All my life I’ve been a small-breasted girl. Unlike some of the women around me who were blessed with the genetics of firm and voluptuous bosoms, my transition through puberty was barely perceptible if one judged solely by the size of my chest.
When, at 12 years old, my mother took me to a Marks and Spencer store to have me fitted for a bra, I was equal parts excited and mortified. Excited, because this was a symbol of my shift into womanhood. Mortified, because there was barely anything to be fitted for. Also, why were there so many types of bras? My brain was going into overdrive trying to keep up. I was too young to wear the sexy lacy bras I saw on actresses in naughty movie scenes, so the lingerie section was out of the question. I was intrigued by the idea of push-up bras which could possibly improve the appearance of my chest and give me something more to work with. A facade, but still.
According to the lady who fitted me, I was a 32B. My mother bought me a few basic bras in colors and patterns that I chose. For the next few years, I wore those bras every day, excited to be a part of the army of women worldwide who were protecting, accentuating and even displaying their breasts through this wonderful invention. The trouble was, I found them terribly uncomfortable.
I would come home from school and audibly exhale after releasing my nipples from the cotton and wire cages. Sure, they probably did make my breasts look more mature or developed than I perceived them to be, but at what cost? I was about 16 when I discovered bralettes- a sexier, less cagey version of a bra. I was delighted. I went down to a Primark store and bought myself one in every color available.
If you’re unfamiliar with the concept of bralettes, I’ll enlighten you. One of their main features is that, unlike bras, they do not have padded foam pads that offer support and enhancement to the breasts. At that point, I had begun to accept that I would always be a small-breasted girl and that it was not something to be ashamed of, especially as it was not within my control.
Bralettes made me feel sexy, confident and grown, but all of a sudden, the older women around me all had something to say about my breasts. My mother, my aunties, and my aunties that weren’t really my aunties started to comment, “Ruby, I can see your nipples oh”, almost every time they saw me. These comments left me embarrassed, confused, and ashamed. Here I was, growing into my femininity and confidence, and the women who were supposed to be encouraging me were convinced I was doing it wrong. Usually, I would just smile or chuckle the comment away, but every single time, I felt a jab.
As a budding feminist, I was interested in the discourse on sexuality, feminity, women’s rights, and it was in my search of all this that I discovered the ‘free the nipple’ movement. I was in awe of the confidence of these women, who owned their bodies wholly, and with no apology. One day, perhaps consciously or unconsciously, I left my house without wearing one of my beloved bralettes, and I realized just how free and sexy I felt. Soon enough, it became a practice, to the point that I have now not worn a bra or bralette in over two years.
Of course, part of my excuse is in the fact of my so-little breasts, equating to me not necessarily needing a bra or bralette for support. However, as a feminist, I subscribe to the idea of women doing whatever feels personally comfortable with their bodies, despite the state or size of their body parts, without having to explain themselves to society. Unfortunately, my mother and my sisters might disagree.
Bralettes made me feel sexy, confident and grown but all of a sudden, the older women around me all had something to say about my breasts. My mother, my aunties, and my aunties that weren’t really my aunties started to comment, “Ruby, I can see your nipples oh”, almost every time they saw me.
I’m twenty-two, standing in my eldest sister’s apartment, on my way to throw out the garbage. She’s blocking the door, refusing to let me go because I look “naked” and my “breasts are open for everyone to see”. I look down at myself. I’m in a crew neck t-shirt and shorts, a perfect get-up for going two flights downstairs to accomplish my set-out task. I’m upset, frustrated, annoyed. This is not the first, neither will it be the last time that my sister has had an issue with my breasts, or more specifically, my nipples.
Two days ago, she announced the arrival of her friends, “two young men”, who could not see me dressed as I’d been, in an oversized hoodie and shorts. Somehow, my sister could see my nipples, and the specific detailed shape of my breasts, through the layers of wool stitched together to produce the hoodie. The reality of this that scandalized her, was sure to scandalize, or even seduce her guests. I tried to explain to my sister that the reason she noticed these things was that she was overly concerned with the ‘purity’ of my body, which had resulted in her over-sexualizing me in an attempt to protect my so-called ‘virtue’. My points fell on deaf ears, and on both occasions, I was forced to change clothes in order to exist peacefully. I do not blame my sister. She has been socially conditioned to believe that women’s bodies must appear a certain way in order to be deemed ‘respectable’.
However, I’m curious to know where these beliefs came from, and why we subscribe to them so avidly. It’s no secret that among certain pre-colonial African tribes nudity was a mundane and regular practice. Women went about their daily activities without adorning their breasts with a single shred of cloth and were able to exist peacefully without there being an outrage on the visibility of their nipples. What changed? I’m afraid to say that the Western conditioning and colonization of African peoples have resulted in the adoption of certain practices and beliefs that only serve to further oppress women in a society that is already not fair to them.
In addition, one must note that this outrage over breasts and nipples seems to be preserved for women of a particular age group. Often, I have seen elderly women dressed in traditional African numbers, from iro and buba to regular tied wrappers, or lace blouses and accompanying skirts or wrappers, and never have I seen them accompany this clothing with bras. It’s no secret that with old age comes the sagging of breasts, and yet the visibility of this does not seem to incite the kind of visceral response for the fear of so-called sexual mayhem that young women’s bodies do.
It’s almost as if youth, beauty and sexuality intertwine to result in a type of punishment for women of a certain age. A quote by renowned feminist and writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, at her famous TED speech, comes to mind: “We teach girls shame. Close your legs; cover yourself. We make them feel as though by being born female they’re already guilty of something”.
For so many young women, sexuality is intertwined with shame, because they have been made to believe that their bodies do not belong to them, but to the gazes of men and women who seek to distort them into something deviant, something other than what they are. It’s important for young women to feel safe and confident in their own bodies, to feel free enough to explore different fashion choices without a spotlight being turned on them, and without being perceived as ‘negative’ or overtly sexual. After all, men have nipples too.
