Be Content With Your Nyash

Small nyash no dey kill person

Growing up taught me a vital lesson: you must hold onto something that anchors your self-esteem—whether it’s the Word of God, your friends’ hype, or your parents’ encouragement. Without that anchor, the world (and teenagers, especially) will bully the confidence right out of you until you’re nothing but a walking shadow of a woman.

My grandma used to swear I was the next Agbani Darego. She’d hype me up, insisting I’d win Miss World and carry her off to America. But then, one fateful day, I was flipping through channels on DSTV and landed on E! Entertainment. Specifically, Keeping Up With The Kardashians. Just like that, my obsession with increasing the volume of my backside began.

The first strategy was exercise. I googled squats and workouts for nyash. Every morning, at an ungodly hour, I’d hit the streets to run and squat. One morning, a foolish boy from my neighborhood, whose mother had sent him on an errand stopped to stare.

“What are you doing?" he asked, laughing. "What is there to exercise? You want to break the few bones in your body that aren't even strong yet?"

I didn't speak to that boy for years. By the time I entered university, I moved my operations indoors. My cousin, Sister Favour, made me to discover Pilates via her WhatsApp status. It looked so graceful, so easy. I fired up YouTube, connected my MP3, rolled out my mat, and followed the instructor’s lead. That was how I nearly transitioned into glory. I still work out today, but trust me, it’s for my health, not for the expansion.

The second route was... tactile. I convinced myself that if the area was pressed enough, it would somehow swell. I had a secondary school boyfriend at the time and during one of our make-out sessions, I deadpan instructed him to press it.

He looked at me like I had grown a second head. "Press it for what?"

"So it will increase," I replied seriously.

He burst into a fit of laughter that I probably deserved. To this day, we still talk, and he’ll occasionally check in with a cheeky, "So, who is pressing it for you now?"

The final, most desperate route was the Kayamata cream. I didn't have a smartphone back then, so I’d sneak onto my mum’s Instagram. I saw an ad for a miracle enlargement cream and scribbled the number down. I waited until the house was empty to call, spinning a web of lies about being 21 and having no WhatsApp.

The smallest jar was 3,000 Naira. Do you know the level of begging I had to do that week? I squeezed money out of my mum, my uncles, and my aunts. Once the funds were complete, I paid via POS and the woman agreed to waybill it from Bayelsa.

The logistics were a nightmare. How does a secondary school student leave class to pick up bumbum cream? Luckily, I had a friend who was currently suspended but pretending to go to school every day to hide it from her parents. She volunteered as my courier. When she handed it over, she admitted she’d already started using some because her base was as flat as mine.

I applied that cream with the aggression of someone fighting a spiritual battle. Every day, I’d ask my friends, "Is it working? Is it increasing?" Sometimes they’d lie to make me feel better; most times they’d just say no. I used that jar until the very last drop... only for my skin to turn a violent shade of red instead of expanding.

Honestly, I can’t pinpoint the exact moment my obsession died. I think I just woke up and realized that Nigeria is a wild, unpredictable place, and I cannot be losing sleep over the diameter of my glutes when I haven't even seen food to chop.

When the economy is doing legwork on your bank account and the price of fuel is competing with the amount of Christians that want to enter the heavens, worrying about a flat nyash becomes a luxury I can no longer afford. There are people out there battling life-threatening conditions, navigating a country that tests your sanity every morning, and here I was, crying over a silhouette. I’ve realized that my small self is enough to carry me through life's actual problems. If the backside doesn't follow me to the promised land, let it stay behind. I have bigger fish to fry

“Nyash wey you get, manage am well” isn’t shade; it’s wisdom wrapped in humor. It acknowledges the pressure but flips it: stop chasing what’s not yours and start owning what is. The auntie who tells you “small nyash no dey kill person” is low-key dropping gems. Life’s too short for endless comparison. Your nyash doesn’t need to compete in the global big-booty Olympics to be worthy.

So, to my fellow sisters out there scrolling through Instagram and questioning your reflection: be content with your nyash. Don't let these Kayamata vendors and Instagram BBL queens drive you to madness. Whether it’s flat, round, or somewhere in between, it is yours and it is functional. Don't go and pour cream on your skin or break your back with exercises that your ancestors didn't approve of. Your worth isn't measured in inches, and at the end of the day, a peaceful mind is far better than a surgically enhanced (or chemically burned) backside. Love what you have, because the person meant for you will love it too!

And if you decide to eventually get a BBL, please not in Nigeria.