I’ve always loved tattoos. Not the sleeve-covering ones that almost scream rebellion anyway, but the small, meaningful kind. The ones that have a sweet story behind its creation or just for the love of whatever is drawn. For me, it was a butterfly. I adore butterflies. And I needed a pink one that would be tucked neatly at my waistline, at least there, it would feel like a secret between my body and my soul.
Yesterday, I told my parents about it because I respect them enough not to shock them with it. I just thought maybe it was time they knew I loved tats. I’m done with university, standing at that strange intersection between youth and adulthood where the world finally feels open and mine. I wasn’t asking for permission, not really. I just wanted them to understand that this was something I wanted for me.
But what I got wasn’t understanding. It was a huge heartbreak.
My dad sternly said he’d disown me. He said he wouldn’t attend my wedding if I ever went through with one in the future. My mom didn’t say much, but the silence and shock in her eyes said more than any word could. I didn’t cry. I guess their words were so cold it chilled the tears I had in me. When I went to bed last night, all I could think of was the freedom and love that suddenly felt conditional, not even about the tattoo anymore.
When I was sixteen, I accidentally stepped on a butterfly. She was so beautiful I imagined she was female as she appeared fragile, soft and almost glowing beneath the sun. I tried to revive her, but she didn’t move. I remember crying and feeling the weight of being the cause of such beauty’s end.
If only she had stayed a little longer in the warmth of the sun, maybe her wings would have caught the wind again. They were the prettiest thing I had ever seen, black with soft pink streaks and tiny yellow dots that shimmered when the light touched them.
Ever since that day, my love for butterflies has only deepened. I swore that when I was old enough,(and in African homes, you’re somehow never old enough, not even at twenty-one) I would get a tattoo in her memory. A tiny butterfly, pink and perfect, resting quietly on my skin as a reminder of her and what she came to mean. Now, years later, I finally felt ready. Not out of rebellion, but out of reverence. But my parents see it differently, they see it as a mark of defiance, a stain that doesn’t belong to the daughter they raised. To them it’s an ink of being a bad girl, to me, it’s the girl who still mourns a butterfly she didn’t mean to break.
I can’t stop loving my family though. I never could. I honestly love the smell of home, although they annoy me sometimes, I still like the way I can always find peace there when the city gets too loud. I can’t imagine losing that, not over ink, not over something so deeply symbolic to me.
So here I am, completely torn between what I want and what they want. Torn between being the daughter who obeys and the woman who yearns to take her own decisions.
Well, one day, prolly when they’re gentler and their love is not so easily shaken, I’ll finally get that tattoo. And when I do, I hope my pink butterfly will remind me of heartbreak, the love and the longing that came before it ever touched my skin. Because sometimes, the things we’re denied say just as much about who we are as the things we dare to do.
