FELGONAH OYUGA: There's no good girl trophy, love yourself

I was recently at the salon and women were competing on how hard, tough or sick they were and despite all that, they were able to perform tasks without ‘complaining’.

I told my therapist the other day I am done living a hard life. And I do not give a duck what anyone thinks. I know my mother cannot comprehend this and her bones must be turning in her grave.

Listen, it is not life yawa. It is not. Let us normalise luxury and tenderness for African women.

A woman is expected to be up at the wee hours of the morning. You hear them bragging, I am up at 3am and then I have devotion. That is too early to even know where or who you are yaye. But she will get up, and read some verses in the bible then get on her knees to fight the devil, with her prayers of course. Then shout at God in prayer, again, of course. Everything is a battle.

Then she will leave her bed and see about breakfast for the family, make sure they are presentable then manage her own self. She will then start a torturous journey to a job she does not particularly enjoy.

At lunch hour, she will probably just drink office tea or go to a cheap kibanda because good women do not eat better than their families (Despite the fact that she may need better nutrition after childbirth has stripped her, literally, of important nutrients).

If she is really pushed, she carries leftovers from her house (leftovers she would not dare pack for her husband or children). She dare not go to Java or some similar joint. And if you see them in the Java, she has probably been taken out, it is the end of the month she has decided to treat herself with so much guilt or her pay grade is for Kempinaki so Java is like kibanda to her.

By the way, that is if she is not fasting. A good woman is always at war, in the battle room for her family.

Then to add on to the inconvenience her daily life has become, maybe she is dieting because after having so many children and getting to whatever age, she should look like a malnourished adolescent boy. Meanwhile, osteoporosis is real and she is denying herself much-needed nutrients.

In the evening she will get home, sort the children. Beg her husband to come home after reminding him of all the things she has done for him and where they have come from.

She will then call her friends who will create a prayer chain and add her husband to their own lists of battle itineraries, I mean prayer items. Somewhere in between, they will brag how they have not eaten for hours, whose head has the most aches all day and whose blood pressure is higher than fuel costs.

Then one day, you will be eulogised as a good woman. And you will not be here to hear it.

Listen, we won’t be here for our funerals. We are here now. Normalise rest. Normalise luxury. Normalise self-love. Normalise letting go.

I have said it before there is no good girl trophy we are going to get. The amount of suffering you put yourself through does not show how much you love others. It shows how little you think of yourself and in turn, teaches others how badly to treat you.

I have recently come to the realisation that people will manage. Your family will manage. Your friends will manage. Your man/men will manage. You do not have to be a sacrificial offering.

Take care of yourself. Eat the chicken lunch. Do not wash the dishes if you are tired. Hire help if you can, as much as you can. No amount of prayer and shouting will turn a wayward man. Give yourself nice things, ask for great things, expect beautiful things.

Let us stop glamourising fatigue, illness and disdain for ourselves. It does not make us attractive, it kills us.