“That Yellow Paw-paw na”, Chinwe said again. Chinwe was sitting with other girls in front of the SS2 block. They were talking about the new Junior student who wouldn’t do anything that wasn’t in the school curriculum. This included serving punishment, doing chores or running errands for seniors. It didn’t help that she was the colour of over-ripe Paw-paw or that at the slightest discomfort, she would get red in the face. It was something of a wonder for our young minds how a human being could literally turn the colour of chili from just a tap on the hand.

Sometimes, we would call such person Mammy-water (fine water spirit). Our folktales glorified the Mammy water. The spirit was loved, revered and feared. I never really could tell why something so feared was a good thing to be. Folktale told us the mammy-water was very pretty with long pretty hair and was Yellow in colour. In fact, the spirit was pretty because it was yellow. Nollywood and music furthered that mission. Yellow meant beautiful. Like Mammy-water. I have never heard of a Black Mammy-water.

In front of that SS2 Block, for the first time, I consciously realised a person could be described in colours or with anything for that matter. When a person was short, we called them Mkpi (I think this is the Igbo word for the short smelly goat with a beard) even if the student was beardless and didn’t smell. And when a student was tall and lanky, we called them Igunu or Egunu after the tall masquerade known with the Nupe tribe in Nigeria’s Middle Belt (I think). When someone was dark-skinned, we called them charcoal or Blackboard. These were the closest we could associate them with. And if their dark skin came with a glow, we called them “Blacky” or “Rub-and-shine” (meaning they could go out covered in a film of Vaseline and they’d still glow).

It was common to hear someone being described by adding “Black” or “Yellow” as prefix or suffix to their name i.e. Black Chukwudi or Ada Yellow. When we couldn’t describe anyone by the brown-ness or lightness of their skin, we described them by our confusion. We say, “the girl/boy be like wetin I no know”. Then this person, if they do not have a strong sense of self, becomes a living, breathing confusion because of our confusion.

I’ve always been fascinated by the colours with which we describe the people who are not us. And even by the words with which we describe ourselves. Pepperoni. Caramel. Yellow. Mammy water. Black. Brown. Charcoal. Charcoal, though? Does it mean the person is walking coal? That they’d burn when they walk too long in the Sun? My mind does a lot of wandering. Wondering. Wandering.

At the root of many of our insecurities are colours. Depending on the description, the tone, the situation, you could wake up hating everything about your skin. Or loving everything about it.

People call me black. I’ve got plenty of melanin. I don’t like descriptions though. They are very limiting in scope. Even less so in character. I know many women and men who in their younger days were described just like me. Black. Now we are adults and their description has changed. It’s sad that they let themselves be bound by something so insignificant yet significant.

Because we did (do) not know any better, we keep limiting ourselves and others to just the colours of their (our) skin. It doesn’t matter if he or she is the smartest in class, yellow-pawpaw meant brainless. It doesn’t matter if he or she can solve complex global issues, black meant dirty. In fact, if they are too black, we say they can’t wear white because they will leave stains on it. If only we acknowledged that there is more beneath the skin that is more than skin. Only then will we truly see ourselves and others.

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