Summary

Chioma Adewale is 19, 5’9, dark-skinned, and tired of being told to shrink. In Lagos, every room has a smaller box waiting for her. JSS1 teachers call her “iroko tree”. Job interviews tell her she’s “too tall for the brand”. Family meetings tell her to bleach and hunch. Instagram comments tell her to sit down. But Chioma refuses to disappear. From deleting her first selfie at 16, to saying no to a job that demands bleaching cream, to standing tall in a room full of women who finally have space… this is the story of one girl learning that she was never the problem. Chapter by chapter, Chioma fights the voices in her head and the opinions of the world. She learns to talk to herself with kindness before the world speaks. She learns that no is a complete sentence. She learns that seen is better than shrinking. And she discovers that the glow people told her to buy was never missing. She just stopped hiding it. Made Like This is not just Chioma’s story. It is for every girl who has been asked to be less. Every girl who has hunched on buses, deleted photos at 2am, or sat through family meetings that felt like trials. If you have ever been told you are “too much”… this book will remind you that you are made like this. And that is enough.

Genre: Young Adult

Author: alajivictoria66

Status: Ongoing

Chapters: 1

Rating: n/a

Age Rating: 16+

Chapter 1: COOKED HOT

Chioma stood in front of her small mirror, wrapper tied tight around her waist like she was hiding contraband.

The wedding was in 3 hours. Her cousin Tolu’s owambe in Surulere. Jollof, aso-ebi, aunties with mouth sharper than knife.

She turned to the side. Sucked in her stomach.

“Ahn ahn,” Aunty Ifeoma’s voice echoed in her head from last Sunday. “Bend like S, but height like iroko tree. Who will even see you in that crowd, my pikin?”

Chioma was 5’9. Dark skin that shined like pure shea when she sweated. Wide hips her mama called “child-bearing hips”.

She pulled the wrapper lower. Tried to make her legs look shorter. Tried to make herself small.

Her phone buzzed. Tolu: “Sis, where you dey? I save chair for you front row o. Make you come show your height .

Chioma stared at the emoji. Not laughing.

She tried the blouse again. Sleeveless. It showed her arms. Dark arms. Strong arms. Arms that carried garri and fetch water when NEPA took light.

“Too dark,” she whispered to the mirror.

“Too tall,” she whispered again.

“Too wide,” she finished, like she was reading her CV of sins.

She sat on the edge of her bed. The aso-ebi wrapper lay on the floor like a flag she surrendered.

Tolu called. Chioma silenced it.

The mirror didn’t blink. It just showed her. All 5’9 of her. All that dark skin. All those hips.

For a long time, she just looked. Not fixing. Not adjusting. Just looking.

Then, very soft, like she was afraid the mirror would laugh too, she raised her hand. Touched the glass. Touched her reflection’s face.

“You’re still here,” she whispered.

Not “You’re beautiful.” Not yet. She wasn’t ready to lie.

But “You’re still here.” Still standing. Still breathing. Still Chioma, even after all the “too much” comments.

Outside, danfo buses were shouting “Oshodi! Oshodi!”. Mama downstairs was frying akara. Life was going on without her at that wedding.

Chioma stood up. She didn’t wear the aso-ebi. She wore a simple black gown that fell to her knees. Sleeveless. No wrapper to hide hips. No scarf to hide neck.

She didn’t go to the wedding.

She sat by her window, back straight, feet flat on the floor, taking up all the space 5’9 was supposed to take.

And for the first time in years, she didn’t try to shrink.

She just… was.