Editor’s Note: In partnership with The 2024 Abebi Award in Afro-Nonfiction, Isele Magazine publishes the winner, the runner-up, and the notable essays selected by the curators of the award. Ifeoluwa Williams’ “Genesis: Notes on Body Dysmorphia” is the runner up. 

Award Founder’s Note: The runner up essay for the 2024 Abebi Award in AfroNonfiction is “Genesis: Notes on Body Dysmorphia”, an earnest exploration of beauty in adolescence and the conflation of perfection with beauty, and the harm this causes in the female psyche. Through finely constructed fragments, we witness the writer grapple with faith, belonging, and the power of writing as a tool for healing. She writes, “it is why I know now that our collective stories soothe wounds,” and we invite you into this soothing.

It distorts reality, making us vulnerable to money troubles, depression, even abuse from others. When we're obsessed with how we look, we place too much value on the surface
and ignore the real work we must do to be truly beautiful.
– bell hooks on appearance obsession.

i. Skin: the largest organ the human body carries, is a song waiting to be sung. The human body: a labyrinth of stories that our souls carry, a book waiting to be read. The genesis of our lives is largely out of our hands and devoid of choice. From the country you’re born in, to the family you’re born into, your genetics, your gender, your name, the colour of your skin. You do not anticipate this body you inhabit to become a walking interrogation room against your will as you grow older.

ii. My descent into despair began with a mirror one afternoon, standing over the sink in my brothers’ bathroom. I felt the cold tiles beneath my feet as I leaned into my reflection in the dimly lit space, pressing one of the many pimples scattered across my early adolescent forehead with my index fingers. Pus emerged from the broken skin and I swiped it on my black Superman T-shirt in irritation. My thoughts began to race with words: you’re entering puberty so it’s normal. It’ll calm down in your twenties. Running parallel to these statements from well-meaning family members were the probable things my classmates would say to me or the lack thereof when school resumed for the semester. Dread started to creep up my throat from all the bullying and snide comments I was already getting accustomed to in school, a school I was not in by choice. In seconds, my thoughts were interrupted by Emmanuel’s footsteps approaching the door, slightly ajar. How far? Have you seen the face wash? he asked me. I looked away from the mirror and noticed an orange bottle sitting beside the sink tap. I proceeded to read the text: Clean and Clear morning burst facial cleanser. I asked if he’s sure it’ll help and he responded in the affirmative. It works for me sha. As he walked back out—closely followed by his squeaky slides— I pressed three pumps of the thick citrus-scented liquid into my open palm. I stared in intrigue while picking at one of the multiple exfoliating beads it contained. I ran my free hand under the water from the open tap before I began to wash my face vigorously. I felt the beads dig into my skin like it had the sole mission to rid my face of infirmities. I can almost hear them mocking in sharp, whispered tones: Rub! Rub! Rub! Clean! Clean! Clean!

iii. Acne: a skin condition caused by the clogging of hair follicles with oil and dead skin cells. Suggested remedies from strangers, extended family, and church folks include, but are not limited to: black soap, activated charcoal, toothpaste, honey-turmeric paste, urine, popping “ripe” pimples, bathing properly, prayer.

iv. It was a series of dreams that provoked my mother to upheave my already budding life in Greensprings Secondary for another school which she did not know yet. All she knew was that remaining there would have borne serious consequences and God said she should move me. This decision was made despite my cries of disapproval and constant pleas to stay. Already deep into the first semester of year 8, changing schools would mean I’d have to go through the process of adjusting to a new academic system, learning to live life with other people in my space and make new friends when everyone had already formed their groups. Months after my sudden departure, without telling people goodbye, I found myself in the backseat of a black Toyota Corolla with my mother, her driver in the front seat taking us to Idimu. Turning left into a wide dusty road, I looked to my right as we drove past cream & green painted walls and parked in front of the school’s dark green gates, its height resemblant of a prison. 

v. You wonder if God also told your mother that it is in CCL, among your peers, you will learn to cave in on yourself. You will learn what it means to have one’s esteem eroded beyond significance. That a sigh of relief escapes your lips every time you leave for the holidays and a familiar yoke of hopelessness rests on your neck every time you return. That here, in this place she brought you to, you will experience betrayal that cuts deep and words that demean your image and likeness. That it is here that shame edges its way into your life and stays, slowly painting the walls a dark shade of green, then grey, then black.

vi. For every year of those five years in secondary school, the inflammation on my skin spread like a wildfire, my bodily insecurities spreading in equal measure. Every year for those five years, I wrote mental essays questioning my identity. Every year of those five years. Every year of those five years, I watched the girls in my year become obsessed with exercise, smooth legs, and perfectly-arched eyebrows. Creams like Funbact-A and Skinneal quickly became hostel staples with claims to clear dark spots and make skin “fairer.” Every year of those five years, whenever the annual school inter-house sports competition rolled by, anticipation mounted for who’d be picked for the march-past beauty parade, where each of the four houses got to pick a theme and students lived out each theme on the field. Female house captains went to the hostels of younger students to select who’d be the queen and princesses on the trains. Every year of those five years, you wonder why the same people are picked over and over again. Then you start to trace a pattern: pebble-smooth skin in light or caramel tones, slender bodies, long hair. In some cases, nepotism rears its head when you notice that [redacted], her cousins and the founders of the school, all share the same last name. 

vii. My mind drifts toward a memory: I’m young, finally in senior secondary, represented by the green pleated skirt hugging my wide hips instead of a green pleated pinafore for junior students. The fan spins above my roommates and I as we talk about things that had happened in class, our room door swings open and O walks through it with the hot afternoon breeze following close behind. She plops down on C’s bed and the conversation continues. Somehow, we gravitate towards skin as a topic and other people from a neighbouring room have joined in. All these teachers that are always calling me blacky, it’s very annoying. It’s because I’m smiling with them, A says, her skin a rich shade of ebony. Everyone dismisses the teachers’ actions, reiterating that she is a very fine girl. Someone else points out that O and me are fine girls too. It’s just these pimples that are spoiling everything for you people, honestly, someone said, waving her hand in front of her face. Everyone agrees emphatically with yes, it’s true, kai, eyah. I join in, responding with an abi oh, hissing and shaking my head with disappointment at how my body has decided to display itself. 

viii. A familiar wave of sadness returns after they all leave your room. You find myself looking in the mirror again, this wave passing from your face down to your newly formed D-cup breasts, much to your distaste. The wave continues as you turn sideways and place your hands on the soft flesh of your belly, squeezing it like an orange, hoping it will shrink. You run your fingers over the bumps and scabs on your textured skin, whiteheads and redness in tow. Shame edges its way into your life and stays, slowly painting the walls a dark shade of green, then grey, then black.

ix. Sometimes, you feel like tearing your skin off. Maybe new, untampered skin lay beneath its surface. Flawless. Pristine. Acceptable. Loved.

x. The first time I see a dermatologist, I’m out of secondary school, newly Christian and on the cusp of my twenties. Dr. Akinkugbe’s warm smile greets me as I sit opposite her. Her office in a hospital in Yaba is painted a dull shade of yellow. My mother watches on as she examines my face, after which she prescribes doxycycline antibiotic pills and a skincare routine with products whose names intrigued me at the time. At home, I stare at the green pill for a while before I swallow it with cold water from my favourite mug. I taste its bitterness as it travels down my throat, reminiscent of all the comments, looks and unsolicited advice I’d been receiving from the world. I am also praying a lot for God to intervene in my situation, to free me from this apparent thorn in my flesh. It seems he hadn’t been receiving my numerous petitions, so I stop. These pills and products are my prayers answered, I told myself, but even their potency didn’t last long. 

xi. Another memory: I am older and in 500 level at university. The sweltering afternoon sun is above me as I walk intently from the lecture rooms towards the girls’ hostels, the soles of my black ballet pumps rhythmically knocking against the wide, interlocking brick road with each step. My white shirt and thick black skirt — the compulsory dress code for law students — gets increasingly uncomfortable as it clings to my body with sweat. A campus shuttle zooms past me and I see it drive straight down, turning right into the corner where Queen Esther hall — and my room — lay. It’s days like this I wish I had enough money to board one, cutting my commute time by ten minutes. I am halfway to my destination when I call my mum. After a few rings, she picks up the phone. Ajike, how are you? She asks. I tell her I’m okay, the warm breeze ruffling the trees and greenery on either side of me. I ask her when she’ll send money to top-up my allowance, after which I also inform her my face wash was about to run out. She suggests I use normal bathing soap. I remind her that I cannot because my skin reacts to it. Have you been praying about it? You know if you’re serious about it, it’ll go, she says in a deadpan voice. Suddenly I can feel my breath constrict in my throat, a slow righteous anger bubbling in my veins. I can almost see its steam passing through my clothes and can only hope the two girls walking past me don’t notice. I tell her that I’m not going to have this conversation because she knows how long I had prayed for God to turn his merciful gaze on me, to fix this coding error to no avail. My voice gets louder, laden with disappointment at how my own flesh and blood had joined the many voices of unlawful interrogation I’d received over the years. You of all people should know, I tell her. We eventually said our goodbyes and I cut the phone. I can still feel the tears fighting to form in my eyes as I approach the hostel gates.

xii. The day I’m scrolling through the internet and come across a photography project called the skin series by Aisha Ife, I freeze. On glorious display are men and women with faces like mine, whose existence also attracts questioning from the world. Though deemed as abnormal by society, they are bare and holy, naked and unashamed. From the yellow hijab softly wrapped around Raheemah’s cheeks to Toromo’s smile that outshines her hyperpigmentation, every scar and oversized pore is captured in natural light and with a tenderness that makes my heart flutter. The interviews between Aisha and each subject remind me of my own daily lived experience with acne, the search for a fix, the rollercoaster of emotions, the stress, the suggestions from strangers. Something powerful happens when a woman decides to pull strength from within and turn to art as a source of healing for herself and anyone else who might need it. It is why I know now that our collective stories soothe wounds. For the first time, I feel seen. For the first time, even if for a bit, my sense of self feels independent of negative thought. 

xiii. Audre Lorde writes: “If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.” It is barely spoken of: how the search for remedies for skin concerns can eventually lead to the pursuit of perfection, exhaustion of self, the depletion of resources, anxiety over a body refusing to change. You will eventually come to learn a few things: that acne can only be managed because it never fully goes away. It is better to embrace yourself as a lover in need of comfort, rocking yourself back and forth till contentment fills your bones and wraps you in warmth. You will eventually remember that genetics and hormones play a role (mostly beyond your control) in how your skin chooses to breathe. As you live and move through this great big world whose oceans have not been fully explored, you must take each day as it comes with the vessel you have been given, handling it with the care it deserves while catering to its needs through well-informed, expert opinions.

xiv. The reception hall of the medical centre is packed for a Tuesday morning. I approach one of the men in the red jumpsuits with my hormone profile test receipt. He takes it from me, leading me and my mum through the crowded corridor to the elevator. He gives the receipt back to me and presses the up button, directing me to go to the third floor. We step into the elevator and I feel the nail of my left big toe press into my purple crocs. When we get there, there is a long line of people waiting in the sitting area outside the consulting rooms. I join the line beside a woman in a flowery black dress, a grey laptop bag sitting atop her laps. I am now halfway to thirty, a law graduate, the acne breakouts now ebbing and flowing with my menstrual cycle. I’m still a Christian, but with a reconstructed understanding of God quite different from my teenage years. It is full of love, free from judgement and open to the unexpected.  My mum is quite different too, not as quick to speak and willing to listen to what my body needs with empathy. She’s the one that has brought me here on the recommendation of her gynaecologist friend. I begin to immerse myself in the moment: the cool metal bench kissing my forearm, the menstrual pad between my legs, the walls painted a peachy shade of pink, the young female doctor in a lab coat and buzz cut walking towards a pair of thick metal doors in the left corner. When my turn comes, I enter room two and sit in a plastic chair. Another female doctor greets me, preparing a syringe to draw some blood. After the procedure, I’m told to return on the 21st day of my cycle for another test.

xv. My ascent into healing began in my mind and on a page back in my hostel room in Osun state. That is where I started to free myself from the standards of beauty that I had allowed to plague me for far too long. The page and pen became my best friends, journaling my way through my emotions, through prayer, through joy. I discovered that I am already beautiful, simply because I exist. Simply because when I was intentionally woven in the dark of my mother’s womb, and no longer found it fit to remain there after nine months, my maker said “let there be light” and I was. I have been carrying these beams of radiance within my loins since my inception, therefore no one has the foothold to tell me who I am unless I let them. When I feel down, the words of women — my friends and my sister, Oyinade — cradle me in their arms, resounding with a chorus: you are loved. It is important to know this: that healing moves around, seeking for whom to dine with. You must let her in and sit with her every day, for that is where your utensils of liberation are. Self-acceptance is the sharpest knife, piercing through all insecurities. It is with her that your voice is restored, learning to say no without fear. It is in her embrace you learn to forgive. So eventually, when a course mate called me beautiful mid-conversation and asked how I exude so much confidence in spite of a flare-up, I chuckled and told her I have no other way of being. I have accepted that physical healing may never come. Is it not enough that this home I call my body houses my worth, my essence? How can I do anything but extend my affections towards it and to the One who made it?

About the Author:

Ifeoluwa Ajike Williams is a law graduate and writer-in-service. She runs a blog called Artist/Artist Is (artistorartis.substack.com).

*Feature image by Jairo Alzate on Unsplash