My name used to be Hamza, and I used to have a penis.
I wondered what the shock value would be if this story was a reflection of the sentence above. The story would surely grab attention, but I don’t think it would be well received.
I imagine the comment section of a story insinuating I am trans would be filled with disgust and or disappointment. Kinder-hearted people might comment with prayers to help me find my way back to the “right path.”
Or, the comment section would be filled with nothing. Reverberating the type of awkward silence created by the existence of an elephant in the room.
The reaction would likely be harsh, similar to how people in my country often respond to those who don't conform. In my country, when gay or trans people dare to exist publicly, they are often bullied. In extreme cases, they are arrested or murdered.
If this story was that kind of story, you might immediately start looking down on me as something less human. Something of a taboo.
It is sad that “what people do not understand, they fear. And what they fear, they seek to destroy.” And that is truly heartbreaking when you relate that statement to how people treat others poorly when they have sexual inclinations different from what is considered normal.
But I am not gay. Or trans.
I’m Muslim. I’m black. I’m a woman.
And my name is not Hamza.
Having a penis, but now a vagina would be a contradiction to what I am supposed to represent according to my religion and my culture.
Yet we often forget that both religion and culture preach to treat everyone you meet kindly like you would want to be treated yourself. Even if they used to be a different gender and now identify as another.
Christianity - “Love your neighbour as you love yourself.”
Islam - “None of you truly believes until he loves for his brother what he loves for himself.”
Sadly I do not recollect any Yoruba inferences to being kind. I wish I did so there would be three sentences above instead of two.
But it doesn’t take away the fact that society often struggles to accept differences. Even when religion and culture preaches inclusivity.
But you need not worry—this isn’t a trans story. Although, I’m not sure why it would be a problem if it were.
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, I was born female and have remained so all my life. The only times I wish I were a man are when menstrual cramps derail my day, when I see a man being unbelievably cruel by hitting a woman and wish I had the strength of Anthony Joshua to set him straight, or when the imbalances of patriarchy rear their ugly head, making me long for the privileges men enjoy simply because of their gender.
Still, this isn’t a trans story.
A Boy
When I was 7, my mother decided my hair was no longer mine to keep. One Sunday morning, she called a barber, and my full afro became a neatly manicured buzzcut. I cried and cried but she wasn’t having it.
And it was all my fault.
The night before, I'd taken a pair of scissors to my hair, cutting it right down the middle. Why? Because the day before, a hairdresser had braided my hair so tightly that I felt faint. I begged my mother to let me take it out, but she refused, insisting I look neat for school on Monday.
Unable to sleep from a throbbing head, I grew desperate and decided to loosen my hair. But I didn’t stop there. Because I was terrified it might be redone the next day, I had the brilliant idea to cut it myself. Armed with a pair of scissors, I hacked off the entire middle section, parting my hair like Moses parted the Red Sea!
The next morning, my hair was cut and that is how I began being mistaken for a boy. For my brother’s brother.
But, haircut aside, I've always had a boyish side.
As a child, my favourite clothes were my school’s sportswear: deep blue shorts and white collared tees. In those shorts, I could climb trees, play in the sand, and swing as high as my anxiety would allow.
I also had a strong aversion to earrings. Whenever I wore them, my ears would react, oozing and becoming injured. I was allergic to whatever metals were used in those tiny stud earrings that were popular at the time.
To make matters worse, the earrings would jab the back of my ears, which were poorly pierced. My mother often criticized the nurse who did my piercing at birth, calling her incompetent.
Despite her and my paternal grandmother constantly begging for me to get a second piercing below the poorly done one, I remained unconvinced.
So, I went about my days with my hair cut short, dressed in baggy shorts, and no earrings—my skin ashy and my knees perpetually scabbed.
As I grew older, my mum tried to make me more girly. She bought me dresses, skincare products, and jewellery, but I remained indifferent.
Being a boy made me feel free.
On some days, I embraced my girliness. I wanted the Barbie trolley bags my friends had at school, and I wished my hair would grow back so I could put in some colourful beads. When my mother dressed me in “Cinderella gowns,” I wished I had some hair so I didn’t look like a boy who was wearing girl clothes.
But most days, I was content being boyish—until I started being reminded of my girlhood.
A Girl
At the end of the street from my cousin’s house was a shop that sold drinks. Crates of Coca-Cola towered beside crates of Gold Spot and Limca, and they also sold bread. During long holidays, my siblings and I would stay at my cousin’s place, where we spent our days playing Monopoly and Scrabble and our nights watching movies.
However, it was in that shop that I started being reminded of my girlhood. Grown men would leer at me, calling me beautiful and sometimes even asking me to sit on their laps.
As someone who grew up in an environment where it was common for men to playfully call young girls “my wife,” these interactions at the shop didn’t seem unusual to me. It was normal for girls to be lightly groped, teased, and hit on where I came from.
Sadly but truthfully, a part of me might have enjoyed the attention, and I began to see myself more as a girl. Yet, I still cherished my boyish clothes.
As puberty hit and my hormones began to shift, I became more aware of myself and the reality behind getting male attention. I grew more protective of my boyishness and tried to suppress any occasional feelings of girliness.
In secondary school, I took pride in being one of the boys, feeling “safer” among them. Being one of the girls meant I was a target for romantic advances. I did not want to be a target. So, I hung around boys with the rest of my friends who hung around boys.
Although the advances didn’t completely stop, being among boys made it easier to fend them off.
Aside from hanging around the boys and subduing my girly side, I did a plethora of crazy things to keep up with my boyishness.
When I was around boys I acted like them. I would join in on boyish banter, leer at women, and make crude jokes about their bodies.
I walked differently when I was surrounded by boys who I had no romantic interest in. I essentially marched across the floor like a tiny bull ready for a fight.
And if I felt threatened by a boy, I would conjure up the craziest roguish version of myself. I once carried a chair and threatened to hit a boy with it.
And then I went to uni.
The first challenge was that girls were not allowed to wear pants at the religious-based university I attended. I arrived with only pants, oversized tees, and a few bodycon tops, and was immediately instructed to leave them with my mother.
My mother after being told this, went and got me the most colourful Caribbean-looking skirts and for my entire first semester, I rotated those two skirts with different tops.
I hated them.
My version of jeans and big tees in school would have been boubous or jalabias. Anything to hide the shape of my body but boubous and jalabias are expensive and I could not afford to splurge on clothes on my ₦30,000 a month allowance. .
As time went on, I found myself wearing girly clothes more often and gradually, I began to appreciate it. I even started following some of my mother’s skincare advice and began wearing earrings, much to her delight. Though my makeup routine was limited to the Roby Woo red lipstick I stole from my sister and some cheap eyeliner I got, my mother was thrilled.
Looking back, I realize that my growing acceptance of girly aspects during university was akin to a mating call - my desire to attract boys. I liked boys, and boys liked girly girls, so I made an effort to embrace my femininity.
In recent years, I've stopped suppressing my girly side. While I still cherish my boyishness and feel safer in it, I’ve allowed myself to embrace femininity on days when I feel like it.
This is most evident in my fashion sense. On most days, I stick to the big tees and baggy jeans I’ve always loved. But occasionally, you’ll find me in a dress or a skirt, enjoying a more feminine look.
I’ve developed a step-by-step skincare routine that I follow on some days and skip on others. This year, I even learned how to do my makeup. Although you will rarely ever catch my face fully made up, I use it for special occasions like weddings or big work events.
My jewellery collection is quite extensive now. I love earrings and have two ear piercings and two nose piercings. My mother often teases me about this, given how averse to jewellery I was as a child and teenager.
Ironically, even my boyish side has a fascination with jewellery. If I were a boy, I would wear earrings, paint my nails and carry purses.
I find myself drawn to the fashion content of creators who have an androgynous fashion style because I can see myself in those fits.
But being boyish and wearing boyish clothes or non-binary clothes isn't really about rejecting girly fashion.
I can be comfortable in girly fashion on days that I want to.
For me, fashion is mostly about comfort and self-expression.
Freedom
When I think about dressing, I think of freedom—not in the political or feminist sense of “all women must be free,” though that’s a story always worth telling.
For me, it’s about simple, everyday freedom.
I love boyish clothes because they offer the comfort I crave. Corset fashion, which has taken over the Nigerian Owambe scene, is a prime example of what I dislike. I can't stand clothes that restrict my movement or make me feel confined.
I dislike turtlenecks because they make me feel slightly choked. Skinny jeans make me feel light-headed after a while. And I’m frustrated when cuffs lack buttons, limiting my ability to roll up my sleeves if I want to.
My wardrobe is filled with wide-legged pants and loose tees that provide the freedom and safety I need. For me, if I can run in it, it’s perfect.
Comfort is key in my fashion choices.
Not a Girl
There are certain places where I never allow myself to be girly, no matter how much I might want to on those days.
For instance, when I take a walk at night, I’m always in my baggiest pants, the largest shirt I can find, and a sports bra that flattens my already flat chest even more.
I also avoid dressing up when going to the club. I stick to my baggy clothes because I know that men are less likely to approach a woman who appears to be gay. At the club, I prefer to be left alone—I'm there to dance and enjoy the music, not to be groped.
So, what’s the point of this story? Honestly, I’m not entirely sure. It was a story that wanted to crawl out of my head so badly. So I knew it had to be told.
Maybe the essence of it is to remind you to be whoever you feel like being, whenever you feel like it. As long as you're not harming anyone, just be yourself.
Also, you don't need to force yourself to conform to a world shaped by men's ideals. I wish I hadn’t felt the need to blend in with the boys or struggled with how to stand up to unwanted attention sooner.
I wish the world were safer so that I could embrace my girliness whenever I wanted, without fear or compromise.