Tèmítọ́pẹ́ Ọ̀jẹ́délé-Adéjùmọ̀

On those days when my brother and I would run around
With our neighbors’ children, feet bare, joy unbound,
Ear-to-ear grinning, eyes glowing with glee,
Mother would call, “Angel! Angela!” and we’d flee.
We’d rush home, knowing we’d played far too long,
Laughed too hard, danced to childhood’s song.

But I always had the deepest fear,
Because I’m a girl and should not appear
To bare my full self in a boy’s sight,
Where I should act gentle, demure, and light.
And if I asked, “What about my brother?”
Mother would say, “That’s not your bother,
For a boy can, but a girl can’t.”

When father stayed busy, lost in thought,
Needing a tool from the shelf he’d sought,
He’d shout, “Angel! Get me the hammer up high,”
And in my eagerness, I’d try to comply.
Climbing the shelf, Angel feared to ascend,
Bringing more than what father might intend.
I’d rush with pride, stretching forth my find,
Hoping for praise of some kind.

But he’d glare, dismissing my cheer,
Asking how I could have been so cavalier.
Then I’d shrink again in fear,
Because I’m the girl and it’s perfectly clear
That I mustn’t act bold, like a boy,
I should be gentle, coy, a toy.
And if I asked, “What about my brother?”
Father would say, “That’s not your bother,
For a boy can, but a girl can’t.”

And when the boy becomes a man,
And the girl, a woman, beneath society’s plan,
If the man decides to rule and suppress,
She will no longer question, no longer press.
For society will ask if she’s lost her mind,
To think she could stand equal, unconfined.
Then she’ll stoop in fear,
For as a woman, she mustn’t be clear,
She must be coy, and always comply,
Obey every command without a sigh.
And if she asks, “Why not him, why me?”
Society will answer, “Because a man can, and a woman can’t, you see.”