THE “UGLY” QUESTION THAT HAUNTS ME: Do All Men Like Ugly Girls?

“Do all men like ugly girls?” It sounds ridiculous, I know. But it’s a question that’s been gnawing at me for years, a question born out of a childhood I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

I was made to believe that, I wasn't the "pretty one." I was the dark-skinned kid, the one who "walked like a boy," the one with the "stiff" posture, the one with the “two huge teeth in front”(they called me ‘Ronaldo” and it made me sad. If only I knew how rich and important he is, I wouldn’t be so sad). Basically, I was always in the shadows, hoping that no one would notice me. And when I started growing up, and I started getting noticed, I became a chronic people’s pleaser. This constant need for validation distorted my sense of normalcy, blurring the lines of what was acceptable and what should never be. I began to see the world through a lens of seeking approval, even in situations where I shouldn't have. And maybe, just maybe, that's why they thought they could get away with it.

It started in primary school. I was maybe ten, eleven. The principal of my school was a nice woman and was sweet and all, we’d go to their house for water during breaks. And one time, her last son, way older, like, twenty-something, was home. I didn’t know he was home because the kitchen door at the back was always open and I wasn’t expecting anyone to be home actually, but he was there. That didn’t even mean anything as these ‘boys’ have at some point or the other taught us certain subjects in school, so it didn’t even strike me as a big deal until this happened, he came up behind me, started touching me. My chest, where I was barely even starting to grow. I froze. I was so scared, I couldn't even scream. I just wanted to disappear, maybe he noticed how tensed and scared I was or maybe God just decided to hear my prayers and ‘preach to him’. He stopped, eventually, and I ran. I ran like my life depended on it, and maybe it did.

Then there was the lesson teacher, during a strike when I was in SS1, the strike affected just public schools, so my eldest sister who I lived with decided to enroll me in the lesson with the man as it was very close by plus his apartment was just behind ours. He tried it too, first as mere ‘hints’ which I chose to ignore, then he became very bold about it. And when I refused, he pulled the “Marriage” card. I was barely 16. That was such a lame move, and it’s safe to say that was very shameless of him as an adult my guardian has entrusted with my education and, in hindsight, my wellbeing, for the hours I spent under his instruction. Also, I grew up in a broken home and marriage doesn’t even appeal to me as the peak to one’s life achievements. I grew up suppressing my feelings and putting every other person’s feeling ahead of mine, so that event was swept under and I kept shut about it, not sharing it with a single soul, like every other awful events that have happened in my formative years.

That wasn't the end of it. My eldest sister's husband… that's a whole other level of messed up. It went on for years, from when I was a kid until I was practically an adult. Touching me, everywhere. I finally spoke up to ‘my supposed family’ but nobody did anything. Nothing. It was like I was making it up. I felt so alone, so unloved, so… dirty. It’s a deeper story than this, and I am not yet healed to the point where I’d talk more about it, so maybe when I do, I will.

And just recently, when I was trying to get my IT placement at the state secretariat, the man in charge basically said, 'Date me or no placement.' It felt like I was being treated as a bargaining chip.

That Friday had been a long, draining day. Barely noon, and I was already exhausted. I had to pick up some documents for a family friend from the bus park, navigate my way to the secretariat, and trek a long distance to submit them. Then, I discovered one document wasn't signed, which immediately dampened my spirits. A coursemate had told me my name was on the list earlier that morning, so I decided to just go to the office, since I was already inside the secretariat, hoping to finalize the process and start my IT on Monday. Instead, this man, old enough to be my father, made a disturbing proposition. 'Why are you so pretty? Come on, date me,' he said in Yoruba. I was immediately disgusted and tried to brush it off, hoping he was joking. But he wasn't. When he kept pushing, I had to tell him directly that I couldn't. He asked why, and I simply said I couldn't. His next statement was, 'Then collect your letter, let me see.'

I felt a wave of nausea. It was a violation. He brushed me to the sides and told me to wait. He then attended to a father and daughter, and I'm sure he asked them for money. After a while, he told me to photocopy the list and bring it back. Then, he wouldn't sign until I gave him money for 'jumat.' I explained that the money I had was for transportation and I couldn't give it up. At that point, I was on the verge of tears. I just wanted to go back to my hostel and cry. I felt deeply violated, humiliated, and utterly drained. It wasn't just the frustration of the day; it was the feeling of being reduced to nothing more than a transaction, a means to an end for someone in a position of power.

So, yeah, "Do all men like ugly girls?" It's not about being vain. It's about trying to make sense of something that makes no sense. It's about trying to understand why ‘me’ of all people. Was it because I didn't fit the mold? Because I wasn't the pretty, delicate one? Did they think they were doing me a favor, “after all she should be grateful I’m chasing after her, considering how she looks”? Did they think I wouldn't fight back?

I know, I know, it's not my fault. It's never the victim's fault. But when you hear "you're ugly" long enough, when you feel like you're always on the outside looking in, it gets under your skin. It changes how you see yourself.

It could also be your fault if you start to believe those lies, if you let them define you. That's the insidious part – how it seeps into your thoughts, making you your own worst critic.

And I get it, not all men are like this. But those who are, they prey on vulnerability. They prey on the feeling that you're less than, that you don't deserve respect. They prey on the shadows, and the people hiding within them.

I'm still trying to figure it all out. I'm still trying to heal. I'm still trying to believe that I'm worthy of love and respect, even if I don't fit some stupid, made-up beauty standard. This isn't some polished essay. It's just me, trying to make sense of my story. Trying to take back the power that was stolen from me. And maybe, just maybe, someone else will read this and know they're not alone.

Because as hard as it is to believe and understand, it’s not your fault. The fault lies with those uncouth and untrained half-baked men who need a “vulnerable woman” to feed their inflated ego and self-worth. It’s the fault of all the adults around who won’t watch out for the younger ones and explain to them how these things work, but instead shut them down when they ask genuine questions out of curiosity.

But, I refuse to be bitter. It would be easy, wouldn't it? To just let all this poison turn me into someone angry and closed off. I could blame my parents and guardians, for letting me grow up in a world where I was so vulnerable, where I didn't feel protected and, in a world where I felt lost 90% of the time. I could blame them for not teaching me how to spot these predators and how to stand up for myself or at least stood up for me where I couldn’t, I could blame them for not teaching me how to say ‘no’, how to believe in my own worth. And honestly, a part of me does.

But I'm not going to let that define me. I'm not going to let those experiences dictate my entire outlook on life. It's hard, though. Really hard. Because I find it difficult to love and trust. I'm so used to doing things by myself, being my own person, building my own walls. That's not about to change overnight, and I know that. Healing takes time, and it's not linear. Some days, I'll probably still ask that stupid question, 'Do all men like ugly girls?' And some days, I'll still feel that old fear creeping in.

But, I'm learning. I'm learning to recognize my worth, even when the world tries to tell me otherwise. I'm learning to trust my gut, to say no, to set boundaries. I'm learning that my story, as painful as it is, doesn't have to be my ending. I'm still figuring it out, and that's okay. I'm still healing, and that's okay too. And I hope, more than anything, that someone reading this knows they're not alone. We're not alone. We're reclaiming our stories, and we're choosing to believe that we deserve better.