My Colour and Other Stories
If you’ve ever stepped into a typical Nigerian market, you know that shopping is never just shopping.
It’s theatre.
Before you’ve even figured out where you’re going, you’re already being welcomed by a chorus of voices competing for your attention.
“My colour!”
“Fine girl, come and buy from me!”
“Sister, what are you looking for?”
“Nwanyi oma, kedu ihe ị na-achọ?”
It doesn’t matter that you’ve made no eye contact. It doesn’t matter that you’re walking with purpose. Somehow, every vendor is convinced you’ve been wandering aimlessly until this very moment; until they, the self-appointed custodians of the market, came to rescue you.
The rookie mistake is answering. One response somehow translates to, “Yes, everyone else, please gather around me.”
If ignoring them doesn’t work, some will raise their voices. Others will walk beside you. And then there are the particularly adventurous ones who think the next logical step is to grab your arm or tap your shoulder: as though physical contact is simply another sales strategy.
I’ve found that the safest approach is to wear the facial expression of someone who already knows exactly where she’s going. Chin up. Eyes forward. No unnecessary smiling.
Some days it works. Other days, your patience, self-control, and every fruit of the Spirit you’ve ever claimed to possess are all scheduled for practical examination.
Because why are you talking to me when I didn’t talk to you? Why are you giving me unsolicited advice? And more importantly…Who told you touching strangers was acceptable? But this isn’t actually my story today.
I was at the market with my two sisters, and we had stopped at a jewellery stall to get a few things. In typical Nigerian market fashion, bargaining had already become part of the experience. Somewhere between us negotiating prices and the vendor trying to convince us that we were getting the deal of a lifetime, he smiled and said,
“Don’t worry, you people have money.”
Then, almost as though it naturally followed,
“Buy from me. God will give you a senator. You’ll marry a rich man”.
I smiled politely and moved on. It was one of those comments you hear so often that you almost stop hearing it. Until later.
We walked into another shop looking for something else. We asked for the price and immediately realised this particular item belonged in the category Nigerians affectionately call affordable luxury.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t affordable to us. So we laughed, thanked him, and said it was outside our budget. Without hesitation, he replied,
“You can’t afford this, but you girls want to marry men that have money.”
I genuinely froze. How did we get from “I can’t afford this item” to “You want to marry a rich man”? Those two thoughts don’t even belong in the same conversation. And that’s when something clicked.
Why is it that almost every conversation around money somehow finds its way back to gender?
You look good? Your man must be taking good care of you.
You’re dressed nicely? Someone is sponsoring you.
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You live comfortably? Somebody must be funding your lifestyle.
You want nice things? Better marry rich.
It’s almost as though we’ve become uncomfortable imagining a woman as the source of her own abundance.
Why is our default assumption so one-sided?
Why don’t we instinctively picture women building wealth, closing deals, owning businesses, making investments, leading organisations, buying the nice things they enjoy, or simply earning enough to fund the lives they’ve built?
Why does the story so often begin with someone else providing instead of her creating? Maybe that’s why those jokes online don’t surprise me anymore.
A woman says, “Imagine my man just gives me five million naira…” and people laugh that even in her imagination, she isn’t the wealthy one.
But perhaps our imagination has been shaped by years of hearing the same story. A story where a woman’s financial security is borrowed.
Where her success is attached.
Where her comfort is explained.
Where her wealth almost always belongs to someone else first.
Maybe that’s why, even in passing conversations, the compliments and the blessings sound the same.
“A rich man will…”
“Someone will take care of you…” As though those are the only stories worth telling.
And also, maybe, we should let conversations be conversations. How did a simple interaction become a commentary on gender?
Why do we feel the need to steer ordinary moments in that direction?
Not every conversation needs to become a lesson about men and women.
Not every compliment needs a husband.
Not every observation needs a wife.
Not every discussion about money needs to end with “a man will…” or “a woman should…”
Sometimes, things can simply be what they are. And maybe if we gave people that freedom, we’d also leave room for bigger imaginations.
For more possibilities. For different stories.
Stories where people are loved without that love becoming the explanation for everything they have.
Stories where success doesn’t need to be justified.
Stories where wealth doesn’t have to come with an assumed backstory.
The problem isn’t that one story exists. It’s that we’ve become so used to telling it that we’ve forgotten there are other stories too.
Maybe it’s time we made room for all of them.
