Baby steps

My name is Jennifer Kanu. I’m thirteen years old, and unlike most people my age who are still navigating JSS3 drama and fake love letters, I’m already heading to SS1. Okay, fine, technically I haven’t gained admission into my new school yet, but in my mind? I’m already there. You have to speak things into existence.

That morning was the exact definition of Nigerian home-induced madness.

The sun hadn’t even fully come out when I heard it — Mummy’s legendary scream that could wake even the ancestors.

“You people will not kill me in this house!”

Classic. She was already shouting from the living room.

“You know you’re going for registration today and you couldn’t pack your things last night! Oya, oya — everybody stop dressing up. I'm not going again!” she snapped.

“Mummy, please now...” my elder sister, Ugoeze, begged. She was always the one caught in the middle — the negotiator between Mummy’s rage and the rest of us.

From the bedroom, Daddy joined in. “You people should better hurry up and stop stressing your mother.”

Mind you, this man was still tying towel and shaving his nonexistent moustache. Yet he loved claiming he only needed ‘one minute’ to get dressed.

“One minute” that routinely turned to twenty.

“If I get to that car before any of you,” he added, “I will leave that unfortunate person!” he shouted. And the painful part? We all knew he meant it. Daddy had once left Henrietta at church because she went back to collect a forgotten scarf. When we asked him why, he said, “She has legs.”

So yes, I believed him.

But even in the middle of the shouting match and Daddy’s usual threats, I had a mission — to slay.

It was my first day stepping into a mixed school — boys and girls. No more all-girls innocence. This was premium secondary school energy and I had to enter like a somebody.

I pulled open my wardrobe and wanted to cry. Everything in there either made me look like I was going to a child dedication or like someone’s pastor’s daughter.

I moved to my metal box. The one with “JENNY KANU” scratched across the side. Still no luck.

I sighed dramatically and almost gave up, until...

Boom.

There it was. The dress. A slightly fitted gown with just the right length — short enough to make me feel pretty, but long enough not to cause mummy and daddy to bring out Bible verses.

I put it on and turned in front of the mirror. Chef’s kiss.

Even my reflection gave me a wink. I slid on my sandals, slicked my hair back into a perfect all-back style, then applied just the right amount of Vaseline to my lips. Not lip gloss — Vaseline. The starter pack of every fine Nigerian secondary school girl.

As I admired myself, I heard the bathroom door open. Henrietta, my younger sister, was dragging her skirt while trying to wipe water from her face at the same time. She was starting JSS1 today.