I loathe my hip dips. They’re a constant reminder of my imperfection—not as though I seek to be perfect anyway, but was there no other way for the creator to express His displeasure, perhaps at my parents or my infant self, other than cur$ing me with this fate? Is it not enough that I must navigate the treacherous waters of life? Must I also bear the weight of this unchangeable body? “There is nothing I haven’t done to correct it—gym, fillers, body enhancement herbs, name it! Even when I wear body shapers or shapewear, it is still evident that there is a hollow there. That is how significantly obvious the dips are. Alas! Isn’t it bad enough already for me, a woman, to not have hips?! But if that were the case, I wouldn’t even flinch—I would merely be content with the fact that not everyone is blessed with those curves. But it is far worse that instead of those curves, He (the creator, if there is any) chose to put a dent there instead. Why? Why? Why did You have to insert a hollow in a place where curves are meant to be? Does that mean You love those You gave curves to more than those You created flat?
And do You straight-up just h8te those of us You gave the dips? ’Cause tell me—why wouldn’t You just leave me flat? Why did You decide to worsen it, to make a hollow in a place that should be outwardly curved? I wonder—how, then, is one to love oneself and accept the love of an imaginary creator when one is constantly reminded of one’s imperfections by every stare in the mirror? Every stare in the mirror is a dagger to my heart, a reminder of my inadequacy. I am a prisoner of my own body, tormented by the unyielding truth that I will never be free from this cur$e. I read extensively on it and discovered that hip dips can rarely ever be changed or eradicated—they are caused by bone structure, so no amount of fat gain or exercise would ever change that! I am in uttermost rage against the universe, against the creator who deemed me so unlucky and unworthy. Did He (if there be a creator) not care that I would suffer thus? Didn’t He consider the tears I would shed, the self-loathing I would endure, and the endless torment that would haunt me? Or maybe I was a mistake. After all, I am the lastborn, the seventh child.
Perhaps I am but a mere afterthought, a careless mistake in the grand tapestry of existence. ’Cause tell me—why would You create me like this if You actually planned to create me in the first place? Was I an emergency project? If You didn’t want to give me hips, just leave me flat. Why further worsen things by replacing curves with a hollow? That hollow has created a far worse hollow in the depths of my soul. It hurts me so deeply—more than can ever be fathomed. I know so many would cringe at my repeated emphasis on the pain and shame, and at how much gravity such a seemingly irrelevant matter holds for me. But it is relevant to me because it makes me question everything. I am not a sucker for comparison, but do you mean to tell me that He loves me equally—just as He loves those He blessed with a perfect structure? What have they done differently that I did not, to be bequeathed such an eternal baggage of sorrow? My hip dips are a constant reminder of my insufficiency. My body is just like a prison that holds me captive. Everything isn’t where it’s meant to be, and that creates in my heart a heavy burden that threatens to consume me whole.
In the darkness and silence of the night, I whisper my despair—to myself, to the void, to anyone who cares to hear—hoping that someone, anyone, will hear my plea. But the silence is deafening, a cold and unforgiving shroud that wraps around my soul. It reminds me of the pidgin adage: “This life na all man for himself. If you no dey for yourself, nobody go dey for you.” I am left to face this unrelenting torment alone, forever bound to this body that I abhor and detest. I have tried to love it, correct it, work on it in every natural possible way—all to no avail. Surgery is not an option because the risks are not worth it. Besides, my husband adores me and tries to make me feel that I am enough. But omooooo! Sadly, as perfect as he is and as cherished as he tries, with all within his capacity, to make me feel, nothing has been able to wipe off the deeply rooted h8tred that I harbor for these cur$ed hip dips. These damn hips are a constant reminder of my sorrow. My heart is so crushed beneath this heavy burden that I fear it may one day shatter beneath the weight of my own despair.
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