Dear Diary — August 13, 2025

If Jesus, a glass door, and the summer breeze ever team up against your skirt… just know your modesty is about to enter the group chat.

Peopleeeeeee! 😩 Ah, the Nigerian mother will always say, “Dress as you want to be addressed.” But please, let us be truthful — what they actually mean is: dress as you want to be stared at, judged, catcalled, sent to jail, admired, or dragged by aunties in the market. Because even if you wear agbada in this life, somebody will still stop you and say, “Fine geh, where you dey go?”

If you know me, you know I like to dress decently — fully covered, looking like somebody’s responsible daughter. But I have a human side… and that side? It loves a short skirt. In my mind, there’s short, there’s moderately short, there’s immodestly short, and there’s kuku-be-naked short — a.k.a. my-gush-I-must-look-away short.

So here’s the gist. My sister once bought this short pleated skirt. She wore it, and it was so fine that I scuffled until she bought me my own. When I first wore it, I told myself it was moderately short — very safe. That was before I gained an extra 5kg. And you see, the premium Black body is a snitch: when it gains weight, it starts with the midsection, then graciously deposits the rest on the butt. No mercy. Unlike our Caucasian sisters who are built flat at the back.

As usual, I spoke to Jesus about it. I tell Him everything — He’s my best friend. So as we were going through my wardrobe for the week and I had carefully selected my outfit, I said, “Lord, please don’t look at me this week. From Monday to Thursday, I’m wearing all my short things. Friday, I’ll be regal for Our Lady’s feast day.”

Jesus said, “Baby, this skirt is short.” I replied, “Abeg, remove Your eyes. You see all Your other children dressing naked and You allow them. Allow me too.” Normally my schedule is: Mass → Library → Eat my sandwich → start reading. But this week, I decided: Mass → Go home → Change jeans to short skirt → Have early lunch → Then library. That extra 30 minutes? The price of fashion.

Monday

After Mass, I swapped jeans for the pleated skirt. Jesus sighed, “Whatever shege your eyes see, I didn’t create it.” I told Him, “Let’s see if You’ll even allow shege to happen.”

I wore it, feeling fresh and fly… until I sat on the bus and my after-butt skin touched the seat. I froze. What’s touching me so closely? I hate when things touch my skin like that. Then my brain recalled how I was dressed. Ah! I jumped as if the seat was hot eba. I began to wrestle with myself. Olu, iwa werey re o! I was annoyed with myself.

From the bus stop at Rua Alcântara, I began the hill climb to the library, passed a glass door and nearly fainted. The glass didn’t just reflect my body, it x-rayed me. My 5kg gain had transformed the skirt from moderately short to immodestly short. One inch more and I’d be kuku-be-naked short.

Then the breeze came. The skirt lifted. Thank God for the inbuilt short — plus the extra short I wore underneath. I now looked like a cheerleader with stout legs. My feelings moved from annoyance to shock and I exclaimed, “Jesus Christ!” as I gazed at myself. Right beside me He said, “I am the Lord.” I eyed Him furiously, but He looked on, waiting for me to catch up because we had a big day ahead of us. People, I was not yet remorseful.

By the time I was going home, there was this girl in palazzo pants who gave me the kind of up-down scan Nigerian aunties reserve for market girls buying only one tomato. I’m sure she wanted to confirm if she could peek at my butt. I was almost remorseful… until I got on the tram and was surrounded by girls in my-gush-I-must-look-away short. In that moment, I suddenly felt like Mother Teresa in her habit. My remorse? Gone.

Tuesday

I wore that silk short set my friend bought during World Youth Day. “Better than yesterday,” I told Jesus. He replied, “Olu, I’m not having this discussion.” I said, “Fine! Your choice!”

After Mass, I changed again and passed the same mirror route. Ah, betrayal! The shorts were squeezing my butt in such a way that the back looked shorter than the front. From behind, it looked like the shorts had given up on their life purpose.

As if on cue, the house owner saw me adjusting.
“I do this all the time,” she said.
“I’ve gained weight.”
“So has every girl around the world,” she replied.

I laughed. “I should be crying… but here I am, walking to the library like it’s a runway.” She, who was equally on an eyesore short, definitely couldn’t relate with my inner battle but thought surely it was fat. People, I am not fat-fat o! Just butt-fat. I told myself, I can’t look like this — I am not my mother’s daughter like this. There is a spectrum Florence’s children must fall within. No, Olu, no!

By the time I sat down in the library, I admitted, “Lord, You were right.” He chuckled. Then I started my remorseful resolution: “You see that Monday skirt? Never again. Except laundry day in Nigeria.” He burst out laughing. “Why Nigeria?” I said, “You know, Lord, you know.” He said, “Fair! Laundry days in Nigeria when the faraway neighbours are too busy frying akara to notice.”

Then Chika called. “Babes, I’m at the library’s café — come upstairs.” When I got there, she sipped her latte like a judge on Nigerian Idol and said, “Are you sure this short is decent? From here it’s giving… summer in Ibiza.”

I gasped. “Yesterday’s skirt was worse. Jesus nearly disowned me.”

She grinned. “He probably took screenshots for the angels’ group chat. Title: The Prodigal Skirt.”

We laughed so hard that the guy on the next table side-eyed us like we were disturbing his PhD thesis on the mating habits of sea snails.

Chika leaned in. “Babes, you have nice legs. Wear your short things, but balance it. Big shirt on top. Distract them from the abundance behind.”

I sipped my iced tea slowly. “So… choir mistress in front, carnival at the back?”
“Exactly. Fashion diplomacy.”

In my spirit, Jesus cleared His throat. “I’m not endorsing this conversation.”
“But You’re smiling,” I replied. He chuckled again.

Before we left, Chika dragged me to Zara and almost made me buy two oversized shirts “for peace in the land.” We called it a truce — me, Chika, and Jesus.

I promised my kuku-be-naked clothes will henceforth be reserved for laundry days in Nigeria. And as I walked home after my day of studying, I realised — it’s not that short skirts are bad. It’s just that sometimes, the road to modesty is paved with inbuilt shorts, a good breeze, and friends who love you enough to say, “Babes… cover small.”

Me, I knew it, tested my limits, and I am here to say — I am the prodigal skirt wearer. Never again.

So today, I switched up my wardrobe and made up for my two days of what-the-f*-just-happened* dressing — and I was 100/100. Honestly, the real test is not copying what everyone else is wearing just because “everybody’s doing it.” The real test is this: we already know our world is raving mad, but when the few sane people gather, will they count me among them… or call me mad too?

If the answer is yes, don’t wear that outfit. If the answer is no, step out proudly as a committee member of the few sane people. It really does pay to be fully covered and respectful, even while minding your own business and looking away from my-gush-I-must-look-away short.

Jesus and I made peace today. Maybe He smiled and said, That’s my girl. I knew self-reflection would be your best teacher. That’s why I made sure no one who knows you saw you — even though you secretly wished they had, so they’d form a new opinion about you (that you wouldn’t even mind). I protect you, child — even from yourself. YOU ARE MINE AND I LOVE YOU SHAMELESSLY, through it all.

Yours,
The Prodigal Skirt Wearer

Ps: I’ve been sharing diary reflections like this every other week. If you’re new here, could you take a moment to read some of the previous posts.

The Wisest Fool – Olú Abíkóyè,

How Weak Can You Be? – Samson Had One Damn Job – Olú Abíkóyè