Category: Growing up is ___

Circa ’13: He called me a dead babe

Circa ’14: She told me I was downgrading myself by hanging out with my new friends

The unspoken implication in both moments: You can come home when you are ready.

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I have always taken offense to the word “razz.” Not because I’ve had to live under the weight of it – the opposite, actually. I resent it because of how selectively it’s applied. As if it weren’t harmful enough to reduce someone’s entire identity to a made-up construct, it somehow extends grace to only those deemed worthy, and it withholds it from everyone else.

I have been called quirky, weird, awkward, whimsical…the list goes on. But never once have I feared being an outcast. I apparently can’t be. Nigerian society thinks I am “pretty” and that gives me license: to ascend the social ladder faster than any merit ever will and to “misbehave” without permanent consequence.

I listened to a podcast recently. The guest, a beauty influencer, spoke about her dating experiences after becoming “famous.” She said it felt as though her dates arrived with a predetermined script for who she should be. And with every unscripted (potentially razz) deviation she made came confusion, and very notably – annoyance.

I have faced similar annoyance. Often being chastised for behavior that seemed unbecoming of a lady of my alleged value. Because when you are “pretty” you cease to exist as an end in yourself. You become a means – an object with a very specific and unrazz purpose. One often not defined by you.

But this is not about the woes of a propped-up societal object. It’s about the damage this structure causes for the “unconventional” onlookers who are not afforded the same forgiveness for very human actions. For people who have had to fight to be considered in a society that assigns value on the basis of very transient traits.

The hypocrisy is almost comical –  people quick to condemn those who attempt to increase their social currency through cosmetic changes, while pretending that years of unequal treatment had nothing to do with the decision to try out for the “big leagues”. To qualify for a game that sniffs out imposters who do not naturally belong. Because the sad truth remains: razzness is not earned but designated.

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To me, the solution is quite simple. Logic must be consistently applied for harmony to prevail in society. Inconsistent definitions are hard to digest.

If razzness is to remain a permanent fixture in Nigerian society, then let it be applied honestly. Let a person be duly appointed razz if their actions align with the core tenets of razzness – regardless of appearance or inherited social class.

That said – cut that razz shit out.

Glossary:

Razz: A socially constructed label used to mark someone as uncultured, low-status, or lacking refinement –  often applied selectively based on class, accent, background, or appearance rather than behavior alone.

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My distrust always came in the most mundane of interactions. Sitting at the hair salon, not liking the reflection staring back at me – yet unable to say a word. Not because I was afraid to speak up, but because I couldn’t convince myself I knew best.  

I always had a quiet preference, a nagging inkling that straight-back cornrows did not, in fact, flatter my larger-than-average forehead. But I held onto my silence, instead deferring to the professionals. Because they had to know better…right?

Letting them decide felt easier. Safer. Because if something went wrong, I could tell myself it wasn’t really my fault. My silence gave me plausible deniability.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that passive participation in my life’s trajectory was not an exercise in humility or politeness, but instead, a cowardly attempt to outsource my judgement to the whims of others.

But the seed of doubt had already taken hold – quickly, aggressively – infiltrating my internal compass. And much like a lousy tenant, my agency was soon evicted.

Just like that, I couldn’t trust myself.

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So, when did I start trusting myself again?

As the saying goes, once lost, trust is hard to earn. And boy, did it take me a while.

I’m typically not a fan of decisive moments – I don’t believe they exist. And so, the shift arrived quietly, not with a distinct epiphany, but with a journey. One in which my zeal to ask (dumb) questions slowly declined. The spirit of doubt slowly crept in, and I began to shy away from displaying my ignorance in a fool’s setting – a classroom, built for not knowing. And the worst part is, I often knew more than I thought I did.

I think it was then – when I realized my ability to learn might be at stake – that I finally admitted something had to change.

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My trust in myself was re-built in the same mundane interactions. Revisiting the hair salon and doing a double take to make sure the vision was coming to life. Offering the occasional – what I believed was a stern – glance at the stylist that said, we’ll sit here until we get this right. Urging the speedy uber drivers to slow down, even with the awareness that I was at their mercy. And reminding myself that emotional distrust was not a unique feeling; extending grace to those who should know better, because perhaps, in those moments, they did not feel like they did.

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So, tell me, when did you start (dis)trusting yourself?

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Breaking the fourth wall here. I’d actually love to know – tell me in the comments.