As I am.

We all have a past, don’t we?
Rhetorical question, I know.

I got my first tattoo in 2017. I can’t remember the month  which means I definitely don’t remember the exact date. Funny, because I usually remember things vividly.

All I know is that I was in my hostel when I heard there was a tattoo artist in Mango (Joan’s room at the time). I felt an adrenaline rush. Not random. Not impulsive. It had been a childhood dream.

My sister Chela (may her soul continue resting in peace) used to talk about getting a tattoo. Back then, we imagined they were ridiculously expensive. But she would always say she’d get one someday. Somewhere along the way, I adopted the dream too. I promised myself I would get one in adulthood.

So when the opportunity showed up at my doorstep, I knew. That was the day.

I didn’t have a grand design in mind. I just wanted the initial of one of my names and a few stars to complement it. I went on Pinterest and found a “V” with a heart and a shaded silhouette around it.

The tattoo guy looked at me while on a call and said, “I might take a while here.” I’m sure he thought I’d be fragile. That I’d make it difficult.

Shock on him.

It was painful. The second that machine started buzzing, I questioned every life decision I had ever made. When he began shading, I told him to stop. I was sweating everywhere  hands, armpits, pride. Every pore on my body was screaming.

But when he finished, he called the same person back and said, “Nilikuwa nimeunderestimate, nimeshamaliza.” I paid, got the aftercare instructions, and left.
I was happy. Genuinely happy.

Life moved on. Sometimes I even forgot the “V” on my hand existed. Occasionally I’d think about getting another one. The thought would pass.

Then 2022 happened.

It was a heavy year. Somewhere between an existential crisis and falling deeply in love  (yes, the twin flame with dreads). I decided it was time for more tattoos. Tiny, minimalistic ones.

The first was beneath my collarbone on the right  a mother holding a daughter. It represents my love for my mother. My literal heart.

On the left, I got a small heart with the words, be brave beside it. Because at that time, my heart was breaking in a way that felt physical  like something sharp moving back and forth inside my chest. I needed the reminder.

By the time Forsky finished, I wanted more pain. That’s how I ended up adding the small guitar near my first tattoo.

I love them. All of them.

I’ve been questioned. Judged. Talked about.

At one point, a woman from my village said I had joined the illuminati and somehow linked that to my late sister’s death. I was so upset I laughed.

Back then, I wasn’t strong enough to confront things like that. So I let it slide.

Here’s the context….we all have stories. We all have pasts.

Living in the village, I understand the closed-mindedness that can surround me.

And I’ve seen the particular way women with tattoos are judged.

Even when I got my first one, I knew the shade would come. I was braced for it.

Recently, a woman held my hand, looked me straight in the eye, and asked, “Why did you get a tattoo?”
“Because I wanted to,” I said.
“You didn’t have to.”
I didn’t respond. But I remember saying later, “I don’t regret it. If anything, I love that I got them.”

I know what the Bible says about tattoos and piercing. I also know what it says about many other things we selectively overlook. I read my Bible. I pray. I have a personal relationship with God. I am constantly trying to become better.

Today, I caught myself imagining a wedding gown off-shoulder. For a moment, I thought, Maybe I should choose one that covers the tattoos.
Then I corrected myself.
No. If I ever get married, I will show up exactly as I am.
It’s funny, because I don’t even dream of a white wedding. I want a traditional one. But that moment made something clear to me.
I have owned every scar on my body. Every story I’ve lived through. That’s why I’m not ashamed to speak about them. My wedding imagination is what inspired all these.

Lately, all I desire is to show up as I am. Unmasked.

Yes, society often sees even the tiniest tattoo on a woman as inappropriate. I see the looks. I’d be lying if I said I’ve never been self-conscious.

But now I ask myself… for what? For who?

On this floating rock where we judge others for sinning differently?

We all have a past. Some stories we hide. Some we share openly.

As for me, I have owned mine.

Because it shaped who I am right here, right now.

Cheers

Author: Miss Injairu

This is my best kept muse. Have fun. View all posts by Miss Injairu