The woman I became

*Chapter 8 – The Unwritten Rules

There are rules written in books, laws carved into constitutions. And then, there are the unwritten ones — expectations whispered into your ears from birth.

*“Don’t sit like that.”

“Don’t talk like a boy.”

“You’re a woman. Act like it.”*

I had spent my life choking on those rules, swallowing my truth to keep peace, dimming my light to fit into molds I never asked for. But now, with every breath I took, I was rewriting them.

Still, not everyone accepted the edits.

I was invited to speak at a women’s leadership conference in Ikeja. The theme was “Becoming Bold.” They had read my book. They loved the idea of a strong woman surviving patriarchal chains. But they didn’t know what I *really* meant when I said I “refused to conform.”

On the morning of the event, I wore a deep blue suit — tailored, sharp, and proudly masculine. No makeup. My hair was trimmed low. I looked like me. Not the version they expected, but the one I’d fought to become.

When I stepped onto the stage, some eyes widened. One of the coordinators whispered, “She didn’t even wear earrings.”

I smiled to myself.

*Good. Let them choke on their expectations.*

I shared my story with honesty — the abuse, the family pressure, the forced marriage, the freedom I carved for myself through writing, therapy, and resistance.

The applause was loud, but backstage, one of the panelists cornered me.

“You’re inspiring,” she said. “But do you think you need to be so… loud about your identity?”

I looked her dead in the eye.

*“Do you think you need to be so quiet about yours?”*

She blinked. I walked away.

—

Later that week, I received an email from a young girl in Enugu. She had read an article about my talk.

“I think I’m like you,” she wrote. “But I’m scared. My parents are pastors. What if they never forgive me?”

I wrote her back.

*“Don’t rush to be understood. First, understand yourself. You deserve love — from them, yes. But also from you.”*

She replied a few days later.

*“You make me feel less alone.”*

That one message fueled me more than any applause ever could.

—

My relationship with my family remained fragile.

My mother still didn’t call.

My father tried. He’d send awkward texts: “Hope you are eating?” “Your hair looks low again.” His way of checking in without diving too deep.

I accepted it.

Healing was a process. Not everyone healed at your pace.

But I was no longer living for their validation.

I had found family elsewhere — in my community, in my words, in myself.

—

One rainy evening, Fola and I sat on her couch, drinking zobo and eating suya. The power had gone out, but neither of us minded.

She looked at me and said, “Do you ever think about what life could’ve been… if you had just played along?”

I nodded.

“All the time. But then I remember — playing along nearly killed me.”

Fola smiled sadly. “Same.”

We sat in silence, the sound of rain filling the room.

“Linda,” she whispered, “thank you for not giving up.”

I squeezed her hand. “Same to you.”

—

We organized another *Free Souls* event — this time, bigger. Open mic night. Over 100 people showed up. Some from Abuja. Some from Benin. Some who had never said out loud that they were queer. Some who just needed a room where they didn’t have to explain themselves.

I performed a spoken word piece:

*They said I wasn’t woman enough

Because I wore trousers and truth

Because I kissed her in my dreams

And never asked God to unsee it.*

*They said I was lost

But baby, I was just unlearning the lies.*

The room roared.

I cried.

But this time, they were tears of power, not pain.

—

That night, I realized something:

I wasn’t just healing.

I was becoming.

Not the girl they raised.

Not the bride they wanted.

But the woman I chose to be.

And that woman — raw, queer, loud, kind, imperfect — was enough.