Cracked
There was a time I punished myself for NEPA not giving my house electricity. I was a child then, seven or eight, and I’d sit cross-legged in front of our flat’s open door, refusing to budge until we got the light we paid for. The little activist I thought I was, I stayed on the floor, fielding questions (and laughter) from my neighbours and family.
Ironically, I can no longer sit cross-legged; I wasn’t built for that kind of pain. But I still punish myself for those who deserve no ounce of my sweat and suffering.
I was eleven when I first received the look that would define me for the next few years. It was a sunny afternoon, I was bored, and our DSTV subscription had run out. So, I went to the one source of entertainment that had kept me company for years.
Barbie.
I was a simple child then. Intelligent, but simple. I knew I wasn’t like most boys my age. I didn’t like football, nor did I enjoy fighting. I was called a girl so much I’m surprised it didn’t become a nickname. Words do have power, especially in a place like Nigeria, where witches wear high fashion in the daytime and split kolanut with the devil at night.
But none of it mattered. My family never called me different, only special—the best. So, imagine my surprise when my brother, the person I looked up to the most, looked at me with his lips pulled back in a sneer when he saw me watching a Barbie movie that afternoon.
“Is this all you watch?” he asked, his lips curling. In hindsight, I could have said no. I could have reminded him of how we binge-watched Smallville together, how I ran out to buy the next season’s DVD the minute one finished. I could have judged his love for Cartoon Network.
But none of that mattered when my heart was breaking. I felt my cheeks get hot, and my eyes fell to the remote in my twitching fingers. That was the first time I made them twitch. I knew if I did not, I would cry, and my brother—a little less than that to me at that moment—would have another reason to berate me.
I went to a mountain school when I was 16. I didn’t scream during any event, no matter how daunting. I already knew what it felt like to dangle with nothing beneath me but empty space and uncertainty. My own brother made me feel that way.
That day, I told myself I had to do better, to change, to hide, to be a man.
I went back to school after that holiday with the knowledge that I was different, with the false knowledge that being different was bad and that it was up to me to change it.
I loved romance. I loved the grand gestures, the little corny jokes between partners, the fantasy of it all. But what self-respecting boy admits to that? It was bad enough that I didn’t like sports and preferred books to people.
To be a nerd who openly liked romantic comedies and preferred the company of girls to boys? Unacceptable.
To be a nerd who was as horny as the rest of my mates? Marginally acceptable.
So, I buried myself in erotica. In time, I began to believe I truly liked it. The books did set my heart racing, and I began to crave them. I know better now. I liked them for the escape they provided, for the opportunity to be that boy.
I suffered for that burial of my personhood, and I’m not just talking about my grades slipping.
Remember when I said I could punish myself for things that aren’t my fault? Changing who I was turned me into someone I did not understand but liked—because others could tolerate him.
I fought to fit in, clawed to belong in what little way the world around me would allow. For a boy still developing a personality, that is very dangerous. If someone had told me all the parts of myself were beautiful, I would have listened. If another person had told me I was being a girl, I would have listened too. I was open to letting the perceptions of others build me.
There was a short drama I took part in in my second year of secondary school. I had no major role, simply to dance at the end and sing a ridiculous jingle we composed. That play was the first time I wore skinny jeans—a piece of clothing I hate to this day. I was smiling when we were through; I was also sweaty and shaky. I kept thinking: Did they like it? Was I cool enough? Would they stop calling me a girl?
I had been reduced to less than servile, begging for admiration, an actor overacting when he had no lines. The boy, who had won countless prizes in primary school, was now barely scraping the top twenty in his class.
And to top it all off, I was still being called a girl, only now it was being spelt and pronounced “gay”.
Then, something changed.
In my third year of secondary school, I still hadn’t grown bigger or better, though I was beginning to show signs of a beard—no small achievement. I walked into my classroom and was confronted by a boy much bigger than me. He claimed I had stolen his ghana-must-go. (I had a similar bag.) This boy was someone I admired, someone whose intelligence and drive I respected.
Yet that day, he would not listen to reason as he laid into me with his fists and feet, calling me a thief while he was at it. He created a deep scarring memory with his punches and kicks that day. And he did it so everyone could see and hear.
That night, as I lay in my bunk bed nursing my aching body, I finally realised something—that people would only see and hear what they wanted to, no matter how loud you screamed, no matter how you changed yourself for them, no matter the river of tears pouring down your cheeks.
I told myself I was done trying to impress them, trying to live for them. But it didn’t mean they deserved to have the real me, either. I kept him for myself, thinking I knew who he was. I didn’t realise that he—the truest part of me—was hidden so deeply in the cracks of the persona I presented to the world.
Not much has changed since that night, except for my father asking that I talk more. Would you want to talk to a man who knows only half of what you know but acts like he knows everything?
I often wonder if my brain has somehow confused the truth and I am lying to myself about everything. Even as I write this, doubt sneaks in from every corner, and I am tempted to close my eyes and stop writing. Am I being melodramatic and engaging in a bout of maudlin self-pity? Perhaps.
After all, how honest can I truly be with myself when a lot of my life has been a lie so far?
There are times I still catch myself adjusting myself and my thoughts and views to make others around me feel comfortable. It is not as egregious as before, but still damaging in a way that is only obvious when I’m alone and there’s no one to distract me from myself. It is worse when everywhere is quiet, and my brain has to conjure random sounds to stop me from thinking of how I have eroded my sense of self.
But there are moments when the dissonance and silence are not so loud, and I can hear that little boy who liked Barbie. He is not talking to me; I don’t think I’ve reached that level of insanity yet. But I can hear how happy he was when he was himself and didn’t care what anyone thought.
I am learning to be more truthful—if not with others, then with myself. It helps that society has come some way in shedding its rigid definition of masculinity. There may be the occasional bout of self-pity when I think of the long journey to recovery ahead of me. Still, I’ll keep going.
Because I am finding that little boy, and I am finding him between the cracks, arms outstretched, waiting for his day in the sun.
About the author
Plangdi Neple is a Nigerian writer of speculative fiction. A lover of the weird and fantastic, his works draw inspiration from Nigerian myth, folklore and tradition. His work has been published in Omenana, Anathema, African Writer magazines, and other publications.
Featured Photo: Randy Fath
