“There’s something about the Yoruba DNA that takes all the fat to the hips and the butt”—- Me
“Some bumbum you would see they don’t need to tell you the girl is Yoruba”— borrowed from a guy on Twitter.
The Yoruba DNA is iconic. Why? It has been known to put together the finest cocktail of symmetry, proportions, ratio, contour and size in the area between the waist and the lower thighs. The average Yoruba female has ample expressions in the chest, hips, and butt or at least one or two of the three. What she isn’t is to lack any of the three. Mba! That never happens.
Don’t believe me? Listen I live in a predominantly Yoruba state, I am part Yoruba myself, and I commute a lot. And because I knew I needed to prove this theory beyond my sphere of contact, I would spend time, while commuting, just taking in the world around me: markets/market women/traders, motor parks, public transport, schools and school children, mothers juggling a toddler on the back and two other little ones during school run etc., and I have never met anyone who I imagined was Yoruba without these three things or at least one. I am obsessed with shape and symmetry hence I can be found gawking my way through say a hundred remarkable butts in a day when I’m out. I can’t help it especially since the Yoruba DNA has been very unfair to me in that regard leaving me out of the idi araba hall of fame and consigning me to the role of spectator and perpetual wish-maker instead of partaker and object of attention.
The Yoruba worship cellulite. Yoruba people are obsessed with cellulite. To them there are only three reasons you must be sorely lacking; either you are ill, poor or something is seriously wrong with you. I have a sister who when she is going through a rough time finds that her body starts to respond contrary to what one would expect under such circumstances. Yup she starts to add weight. That has got Yoruba DNA written all over it. The Yoruba hips/butt ranges from the remarkably benign; you know the ones on some of these young‘uns in their skinny jeans and jeggings that pass you by at the cinema, the mall, on the sidewalk when you are in a taxi cab (I told you I’m obsessed with butts!), at Agbowo/UI gate, at the market, at the saloon or at some joint where they sell alcohol and catfish pepper soup and broadcast EPL, to the near catastrophic, the one that squashes you into the jagged end of a jagged metal paraphernalia aka commercial bus or Keke Marwa where you risk a tear in the fancy chiffon blouse you bought on Asos.
Yoruba people will not respect you unless you respect yourself and how do you respect yourself? By possessing a body that commands respect afore and behind. We skinnies are often looked upon as unusual specimens. The bigger the body, the bigger the respect commanded. Even if you don’t have money, as long as you can fill out that buba and wrapper, you are fine. I went to secondary school with some of the most endowed Yoruba females. By the way, the invention of communal showers is an act of pure wickedness,
Just find one corner in that roofless, dilapidated old bathroom (one of my secondary schools was formerly a military camp or something) to hide yourself and face the wall and shower but while you make your way in scan the array of physical perfection and damn puberty to hell for passing you by without so much as a, “hey here’s a little something to make the male seniors fight over you during prep time.”
I remember a roomie in JSS 2 who made it her mission to help my puberty by ensuring I drank cups of Nescafe and/or Bournvita with lots of milk. Well, we realised the futility when I ran through a whole tin of milk within three days and it wasn’t midterm yet. Ah boarding school was a near walk in the park. But I think my younger sister had it worse and in fact, the whole body comparison thing well near damaged her self-esteem for the longest time until she got it together. And me, what wouldn’t I have done for a little ass like a proper Yoruba girl? But when it comes down to it, it’s really all cellulite, right? Just chunks of meat that sometimes don’t look so pretty unclothed.
Yeah right, so I tell myself till I see another hot Yoruba girl pass by.
So here goes: Dear Yoruba people, we can’t all have asses like Olumo rock or gapless thighs that fill out a pair of trousers beautifully or hips that you can literally pay homage to. And yes we like food and no we are not watching our weight. We just are. God must love variety because look around you. Remember the danger of a single story?
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