Unlearning Sexual Shame as Black Women

The body keeps the score

Hey y'all,

If you're a Black woman who peruses TikTok from time to time, you may have come across the extremely popular podcast, ShxtsnGigs. An "unproblematic" podcast, as it was once dubbed, is having a very problematic month.

You can look up what they’re about if you haven’t heard of them, but their episodes are filled with laughter of the most guffawing order at tweets, memes, and messages their listeners send in. They have a largely Black female audience thanks to the hosts seemingly being the few non-red pill male podcast hosts to exist. This is important to note.

ShxtsnGigs has had an amazing run lately. They have almost 2 million subscribers on Youtube, had a sold-out live show, and their podcast clips regularly go viral. The lads could do no wrong. Well, until the past few weeks.

Yeah...

There are an array of damning clips of them currently circulating around. Just take your pick: Is there one of them saying mixed race women are better than Black women? Yup. Agreeing with Andrew Schulz that Black women are violent and angry? Yup. Feeding into Nigerian tribalism and calling Nigerians scammers? Yup. Alleging that there are no “baddies” in Atlanta? Yup. Casually mentioning sexually harassing women they want to sleep with. Yup!

Talk about when it rains, it pours.

I’m likening this to the “Black male podcast effect,” which these two weren’t “supposed” to fall victim to, but here we are. These were supposed to be “the good guys.” But who is truly a good guy that, when wronged, turns to his worst behavior? Or let their friends be the “bad guys” without stepping in to correct them; does that still make them good guys?

On the bullying clip, for James to bring up Black women bullying him in the 7th grade as an excuse to chat shit (pun intended) about Black women now, at his grown age of 30+, is foolish. How many of us as kids have been the victims of bullying at the hands of young boys in general, but don’t use that as a way to discount an entire race of male species 20 years later (and if you do, I'm sorry sis, but it might be time for therapy). It's asinine. And with an audience as large as theirs, it's irresponsible and disappointing.

There’s a larger conversation also happening about the dynamics of being Black and British, and how many Black and biracial British men don’t have the same fervor for taking up for Black women that American Black might have. There’s also the fact that Andrew Schulz is somehow getting out of this kerfuffle scotch-free. We don’t have time here to discuss (but, in my soon-to-launched newsletter, we sure will), but there’s so many juicy intersecting conversations to be had.

My friends who are fans of the show know that I’ve never really cared for them. I feel like they force things to be funny half the time, and it reads as disingenuous. No love lost from me if they do get cancelled. And for the 847th time, to all the Black male podcasters, do yourself a favor and leave Black women's names out of your crusty microphone breathing mouths. Until then, please feel free to choke on said microphone.

This Week’s Story

Unlearning shame of any capacity is an endeavor, but sexual shame? Mixed in with a little bit of religious warfare and people pleasing thrown in for good measure? A doozy. This week’s author, Alana Oladoyin, bravely shares how she managed to unlearn sexual shame through rebellion, learning how to say “no,” and dating unapologetically.

Take care,

Anayo Awuzie
EIC of Carefree Media

I got happier with myself and life as I unlearned Sexual shame

by Alana Oladoyin

“Mommy, you can leave without me. We don't have to act like we know each other in church.” 

This statement marked my most remarkable revolt against my mother. I had worn a green lace corset gown for Sunday mass—the one that fit me best after many years of wearing regular A-line gowns that swallowed my shape. I instructed my niece to pull the cords between the hooks of my dress tightly while saying, “I want it, I want it to be snatched” in Bobrisky’s voice. I watched as my bosom bounced gracefully. And in between my constricted airflow, I charged at my mother after telling me to change my outfit.

Usually, when she made questionable Nigerian mother faces about dresses that barely showed my skin, it took me 10 steps into my room to change into her preference—what she termed “omoluabi dressings,” or dressing with self-respect. On that particular day, it felt like I had been possessed by a spirit when I vehemently said, “No!” The strongest 2-lettered word I had ever said, I rehearsed it two months prior in my tailor's shop.

Growing up, I felt like a sin. What I'd call a perfect blend between the original and actual sin. I constantly saw myself as a punishment to everyone around me—that spec in the eye that keeps coming up. I am the youngest child, and for the longest, I considered myself a mistake—the unplanned child. The 16-year-old gap between my first sister and me, 14 from my brother and 8 from my second sister, meant that I constantly had to look up to them. I needed to follow in their footsteps and, most importantly, avoid their mistakes.

My first sister became pregnant in her last year of university, which greatly angered and frustrated my parents. From that moment, things at home quickly went downhill, and as little as I was, I knew the air was different. It constantly smelled of my parents’s pent up anger and the eggshells my siblings were constantly tiptoeing on. As the saying goes, “African parents can't stop at one child, but tend to go round.” As a result, I had to learn things rapidly: when to talk, how to talk, when to walk, who to talk to, and most importantly, the right words to say. My 7-year-old self was opened to a new vocabulary, “shame and disappointment,” as those words became a mainstay and flew in every corner of our 3-bedroom apartment. These words became a personifier for my first sister, and as a result, my other siblings and I lived in constant panic so as not to be the latest graduates of the school of “shame and disappointment.”

It was not hard to tame me since I was still growing. I got transferred into a Catholic school around the same time. My previous school shut down, and it was a blessing in disguise to my parents. I underwent rigorous catechism in school, church, and home. For four years, I repeated the same words from the catechism book: “God made me to know him, love him, and serve him in this world and to be happy with him forever in the next.” Since I wanted to serve God with all my heart, it meant painfully looking into my sister's eyes, a constant reminder that I should never end up like her. Everyone kept on saying, “Don't be a disappointment to us. Do not bring shame to us." I lived in the constant know of self-preservation, dolefully needing and wanting their validation. 

Of course, I didn't want to be the example of shame, so I had to obey everyone. The songs of “keep your virginity, don't wear this type of cloth, go to church after school” were constantly sung in my ears. A particular moment that still haunts me occurred when I had just started my period at 12. While typical Nigerian parents might caution, “If a boy touches you, you will get pregnant. Run away from them."  Mine took it a little further, harsher: “You don't want to be a mother now. Reduce your relationship with boys. Stop wearing clothes that would expose your body. You don't want to end up like your sister.”

I didn't want to be seen as the girl carrying her protruding big belly around the corners of Abeokuta, with a polka-dot scarf covering her face, resolved to live under her parents’ roof in fear. I remember how I hurriedly spewed out the water my pregnant sister took because my aunty told me it was going to make my belly swell like hers. Me? Belle? Never! I needed to take their advice with care, as I must not be yet another symbol of disappointment.

After entering university, I fled from everything that had to do with tight fittings, skin-flexing attire, and any form of romantic relationships with boys. In fact, I needed to see them as thorns that would prick my delicate skin. Allowing my body to be a temptation for men was a sin, so I made a conscious effort to cover up. I shouldn’t be found wanting. Whatever spark a man had for me, with God's Grace and my individual efforts, it was sure to dissipate. Well, that was what I thought. I got random booty calls which I totally ignored, but a particular day came when an older man, with a ring on, asked me out. I faulted myself for wearing shorts, as that was the best interpretation I could give. I quickly reverted to my trousers, hoping to regain control over the gaze of others.

I slowly became a backbencher in class, writing and reading from behind to avoid unnecessary eyes. Trying so hard to blend with the walls and desks in lecture halls. I was never interested in reading, in fact, being in literature classes felt like scraping a spoon against a pot. Unfortunately, my quest to be undercover soon piqued my lecturer's interest. I was picked to discuss the next read, A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen, at class the following week. After two days of anxious thoughts, I forced myself to open the book to read. It was a rollercoaster of emotions. By the time I was done with the book, I had experienced my first redemption. I cried when Nora said:

 “Our home has been nothing but a playroom. I have been your doll-wife, just as at home I was papa's doll-child; and here the children have been my dolls.”

And like Nora, indeed, I was a doll-child being groomed to be a doll-wife. My realization was marked by the desire to flee from what I had been taught by home, religion, and patriarchal society. Thus began my rebellious journey: step by step, little by little, I walked further away from living to please men. But I still caught myself constantly derailing from my newly acquired demeanor. One minute, I am stepping out without a scarf, the next, I am running back into my room to wrap it around myself. 

In my third year in school, I made progress and finally decided to be in a heterosexual relationship. It was a long-distance one, which meant I could avoid the pressures of intimacy and therefore not bring shame to my family.

The second meeting with my boyfriend led to our first time. I told myself I was finally prepared after a whole lot of mental gymnastics. While at it, it proved quite difficult. I was in a lot of pain, a throbbing one, so we decided to stop. That same year, I had a breast screening appointment with a gynecologist. And when it felt like I could trust her after several visits, I decided to ask her what it meant for, in my words, “a vagina to reject a penis.” After my muddied explanation, she decided it was Vaginismus. “It will be best for you to book another appointment just to be sure,” her compassion rolled out smoothly through her tongue. 

Knowing fully well I wasn't going to be back for more tests, I thanked her and took it upon myself to learn everything I could about the condition. While I read that vaginismus is a condition that causes the vagina to close, Vaginismus is often a physical reification of past emotional trauma. There is a link between the psyche and body, which my body proved right. I had been scared all along. I felt my “progressive” side snarl at me.

I never mentioned this to anyone, not even my boyfriend. Despite numerous visits and sometimes flopped encounters, he never made me feel ashamed or inadequate. I somehow accepted that it needed to be something I had to work out on my own. Even when sex felt like something I wanted to do, my body would needlessly draw back, as if betraying my desires. I have also accepted that my body listens to my burdened heart, and maybe when I can afford a year of therapy, I'll reach out for help.

After five years at the university and absorbing myself deeply into feminist ideologies, I've become more and more radical. I have dyed my hair, pierced my nose, and most importantly, challenged my parents (well, to a certain extent because I still live in their house). All these are moves to demonstrate that I want to live a life devoid of their ideologies. Reclaiming my body and voice is still a journey in progress. Rebuilding my relationship with my siblings is also a task I've saddled myself with. Writing this story further lifts a burden off me. Once in a while, I blurt out, “I have sex and so?” Then, I let out a laugh at my unserious self. My coping mechanism. I have also found peace in my best girls and the community of women known as The Emecheta Collective (a group of creative female feminists in Nigeria). Everyday is a new step of unlearning and choosing the life I best want for myself, while not rushing, of course.

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Oladoyin Alana is a creative writer from Nigeria, driven by a passion for storytelling that amplifies women's voices. Her work has been featured in AdventuresFrom Magazine, showcasing her talent for crafting compelling narratives. Holding a Bachelor's degree in English and Literary Studies, Oladoyin's writing is informed by her academic background and personal experiences. Beyond writing, she finds joy in the 3 Bs: Bands, Beyoncé, and BTS. You can find her indulging herself and her audience on her comfort space; follow her on Instagram @dhoyenn to see.