the things all the twists and turns you are not comfortable letting anyone see. This is primarily why some appreciate and worship the gift of clothes. Others chose to hide what’s not good enough and show what’s pretty enough to maintaining their look of beauty. I for one love wearing high waisted skirts to hide my ever growing tummy but keep the skirts short to compensate with my legs which have been termed to be sexy on many occasions.
On this particular day, I chose to wear my black short body-hugging skirt coupled with a red turtle neck and a red pair of heels. It was actually during the time that people were stripping off women clothes in town on account of being too short but the feminist in me convinced me that I was not out to subject myself to make urges, I just wanted to look beautiful enough for me and my not so proportional curves.
The bus I boarded was fast enough and I reached the CBD in no time wmd started my way towards best lady to buy Cantu hair oil I think. I kept seeing people look at me but oh well; I’m a beautiful creature of the Lord so I assumed that they were admiring my outfit. I had just made a certain corner when a man grabbed me by my hands while another grabbed my skirt and started to tear it up.
‘Si ulitaka kutembea uchi? Tembea sasa tuone vizuri.’
My skirt was barely a skirt anymore and I took to my heels looking out for any boutique I could see. Pedestrians were busy taking pictures of me; laughing and pointing while tears came out like rivers; showcasing the humiliation had. I wished I hadn’t even left my house. A woman selling socks on the street took pity on me and gave me her leso (God bless this mother) but the flock of men behind me kept tugging it from behind. Hadn’t they seen enough of my unevenly distributed dimple filled ass yet?
- Virginity… Would you marry a deflowered woman?
- Pregnancies. How my mother became my nightmare
- Infertility. Into the bedroom of an infertile woman
- Being bisexual… Man, woman, unicorn, table?
I came across Mr.Price and bought myself a skirt. I didn’t roam long enough to give them the satisfaction of ‘changing a lost soul’. An Embassava I took back to Buru. It took some time before I could comfortably grace the streets of tao but in time I got over it. I still wish and pray that nobody remembers me grimacing with tears on my face that day. None the less, I still dressed the way I dress because I feel like I should be comfortable in my own skin. We should all be allowed to express our emotions, views, and opinions even in our choice of style. Clothes don’t just hide body parts, they hide insecurities and go a great deal in building confidence.
My dress IS my choice!