Compare and Contrast Feminist Perspectives

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UWP: Ortiz&Spencer: All About Skin page 30

one line short

Fa i r n e s s

Chi nelo Ok pa ranta

We gather out side the class room, in the break between morn ing and after noon lec tures, all of us girls not blessed with skin the color of ripe paw paw. We stand there, on the con crete steps, chew ing ground nuts and meat pies, all of us with the same dark skin, match ing, like the uni forms we wear. All of us, ex cept On ye chi of course, be cause her skin has now turned color, and we are eager to know how. It is the rea son she stands with us, though she no longer be longs. She is now one of the oth ers, one of the girls with fair skin.

Clara looks at On ye chi, her eyes nar row, a sus pi cious look. Boma chuck les in dis be lief. She claps her hands; her eyes widen. She ex claims, “Chi m O! My God! How fast the mir a cle!” On ye chi shakes her head, tells us that it was no mir a cle at all. It is then that she tells us of the bleach. Boma chuck les again. I think of Eno, of re turn ing home and tell ing her what On ye chi has said. I lis ten and nod, try ing to catch every bit of the for mula. Clara says, “I don’t be lieve it.” On ye chi kisses the palm of her right hand and raises it high to ward the sky, a swear to God, be cause she in sists that she is not tell ing a lie. Our skin is the color not of ripe paw paw peels but of its seeds. We are thirsty for fair ness. But even with her swear ing, we are un con vinced, a lit tle too dis be liev ing of what On ye chi has said.

Hours later, I sit on a stool out side, in the back yard of our house. I sit under the mango tree, across from the hi bis cus bush. Ekaite is at the far end of the back yard where the clothes lines hang. She col lects Papa’s shirts from the line, a row of them, which wave in the breeze like mis- sha pen flags. Even in the near dark ness, I can see the yel low ness of

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

Al l ri gh ts r es er ve d. M ay n ot b e re pr od uc ed i n an y fo rm w it ho ut p er mi ss io n fr om t he p ub li sh er , ex ce pt f ai r us es p er mi tt ed u nd er U .S . or a pp li ca bl e co py ri gh t la w.

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Fa i r n e s s

UWP: Ortiz&Spencer: All About Skin page 31

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Ekaite’s skin. A nat u ral yel low, not like Onyechi’s or some of the other girls. Not like Mama’s.

Eno sits with me, and at first we trace the liz ards with our eyes. We watch as they race up and down the gate. We watch as they scurry over the gravel, over the patches of grass. When we are tired of watch ing, we dig the earth deep, seven pairs of holes in the ground, and one large one on each end of the seven pairs. We take turns toss ing our peb bles into the holes. We re move the peb bles, also tak ing turns. We cap ture more and more of them until one of us wins. The game be gins again.

The sounds of car en gines mix with the sounds of the crick ets. It is late eve ning, and the sky is gray. Car head lights sneak through the spaces between the metal rods of the gate. The gray be comes a lit tle less gray, a lit tle like day. Still, mos qui toes swirl around, and I slap them, and I slap my self, and Eno stops with the game, un ties one of the two wrap pers from around her waist, hands it to me.

At the clothes line, Ekaite is slap ping too. She is slap ping even more than Eno and I. Her skirt only comes down to her knees; she is not wear ing a wrap per with which she can cover her legs.

I say, “They bite us all the same.” Eno says, “No, they bite Ekaite more. Even the mos qui toes pre fer

fair skin.” The words come out like a mut ter. Her tone is some thing between anger and de jec tion. I im a gine the flesh of a ripe paw paw. It is not quite the shade of Ekaite’s skin, but it, too, is fair. I throw Eno’s wrap per over my legs.

Em ma nuel walks by, car ry ing a bucket. Water trick les down the side. A chew ing stick hangs from the side of his mouth. His lips curve into a crooked smile. He stops by Ekaite, maybe they share a joke, be- cause then comes the crack ing of his laugh ter, and then hers, surg ing, ris ing, then ta per ing into the night sounds, at the very mo ment when it seems that they might be come in suf fer able. I look at Eno. Eno frowns.

Em ma nuel pours the water out of the bucket, at the cor ner of the com pound where the sand dips into the earth like a sewer. The scent of chlo rine bil lows in the air, and I think of On ye chi and her swear ing. I ex hume the mem ory of the morn ing break, toss it about in my mind, like a peb ble in the air, as if to get a feel for its tex ture, its po ten tial, its ca pac ity for suc cess. And then I tell it to Eno.

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

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When the sky grows black, I hand Eno back her wrap per, and we enter the house. We go to gether to the bath room. First we pour the bleach into the bucket. Only a quar ter of the way full. Then we watch the water bub ble out of the fau cet. We in hale and ex hale deeply, and the sound of our breath ing is weirdly louder than the sound of the run ning water. We ca ress the buck ets with our eyes as if we are ca ress ing our very hearts. The bucket fills. We turn the fau cet off and gaze into the tub. We are still gaz ing when Ekaite calls Eno. Her voice booms down the cor ri dor, and Eno runs off, be cause she knows well that she should not be in the bath room with me. Be cause Eno knows that she must in stead use the housegirls’ bath room, out side in the housegirls’ quar ters in the far cor ner of the back yard. But mostly, when Ekaite calls, Eno runs off, be cause din ner will be served in just an hour, and Eno will have to help in the prep ar a tion of it.

At the din ing table, Papa sits at the head, Mama by his side. The scent of egusi soup en ters through the kitchen. Mama picks up her spoon, looks into it, un screws the tiny can is ter, still with the spoon in her hand. It is lav en der, the can is ter, and the lip stick in it is a rich color, red like the hi bis cus flower; and it rises from the con tainer, slowly, stead ily, like a liz ard cau tiously peek ing out of a hole. Over head the ceil ing fan rat tles and buzzes. The air con di tioner hums, like soft snor ing. In the kitchen we hear the clang-clanging of Ekaite’s and Eno’s food prep ar a tion: of the pes tle hit ting the mor tar, yam being pounded for the soup. Off and on, there is the sound of the run ning fau cet. We lis ten to the clink of sil ver ware on glass. I im a gine the plates and uten sils being set out on the gran ite counter top, and then I hear a sound like the shut ting of the fridge, that shiny, stain less steel door all the way from Amer ica. And I won der if Ekaite ever takes the time to look at her re flec- tion in the door. And if she does, does she see her self in that super ior way in which I im a gine all fair peo ple see them selves?

A bowl of vel vet tam a rinds sits at the cen ter of the table, a glass bowl in the shape of a dis sected apple, its short glass stem lead ing to a small glass leaf. Mama got it on one of her busi ness trips over seas. She re turned from that trip with other things too—silk blouses from Macy’s, some Chanel, bebe, Coach, some Nike wear. The eve ning she

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

Fa i r n e s s

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re turned, she tossed all the items in piles on her side of the bed. She tossed her self con tent edly, too, on the bed, on a small area on Papa’s side, the only re main ing space. She held up some of the over seas items for me to see. One blouse she lifted up closer to me, held it to my chest. It was the yel low of a ripe pine ap ple. “Will lighten you up,” she said. She tossed it to me. I didn’t reach for it in time. It dropped to the floor.

The first mag a zine ar rived two weeks later, Cos mo pol i tan, pale faces and pink lips dec o rat ing the cover, women with hair the color of fresh corn. Per fect arches above their eyes.

Next was Glam our, then Elle. And every eve ning fol low ing that, Mama would sit on the par lor sofa for hours, flip ping through the pages of the mag a zines, her eyes mov ing rap idly over and over the same pages, as if she were stud y ing hard for the JAMB, as if there were some fash ion equiv a lent to those uni ver sity exams.

I stare at the dis sected apple, at the vel vet tam a rinds in it. I im a gine pick ing one of the tam a rinds up, a small one, some thing smaller than those old kobo coins, smaller than the ti ni est one of them. Ekaite shuf fles into the din ing room, Eno close be hind. They find them selves some space between me and the empty chair next to me. Ekaite sets the first tray down, three bowls of pounded yam.

She lifts the first bowl out of the tray. She sets it on the place mat in front of Mama. Mama smiles at her, thanks her. Then, “Osiso, osiso,” Mama says. “Quick, quick, bring the soup!” Ekaite hur ries back to where Eno is stand ing, takes out a bowl of soup from Eno’s tray, sets it in front of Mama. Mama says, “Good girl. Very good girl.” The skin around Mama’s eyes wrin kles from her deep en ing smile. Ekaite nods and does not smile back. Eno, by my side, is more than un smil ing, and I can hardly blame her. But then I re mem ber the bucket in the bath room, and I feel hope bil low ing in me. Hope ris ing: the prom ise of re lief.

It is Eno who serves Papa and me our food. She puts our dishes of pounded yam and soup on our place mats, still un smil ing. Papa thanks her, but it is a thank you that lacks all the fawn ing that Mama’s for Ekaite had. He thanks her in his quiet, aloof way, as if his mind is in his of fice, or some where far from home.

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

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Mama waves Eno away. I watch her hand wav ing, the gold rings on her fin gers, the brace let that dan gles from her wrist. I take in the yel low- ness of her hand. I think of the bucket in the bath room, and I feel that hope again in me.

“Uzoa maka,” Mama says, when Eno and Ekaite have dis ap peared into the kitchen. “You are look ing very tat tered today.”

Papa squints at her. I don’t re spond. “It’s no way to present your self at the din ner table,” she says. The

words tum ble out of her mouth, one con nected to the other, and I im a gine rolls of her pounded yam all lined up on her plate, no space between them. Like her words, I think, that American way, one word tum bling into the next with no space between.

Papa looks at me for a mo ment, tak ing me in as if for the first time in a long time. “How was school today?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say. Mama says, “A good week so far. A good month even. Im a gine, an

en tire month and no strike! Sur pris ing, with the way those lec tur ers are al ways on strike.”

“No, no strike so far,” I say. “In any case,” Mama says, “not to worry.” She pauses. “Ar range-

ments are al ready being made.” Papa shakes his head slightly, barely per cept ibly, but we both see,

Mama and I. “She needs a good ed u ca tion,” Mama says to him, as if to coun ter

the shak ing of his head. She turns to me. “You need a good ed u ca tion,” she says. It is not a new idea, this one of a good ed u ca tion, but she has that se ri ous look on her face, as if she is weigh ing it with that thought- ful ness that ac com pa nies new ideas. “That is what Amer ica will give you,” she says. “A solid ed u ca tion. And no strikes. Im a gine, with a de gree from Amer ica, you can land a job with a big com pany here, or maybe even re main in Amer ica. Land of op por tu nities.” She smiles at me. Her smile is wide.

Papa stuffs a roll of soup-covered pounded yam into his mouth. He keeps his eyes on me. Mama turns back to her food. She rolls her pounded yam, dips it into the bowl of soup, swal lows. For a while, no one speaks.

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

Fa i r n e s s

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“In the mean time, you can’t walk around look ing tat tered the way you do, shirt un tucked, hair un brushed. As for your face, you’d do well to dab some pow der on. It will help brighten you up.”

Papa clears his throat. Mama turns to look at him. His eyes nar row at her. She starts to speak, but her words trail into a mur mur and then into noth ing at all.

There is an other si lence. This time it is Mama who clears her throat. Then she turns to me. She says, “Even Ekaite presents her self bet ter than you do. The bot tom line is that you could learn a lit tle some thing from her. House girl or not.”

I roll my eyes and feel the heat ris ing in my cheeks. “Very well-mannered, that one. Takes care of her self. Beau ti ful all

around.” It is not the first time she is say ing this. I roll my eyes like I al ways do. “Eno is pretty too,” I coun ter. It is the

first time that I am coun ter ing Mama on Ekaite. I only in tend to mut ter it, but it comes out louder than a mut ter. I look up to find Mama glar ing at me. I catch Papa’s eyes on me, a lit tle sharper than be fore.

“Eno is pretty, too,” Mama re peats, sing-songy, mock ingly. “Fool ish Eno. Dummy Eno.” She has to say “dummy” twice, be cause the first time it comes out too Ni ger ian, with the ac cent on the last syl lable in- stead of on the first. She tells me that Eno is no com par i son to Ekaite. Not just where beauty is con cerned. What a good house girl Ekaite is, she says. She adds, an un nec es sary re min der, that when Ekaite was around Eno’s age, which is to say four teen, the same age as me, Ekaite al ready knew how to make egusi and okra soup. And what tasty soups Ekaite made as early as four teen! Even Ekaite’s beans and yams, Mama con tin ues, were the beans and yams of an ex pert, at four teen. “The girl knows how to cook,” she con cludes. “Just a good girl all around.” She pauses. “Eno is no com par i son. No com par i son at all.”

Papa clears his throat. “They’re both good girls,” he says. He nods at me, smiles, a weak smile. In that brief mo ment I won der what he knows. Whether he knows, like I do, that it’s only bias, the way Mama feels about Ekaite. Whether he knows, like I do, that the rea son for the bias is that Ekaite’s face re minds her of the faces she sees on her mag a zines from abroad. Be cause, of course, Ekaite’s com plex ion is light and her nose is not as wide and her lips not as thick as mine or Eno’s. I look at him and I won der if he knows, like I do, that Mama doesn’t go as far as say ing these last bits be cause, of course, she’d feel a lit tle shame in say ing it.

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

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He dips his pounded yam into his soup. Mama does the same. I don’t touch my food. In stead, I stare at the vel vet tam a rinds, and

I re mem ber the first time she came back with boxes of those creams. Es o ter ica, Mo vate, Skin Suc cess, Ambi. It was around the time the tele vi sion com mer cials started ad ver tis ing them—the fade creams. And we’d go to the Every day Em por ium, and there’d be stacks of them at the en trance, neat pyr a mids of creams. It was around the time that the first set of girls in school started to grow lighter. Mama’s friends, the darker ones, started to grow lighter, too. Mama did not at first grow light with them. She was cau tious. She’d only grow light if she had the best qual ity of creams, not just the brands they sold at the Every day Em por ium. She wanted first-rate, the kinds she knew Amer- ica would have. And so she made the trip and re turned with boxes of creams.

Mo vate worked im me di ately for her. In just a few weeks, her skin had turned that shade of yel low. It worked for her knuck les, for her knees. Yel low all around, uni form yel low, al most as bright as Ekaite’s paw paw skin.

She in sisted I use them too. With Mo vate, patches formed all over my skin, dark and light patches, like shad ows on a wall. She in sisted I stop. Peo ple would know, she said. Those dark knuck les and knee caps and eye lids. Peo ple would surely know. We tried Es o ter ica next. A six- month reg i men. Three times a day. No prog ress at all. Skin Suc cess was no suc cess. Same with Ambi. “Not to worry,” Mama said. “They’re al- ways com ing up with new prod ucts in Amer ica. Soon enough we’ll find some thing that works.”

We must have been on Ambi the day Ekaite walked in on us—into my bed room, not think ing that I was there. I should have been at school. She was car ry ing a pile of my clothes, washed and dried and folded for me.

Ekaite looked at the con tain ers of creams on my bed. Mama chuck led un com fort ably. “Oya gawa,” she said. Well, go

ahead. Ekaite walked to my dresser. The draw ers slid open and closed.

Empty-handed now, she walked back to ward the door. Mama chuck led again and said, “Uzoa maka here will soon be fair

like you.”

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

Fa i r n e s s

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Ekaite nod ded. “Yes, Ma.” There was a con fused look on her face, as if she were won der ing at the state ment.

Mama cleared her throat. “Fair like me, too.” Ekaite nod ded again. Then she turned to Mama. “Odi kwa mma otu

odi.” She’s fine the way she is. Mama shook her head. “Oya gawa! Osiso, osiso.” The door clicked closed.

I tell Mama that I’m not feel ing well. An upset stom ach. I ex cuse my self from the table be fore Mama has a chance to re spond.

I carry my dishes into the kitchen, where Eno is wait ing for me. Ekaite sits on a stool close to the floor. I feel her eyes on me and on Eno.

In side the bath room, the air is humid and smells clean, pur ified, a chem i cal kind of fresh ness. There is no lock on the door, but we make sure to close it be hind us.

Eno holds the towel and stands back, but I call her to me, be cause I am again find ing my self skep ti cal of the water and of the bleach. In my imag i na tion, I see Clara’s sus pi cious eyes, and I hear Boma’s dis be liev ing laugh. Fear catches me, and I think per haps we should not bother, per haps we should just pour every thing out. But then I hear Mama’s voice, say ing, “Fool ish Eno. Dummy Eno.” I take the towel from Eno. “You should go first,” I say. It is a de ceit ful rea son that I give, but it is also true: “Be cause you’re not sup posed to be here. That way you’ll be al ready done by the time any one comes to chase you out.”

Eno nods. She con cedes straight away. She gets on her knees, bends her body over the wall of the bath tub

so that her upper half hangs hor i zon tally above the tub, so that her face is just above the bucket.

“We’ll do only the face today,” I say. “Dip it in until you feel some- thing like a tin gle.” She dips her face into the water. She stays that way for some time, hold ing her breath. Even if I’m not the one with my face sub merged, it is hard for me to breathe. So much an tic i pa tion.

Eno lifts up her face. “My back is start ing to ache, and I don’t feel any thing.”

“You have to do it for longer,” I say. “Stand up, stretch your back. But you have to try to stay longer.”

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

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Eno stands up. She lifts her hands above her head in a stretch. She gets back down on her knees, places her face into the bucket again.

“Only get up when you feel the tin gling,” I say. Time passes. “Do you feel it yet?” The back of Eno’s head moves from side to side, a shake with her

face still in the water. More time passes. “Not yet?” The back of Eno’s head moves again from side to side. “Okay. Come up.” She lifts her face from the water first. She stands up. The color of her

skin seems softer to the eyes, just a lit tle lighter than be fore. I smile at her. “It’s work ing,” I say. “But we need to go full force.”

“Okay,” she says. “Good.” She watches as I pour the liq uid from the bucket into the tub. We both watch as the water drains; we lis ten as it gur gles down the pipe. I take the bucket out of the tub, place it in a cor ner of the bath room by the sink. The bath bowl is sit ting in the sink. I pick it up, hold it above the tub, pour the bleach straight into it. I get down on my knees, call Eno to my side, tell her to place her face into the bowl. She does.

Only a lit tle time passes, and then she screams, and her scream bil lows in the bath room, fills up every tiny bit of the room, and I am dizzy with claus tro pho bia. Then there is the thud and splash of the bowl in the tub, then there is the thud of the door slam ming into the wall. Ekaite rushes to ward us, sees that it is Eno who is in pain. She reaches her hands out to Eno, holds Eno’s face in her palms. Eno screams, twists her face. Her cheeks con tort as if she is suck ing in air. She screams and screams. I feel the pain in my own face. Ekaite looks as if she feels it too, and for a mo ment I think I see tears form ing in her eyes. Papa looms in the door way, then en ters the bath room. He looks fiercely at me. He asks, “What did you do to her? What did you do?” In the door way, I see Mama just watch ing, her eyes flick ing this way and that.

“What did you do?” Papa asks again. I turn to him, plead ing, want ing des per ately to make my case, but I don’t find the words. I turn to Mama. I beg her to ex plain. She looks blankly at me, a lit tle con fu sion in her eyes. I stand in the mid dle of them, fro zen with some thing like fear, some thing not quite guilt.

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

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By then, even Em ma nuel has made his way into the house, aban- don ing his post at the gate. He stands just be hind Mama, and his peer ing eyes seem to ask me that same ques tion: What did you do?

My legs feel weak. I turn to Eno, I smile at her. I think of Mama with her yel low skin, with her creams. “Don’t worry,” I say. “We’ll find some thing that works.” Eno screams.

They leave the bath room quickly then, all of them, Ekaite and Papa lead ing Eno. The door crashes closed be hind them, their voices be- com ing in creas ingly dis tant, still fren zied. I blink my eyes as if to blink my self awake.

Days later, when the scabs start to form, I im a gine peel ing them off like the hard shell of the vel vet tam a rind. Eno’s flesh under neath the scabs is a pinkish-yellow like the tam a rind pulp, only a lit tle like a ripe paw paw peel. And even if I know that this scabby fair ness of hers is borne of in jury, a tem po rary fair ness of skin less flesh, patchy, and ugly in its patchi ness, I think how close she has come to hav ing skin like Onyechi’s, and I feel some thing like envy in me, be cause what she has wound up with is fair ness after all, fair ness, if only for a while.

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.