When I was 8 years old, there was nothing glamorous about my wardrobe. It was filled with ‘ready-made bend-down selects’ (used clothes from abroad) and hand-me-downs from my two older sisters. New clothes were a luxury, reserved for just one special occasion — Christmas.

Ah, the thrill of getting a new dress at Christmas! Mum would buy vibrant African fabric from the market, and we would visit the tailor. She picked the dress style from an old catalogue—it was always a surprise. Then began the two-week wait, counting down the days, dreaming of a sleeveless flare dress or a princess-like gown with spaghetti straps.

The day finally arrived. Mum handed me the bag, I held my breath and pulled out the dress. The way I felt was almost impossible to capture with words. It was the type of dress you would wear to a funeral: long, with puffed sleeves, the highest round neck, and not a bit of skin showing. My mum seemed pleased.

‘Why?’ was all I could say as I tried on the dress. I couldn’t hide my disappointment. ‘My only new dress, and this is what I get?’

Horrified at the thought of having to wear this to church on Christmas Day, I imagined the smug looks on my friends’ faces as they flaunted the dresses I wished I had.

Rinse and repeat every Christmas!

Mum always made sure I never looked ungodly… you know what that means.

As the years passed, the feelings from those Christmas mornings lingered—a mix of hope and disappointment, dreams, and reality. I began to understand that clothes were more than just fabric; they symbolized where I stood in the world. This realization became even clearer as I grew older.

At the age of thirteen, I returned to my private all-girls boarding school after the summer holidays. Those times made me feel most different from my classmates. Most of them had stories and pictures of vacations abroad with their families, flaunting new trendy clothes bought as souvenirs.

Me? I didn’t have pictures. My holiday was spent at home, cooking, cleaning, and looking after my brothers and mother. At school, I rested from home duties, and at home, well, I wasn’t really sure what I was resting from.

The only reason I could attend this school was thanks to my 75% scholarship, which still cost my parents an arm and a leg. There I was, surrounded by wealth, feeling pangs of jealousy and longing. I wished I could fit in just once, without my family’s financial struggles holding me back, longing to know what it felt like not to be different because of what I wore.

Despite these challenges, a dream kept me going. I had known I wanted to become a doctor ever since I finished reading ‘Gifted Hands’ by Dr. Ben Carson when I was 7 years old. There’s nothing more powerful than a rags-to-riches story to inspire a young girl from Nigeria. I wanted to help others, just like he did in the book. Medicine seemed like the most interesting way for me to do this. I clung to this goal; it was my reason for working hard, even when things got tough.

‘If I just put my head down and study hard, one day I’ll be able to walk into a store and buy whatever I want, not just what I can afford,’ I would say to myself.”

But that was still far away in the future, and I still yearned for what I didn’t have, so I did the next best thing. I watched my sister learn to sew and used her sewing machine when she wasn’t around. She was always cross when she found out I had used it, but that didn’t deter me. I learned to take in my ‘bend-down selects’ and hand-me-downs, shorten my long ‘godly’ skirts to ‘ungodly’ knee-length ones, transform skirts and blouses into dresses, and make my boring private school uniform a bit more interesting, much to the horror of both my mother and principal.

Every new school term, while classmates were showing off their new expensive clothes, I was flaunting my own styles, customized just the way I wanted, all by myself.

The outside of my clothes always looked better than the inside, with lots of scraggly threads, but no one needed to know.

Gradually, what started as my only way to fit in morphed into my way of standing out—and I loved it. I used clothes to explore my identity during those formative teenage years. Living in two worlds, just like the two sides of my clothes: one where I belonged and another where I was merely a spectator; one where I could be a child, and another where I hid the loose threads and cared for my family. I felt I was figuring life out in my own way, slowly growing confident in who I wanted to be . . .

It’s supposed to be the best time of my life.

I’m 17, young, and in a new country all by myself.I’m free to express my true self, to wear what I want, eat what I fancy, and finally have my first real boyfriend.It’s not my first time in Turkey; I’ve visited the beautiful Topkapi palace in Istanbul, participated in an international Turkish olympiad in Ankara and eaten the famous Iskender kebab in Bursa.But now, I’ll be moving to Gaziantep for university — hailed as Turkey’s food capital.

Who doesn’t love good food?

On my first day in this new town, I decided to visit the mall with girls from the hostel I was staying in. It was crowded — a typical Saturday, perhaps the worst time to be at the mall. I found myself window shopping, stopping to admire the beautiful clothes on display. Absorbed in the vibrant colours and intricate designs, I was momentarily lost in a world of fabric and fashion.

Suddenly, a prickling sensation crept up my spine. It was subtle at first, but growing stronger, impossible to ignore.

I looked up from the mannequins dressed in the latest trends and felt a wave of discomfort wash over me. Eyes — dozens of them — were fixed on me. Some were fleeting glances, others more lingering and intense.

For a moment, I was frozen, the joyful curiosity of window shopping replaced by a feeling of being exposed, scrutinized. I took a deep breath, trying to soothe the chaos of emotions that was raging inside me — confusion, embarrassment, a rising sense of injustice. I looked for the familiar faces of the other girls from the hostel, but they had sensed the shift in the atmosphere too. They seemed uncomfortable with the stares, creating a distance between us. Now, it was just me and my friend from Ghana, amidst a flood of staring eyes.

‘Is it something about me?’ I wondered. My mind raced, questioning every aspect of my appearance, my behavior. Until the realization hit me with a jolt.
Were they staring because of the colour of our skin?
.
Some faces showed mere curiosity, others friendliness, but then there were those who pointed, took pictures without our permission, greeted us with unfamiliar hellos, and laughed amongst themselves. This wasn’t the first time for my Ghanaian friend; she had been living here for a while. ‘Yes, it’s annoying, but try not to let it bother you too much,’ she advised calmly.

I nodded, but inside, I was wrestling with a mix of emotions. ‘I’m trying,’ I whispered to myself, trying to regain the sense of freedom I felt just moments ago.

‘Don’t give them attention, Yosi. Don’t let this spoil your first day,’ I silently urged myself.

But as I attempted to refocus on the clothes behind the glass, a nagging question lingered in my mind: What kind of world was this, where I was made to feel both like a celebrity and a monkey at the zoo, all at the same time?

Suddenly I couldn’t breathe; everything became a blur. The sound of my heart beating drowned out the mall’s noise, each thump louder and more overwhelming. In a panic, I scanned for an exit, a restroom, any place where I could be alone. I managed to keep my composure until I reached the bus we arrived on, but once there, I broke down into tears.

Never before had the colour of my skin mattered this much. Here, it was about to be both a blessing and a curse.

Dealing with constant attention and curious stares would become my new normal, along with my plummeting self-esteem. As I tried to piece together the shattered fragments of my confidence, I started to feel ugly. I thought my skin was too dark, my hair too short and coily, my eyes too brown. I was not the ideal woman, the one people oohed and aahed at, blonde hair, blue eyes, fair skin. I was the opposite.’You’ll get used to it,’ my sister said, recounting her similar experience when she first moved to Simferopol in Ukraine. ‘Hmm, I’m not too sure,’ I replied.

One day, after yet another ‘normal’ experience of walking back to my shared apartment with headphones in, listening to feel-good music, and staring straight ahead, consciously avoiding eye contact and any notice of others, I dropped my bag on the floor and slumped onto the hard sofa with a heavy sigh.

This routine had become my way of coping, a method to shield myself from the constant stares and unspoken judgments that seemed to follow me like a shadow.

Each step I took was accompanied by a silent mantra, urging me to stay invisible, to blend into the background. But the more I tried, the more I felt the weight of gazes on me. It was as if my efforts to go unnoticed only made me stand out more.

Something had to change, and I was feeling like I had exhausted all my options. But right then, a new idea began to appear, pushing past my frustrations. For so long, I had been trying to hide, to diminish myself. But in that instant, I wondered what might happen if I did the opposite.

‘If I’m going to get noticed anyway, why not give them something to look at?’ I thought.

The idea was terrifying, daring, almost rebellious, and it sparked something within me.

‘Why not just embrace this sea of attention?’

Instead of dressing to blend in, I started to choose my outfits carefully, picking clothes that brightened my day and boosted my self-esteem. When I was feeling a bit down, I turned to clothes in striking colours. A dress in radiant sunshine yellow that wrapped me in joy, a blouse in deep, commanding cobalt blue, or my beautiful multicoloured Nigerian skirt a celebration of my heritage that declared my presence with every stride.

Clothes transformed into my armour. With each outfit, I expressed my unique identity, sometimes I controlled or even hid my emotions, other times I explored different facets of who I was or who I wanted to be. (The love child of Naomi Campbell and Oprah Winfrey.)

As I embraced this new way of dressing, I noticed a profound shift within myself. Confidence started to bubble up more frequently, and my mood brightened alongside my choice of attire. I began to truly appreciate the incredible power of intentional dressing. Those stares that once felt so piercing now seemed trivial, almost harmless. Even the way others perceived me started to change. There’s something incredibly uplifting about receiving a genuine compliment, especially when you’re on a journey to embrace and accept your body image.

In this newfound freedom, I wore whatever I felt like without worrying about the opinions of others. I explored the delicious cuisine of Gaziantep — kebablar, mezeler, çorbalar, köfteler, lahmacun, baklava — embracing a rich culinary heritage.

I made incredible friends who became a part of my journey, filling my life with laughter, support, and unforgettable memories, one of whom would eventually become my husband.

My days at medical school were filled with learning and growth, challenging me and pushing me to expand my horizons. I was evolving both emotionally and intellectually, developing as a person, learning resilience, empathy, and the importance of dedication . . .

And before I knew it, I achieved my dream: becoming a doctor.

I already knew what my next step would be. Ever since my second year in medical school, I had wanted to become a Psychiatrist. I had always been curious about people’s stories and fascinated by how our minds work. Blending medicine, psychology, and human behaviour? Yes please!

But there was another layer to my decision. I was slowly uncovering secrets about mental illness in my family that no one dared to discuss openly. The more I learned, the more I understood the silent struggles of the incredible African women who shape my life – my mother, sisters, aunties, teachers, and friends.I wanted a better life for them, to break down the stigma that not only prevented them from seeking help but also cast a shadow over their lives.

 

I couldn’t save the world, but I owed a debt to African women. It was a debt of gratitude and understanding, a recognition of the silent struggles they endure, struggles I had come to intimately understand through my own journey.

 

After 6 transformative years, I left Gaziantep with a sense of confidence I had never experienced before in my life.

‘You were right,’ I said to my sister, reflecting on the conversation we had years ago. ‘I did get used to it, but not in the way I expected.’ I had expected to simply adapt, to blend in and survive. Instead, I thrived. I found strength in my uniqueness, and I turned the stares of curiosity into opportunities for engagement, for cultural exchange, and for breaking down barriers.

‘So what now?’ she asked, curious about the next chapter of my life. Her question hung in the air, filled with anticipation and excitement.

‘Psychiatry,’ I said to her with a smile.

Coming Soon . . .

Coming Soon . . .

Coming Soon . . .