I cannot let anyone see the stretch marks, the cellulite, the saggy breasts. I cannot reveal my hideous body. I feel anxiety well up inside me even as I visualise this eventuality. I read about ten ways for a fat person to have meaningful sex. I learn that throwing a cloth over the bedside lamp will help hide my flaws.
Today as I write about my mother’s and chechi’s experiences through an intersectional feminist lens, I wonder who will pay for their physical and emotional labour. I wonder who will take responsibility for the loss of their youth. Who will take responsibility for the wear and tear that their bodies sustained from years of negligence? Most importantly, who will silence the mouths that say, “What ever did you do?”