Of Words and Stones

There is a saying that goes thus:

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."

This is often not true; because words can, and mostly do, cause worse pain.

Yesterday morning, I was on a call with my dear brother, Pastor Wole Osunmakinde. Just as we were about to end the conversation, he asked me a question that completely threw me off balance.

"Are you still very beautiful?"

I was stunned.

We served together during NYSC in 1999/2000 in Imo State, and crossed paths again in 2002 when my bank transferred me to Abeokuta. I thoroughly enjoyed my service year. Within my circle, no one ever made me feel less than enough. My NCCF brethren loved and respected me; and it showed.

Yet, I can't remember anyone ever telling me I was beautiful.

In fact, at the beginning, some of the Yoruba brethren believed I was possessed with a mermaid spirit. Apparently, my very light skin and long hair fueled that assumption. Thankfully, those misconceptions faded a few weeks after orientation camp.

But after that call, one thought lingered in my heart:

"So you all thought I was beautiful back then? Why didn't anyone say it?"

In a world where negativity is loud and relentless, it is heartbreaking how positivity and truth often only whisper... drowned out by the noise of lies and falsehood.

Growing up, I mostly heard th other side of the story. Apart from my mother; who constantly reminded me to let my beauty be rooted in character more than appearance; no one ever told me directly that I was beautiful. Instead, I heard:

• "Yellow pawpaw": because of my very light skin.
• "Bonga fish" or "teeny gboko": because I was skinny.
• "Dongoyaro" or "electric pole": because I was tall for my age.

What you consistently hear shapes your mindset.

Over time, I began to believe I was ugly by the world's standards. I admired girls who were my direct opposite and wished I looked more like them. I wished I were darker, shorter, fuller.

I became painfully self-conscious. Avoiding people wasn't difficult; I was already introverted. But even that became a problem. In university, I was labelled condescending, cold, aloof, proud. Accused of thinking I was better than others.

Those years were heavy with silent pain.

The only person who ever called me pretty back then was Osarugue Adeyemi. But her voice was drowned out by the noise of everyone else. When I looked in the mirror, all I saw were the words I had heard all my life; even from people I called friends.

The more negative comments I received, the more I shrank. I shrank until I barely recognized myself.

Even close friends and relationships didn't help. They would repeat complaints their other friends made about me and suggest I needed to "do a personality appraisal."

People would see me and immediately comment: "Why is this dress hanging so loosely on you? Don't you eat at all?"

I convinced myself that if I didn't let their words get to me, they wouldn't matter.

But they did. They shaped how I saw myself and how I responded to people. These negative words were deeply ingrained in my subconscious and were taking over my response to life. They strained my relationships. The more they complained, the smaller I became; emotionally and physically.

Then, in the year 2000, something shifted.

One minister in my church told me I was the most elegant lady he had ever met. He simply said I was in a class of my own and that whoever married me would be blessed. He said he just felt I needed to know.

It felt really good hearing that.

A week later, the late Rev. Father John Ofei told me I had the most attractive complexion he had ever seen. This was on July 6th, 2000; his 48th birthday, and I had come to wish him well. He was widely travelled, so his words carried weight.

Then in December 2000, Henry Oise; my husband today; came to invite me to a program. I caught him staring at me and asked why.

His reply uprooted years of deeply planted lies.

"The years have only made you more beautiful. You were very pretty back in secondary school, but now you glow. Every time I see you, I'm taken aback. You are so beautiful, even for a woman."

He wasn't flirting or making a pass at me. We were both in different relationships at the time, and I wasn't even his "spec." He was simply stating what he saw.

I believe God needed him to say those words to me then. I desperately needed to hear them.

To this day, whenever I walk into a room, he still pauses and takes another appreciative look. He had no prior knowledge of my internal battles. He just does this; genuinely.

Healing took time. I gradually unlearned the lies. I distanced myself from voices that diminished me until I could stand confidently in my own skin.

Today, I make it a point to stop young girls and women; whether on the road, at events, wherever I can; and simply tell them: "You are beautiful."

The reaction is almost always the same. A surprise. A shy smile. A soft laugh with eyes lighting up. Gratitude spilling over.

Sometimes I ask, "Has anyone ever told you that before?"

More often than not, the answer is, "No."

And that is heartbreaking.

As you step out today, make it a habit to affirm someone; especially those close to you. Don't let truth remain unspoken. Your words might be the voice that silences years of hidden doubt.

Here is what Scripture says about how we should relate with people:

"And never let ugly or hateful words come from your mouth, but instead let your words become beautiful gifts that encourage others; do this by speaking words of grace to help them."