As a Woman

I've been silent on here for days now. Actually, not because I had nothing to say, but because I've been sitting with something that's been brimming in my head, turning it over, trying to find the right way to say it without the inevitable comment: "You're a feminist."

There it is. That phrase. That accusation. The thing they throw at you the moment you dare to question why your life comes with an instruction manual while your brother's doesn't.

And even as I write this, I'm meticulously calculating. Measuring my words. Wondering how to say what I need to say without being dismissed, without being labeled, without giving ammunition to people who are already looking for reasons to discredit me. This is what we do as girls,as women. We pre-edit ourselves. We soften our statements before we utter them. We apologize before we've even said anything offensive.

But I'm tired of that too.

Two weeks ago, my roommate mentioned she was dreading going home for the holiday. Not because she didn't miss her family, but because she knew what awaited her. Hours of travel, exhaustion seeping into her bones, and then immediately, before she could even catch her breath, before she could even set her bag down, she'd have to go to the market.

Not "could you help with the market?" Not "when you're rested, we need some things." Just the expectation, solid as a wall, that she would go. Has to, not chooses to. Because that's what she's been doing since she was nine years old. Since her mother looked at her daughter and saw a solution to her own exhaustion, saw free labor, saw someone whose childhood could be sacrificed for convenience

Her brothers, the ones her age, the ones who took the same journey home, the ones just as capable of going to the market? They'd be on the couch. Watching TV. Resting. Their rest unquestioned, uncontested, automatic. Because boys will be boys, and girls will be mothers-in-training from the moment they can carry a basket.

She laughed when she told us this. That bitter laugh you develop when something has hurt you so long you've learned to make it funny, learned to crack puns around your own wounds. And then she mentioned other things, things from childhood that weren't funny at all. Things about being slapped for talking back while her brothers were just "spirited." Things about serving her brothers food and being expected to go without if there wasn't enough. Things about her body being monitored, controlled, commented on from age eleven while her brothers' bodies were their own.

And I realized her story is every Nigerian girl's story,most,if not all, just with different details, different specificities of the same fundamental wrongness.

Everywhere you go, online or offline, as a child, as an adolescent, as an adult, there's always someone ready to tell you what you should be doing "as a woman." How you should sit. How you should speak. What you should wear. What you should want. What you should accept. What you should tolerate. What you should forgive. What you should never, ever expect.

For every ten "as a man" there are ninety "as a woman." I've counted. I've noticed. And I've wondered, why? Why are our lives governed by so many rules, so many restrictions, so many invisible fences while men are allowed to roam freely, stumble, make mistakes, learn, grow, exist without constant correction, without every action being filtered through the lens of propriety and marriageability and whether we're being good representatives of womanhood?

I remember reading Buchi Emecheta. Reading Chimamanda. Adesuwa Oman. Aiwanose Odafen. Reading all these women writing about girlhood in Nigeria and recognizing myself in every page, every line, every casual cruelty disguised as care. The girl who's told "sit properly, close your legs" while her brother sprawls across the furniture with his legs wide open, taking up all the space he wants, and no one says a word. No one tells him he's being improper. No one warns him that he's learning bad habits that will make him unmarriageable.

The girl who's warned "close your mouth when you eat, don't chew like that, don't lick your fingers" while her brother eats like he's trying to make some rap with his mouth, food flying, sounds echoing, and everyone just laughs fondly. "Boys and food," they say, like it's charming. But if you ate like that? "Who will marry you like this? Is this how you'll eat in your husband's house?"

And that's the other thing. Everything, every single correction, every rule, every restriction, it all points to the same destination: marriage. Your entire existence from age five is preparation for a man you haven't met yet, training for a role you didn't audition for, rehearsals for a life that might not even be the life you want.

You make one small mistake as a child, burn the rice, forget to add salt, and it's not just about the rice. It's never just about the rice. It's "Is this how you're going to cook in your husband's house? Is this how you'll feed your children? No man will marry a woman who can't cook."

You talk back once, defend yourself, use your voice, and it's "Is this how you'll talk to your mother-in-law? Is this how you'll behave in your in-laws' house? You need to learn respect before marriage."

You express an opinion, disagree, think for yourself, and it's "You're too stubborn. You need to learn submission. Your husband won't tolerate this kind of behavior."

But your brother? Your brother who burns water, who's rude to your mother, who argues with your father over everything? "He's just a boy, let him be. He'll mature. He'll learn." As if boyhood is a free pass to humanity while girlhood is an internship for servitude. As if boys are allowed to be children while girls are women-in-training from birth.

The hypocrisy is suffocating. It's everywhere, in everything. Especially when something goes wrong, when a girl is harmed, when a woman is violated, when violence enters the picture. The questions are never about the man who did it. They're about her. What was she wearing? Where was she? Why was she out that late? Why was she alone? What did she expect?

As if rape is a weather condition you can dress appropriately for. As if violence is something women invite by existing incorrectly. As if the problem is women's clothing and not men's actions. As if we should spend our energy policing hemlines instead of teaching boys that other people's bodies are not theirs to take or invade.

Nobody asks about the man. What did he see in a child? What made him think he had the right? What kind of socialization leads someone to harm another human being? What system created him? No, those questions are too uncomfortable. It's easier to police women's clothing than men's actions. Easier to restrict women's movement than men's violence. Easier to tell her what she should have done differently than to tell him he shouldn't have done it at all.

Chimamanda said something in one of her talks that's stuck with me like a splinter I can't remove. She said she can't walk into certain prestigious hotels in Lagos alone without getting looks, without assumptions, without the unspoken accusation that hangs in the air: you're a woman alone, you must be selling something, you must be here for men.

This was thirteen years ago when she said it. Thirteen years. I assure you, it still stands today in a lot of places. A woman alone in a nice hotel? Suspicious. Obviously a sex worker. Because why else would a woman be in a hotel if not to service men? As if women don't travel for work. As if women don't have business meetings. As if women don't exist outside the context of men's needs.

But nobody questions why there's demand for sex workers if the supply is so concerning. Nobody questions the men who create the market, who make the industry profitable, who are in those same hotels seeking those same services. It's always about the women. Always. The women who sell, never the men who buy. The women who exist, never the men who violate. The women who survive, never the men who create the need for survival.

And then there's the virginity conversation. That whole obsession that only ever applies to women. "A woman should be pure. A woman should be untouched. A woman's value is in her virtue." But virginity is something you lose to someone, usually a man. So if women are supposed to be virgins until marriage, who exactly are all these non-virgin men having relations with?

But of course, nobody's ready to talk about his purity, his virtue, his value being tied to whether he's been breached. No, men are allowed to have pasts. Men are allowed to experiment, to explore, to make mistakes. Men are allowed to be changed beings with desires and histories. But women? Women are supposed to be blank slates, untouched, unexperienced, arriving into their marriage as virgins regardless of age because somehow a woman's sexual history determines her worth but a man's doesn't. A woman isn't allowed to be a single mother or divorcee or widow either because why would anyone want a second-hand project?

Just a lot of gender imbalances we're supposed to smile through and accept as culture, as tradition, as "just how things are," as if injustice becomes acceptable when it's old enough, as if calling something tradition makes it beyond criticism.

I remember Chimamanda also talking about being a girl in elementary school, being interested in being class monitor, taking the test, scoring the highest, and the teacher being surprised. Genuinely surprised. Because they'd expected the boy to win, had already mentally given him the position, had already decided that leadership looks male. And even after she proved herself, even after the numbers showed objectively that she was the best candidate, there was hesitation about giving her the position. Because leadership is masculine. Because authority doesn't suit girls. Because even when you're better, even when you're objectively the best, you're supposed to be gracious enough to let the boy shine, to step aside, to make yourself small so he can feel big.

I've had those moments. So many moments. Moments where I was the best option for something and got passed over for "you're a girl." Where opportunities came with an asterisk, where my capability was acknowledged but my gender was the disqualifying factor, where I heard "you'd be perfect for this, but..." and the "but" was always my body, my voice, my existence as female.

"As a woman, you can't handle this kind of responsibility."

"As a woman, you won't be taken seriously in this role."

"As a woman, you might get married and leave, so we can't invest in you."

"As a woman, you'll be too emotional for this kind of work."

"As a woman, you need to understand your place."

And when you push back, when you dare to say "but why?" when you present evidence of your capability, when you refuse to shrink yourself into the shape they've carved out for you, when you insist on being seen as a full human being rather than a limited version of one, here comes the label: feminist.

That word, thrown like some dirty insult. Like it's the worst thing you could be. Like wanting to be treated as a full human being with agency and dignity is radical, Western, corrupted thinking. Like asking for basic respect is an attack on tradition.

I'm not even a feminist in the way they mean it when they weaponize that word against me. I'm just a Muslim girl who's read her Quran and knows she's not supposed to be a doormat. Just a girl who's looked around and noticed that the rules don't make sense, that they're not about religion or morality but about control, about keeping women small, manageable, dependent.

Here's what breaks my heart, what makes me want to weep with frustration: Islam gave women rights fourteen centuries ago. Fourteen centuries. Before most of the world thought women were fully human, Islam said women can own property in their own names. Can refuse marriage proposals. Can seek divorce. Can inherit wealth. Can pursue knowledge. Can work and keep their earnings. Can engage in business and trade.

Khadijah رضي الله عنها, the Prophet's ﷺ first wife, was a successful businesswoman who owned her own caravan company, who hired the Prophet ﷺ to work for her, who proposed marriage to him. Proposed. A woman who saw a man she respected and took the initiative. A woman with economic power and social agency who wasn't diminished by either.

Aisha رضي الله عنها was a scholar who taught men, who corrected male scholars when they were wrong, who had opinions on jurisprudence and theology and wasn't shy about sharing them. Men traveled to learn from her. Men sat at her feet and took knowledge from her lips. And she was celebrated for it, honored for it, respected for it.

Nusaybah رضي الله عنها fought in battles alongside men, defended the Prophet ﷺ with her own body, was wounded multiple times protecting Islam. A warrior. A fighter. A woman who refused to be sidelined when there was work to be done, when there was a cause worth fighting for.

These women had voices, had agency, had strength, had impact, and they were celebrated for it. The Prophet ﷺ celebrated them for it. Islam celebrated them for it.

But somehow, somewhere along the way, culture swallowed religion whole. And now we have this hybrid version where a girl is told she can't speak up because "that's not Islamic," when in reality, the Prophet ﷺ consulted his wives on matters of state, on matters of war, on decisions that affected the entire Muslim community. Where she's told ambition isn't feminine, when Khadijah رضي الله عنها ran a business empire and the Prophet ﷺ supported her in it. Where she's told education isn't for women, when the Prophet ﷺ said seeking knowledge is obligatory for every Muslim, male and female, no exceptions, no qualifications, no "but women should focus on domestic knowledge."

They use religion to justify culture. Quote half a verse, ignore the context, ignore the other verses that qualify it, ignore the Prophet's ﷺ actual practice, and suddenly their preference becomes divine law. And if you push back, if you say "but that's not what Islam actually teaches," if you point to the actual sources, the actual evidence, you're the one corrupting the faith. You're the one bringing Western ideas. You're the feminist who's been brainwashed by liberalism.

It's exhausting watching religion be weaponized against the very people it was meant to liberate. Watching cultural misogyny dress itself up in Islamic clothing and then accuse anyone who questions it of being irreligious. Watching men who don't pray five times a day lecture women about hijab. Watching men who lie and cheat and harm others with impunity police women's laughter, women's voices, women's presence in public spaces. Men who don't know what Isbal is berating women's choices that have nothing to do with them.

At this point, call me feminist. Call me whatever you want. I genuinely don't care anymore. Done shrinking. Done apologizing. Done making myself digestible for people who will never see me as fully human regardless of how small I make myself.

I'm just a girl, after all. A Muslim girl who's read her religion. Knows Allah عز و جل created her with dignity. A woman who's looked at examples of women around the Prophet ﷺ and seen strength. Agency. Intelligence. Voice. A woman who refuses to accept that culture is religion. That tradition is divine law. That "this is how we've always done it" is a valid reason to continue doing wrong.

I'm just trying to exist as a full human being. Live without constantly apologizing for taking up space. Breathe without asking permission. Dream without being told dreams have gender restrictions. Speak without being told my voice is too loud. Succeed without being told success is threatening. Be myself without being told that self is too much.

And if that's radical. If that's Western. If that's feminist. If that's whatever label you want to throw at me to dismiss me without actually engaging with what I'm saying. Then fine. I'll wear it. Carry it. Because I'd rather be all those things than spend my life pretending I'm less than I am.

Rather be called a feminist for having self-respect than praised for having none.

Rather be labeled difficult for knowing what I want than considered easy for accepting whatever I'm given.

Rather be alone than with someone who needs me 100% agreeable. 100% mellow. 100% willing to erase myself so he can feel whole.

Rather fight for dignity than accept indignity with grace.

Rather be exhausted from standing up than exhausted from bending backward.

As a woman, they've told me, I should be quiet. Should be small. Should be grateful. Should be patient. Should be accepting. Should be everything except fully human.

But as a woman. As a Muslim woman. As a human being created by Allah عز و جل with dignity and purpose and worth. I say no.