By: David Agyei-Yeboah

My nose is my bane. I fight with it every day. With how it looks, thinned against the bloated outlier of my face, sitting on top of a pointy neck and a bamboo body.

I need surgery but can’t afford it. I’m just months away from turning 18. But I know my mom would never spend her hard-earned money on me going under the knife.

Every morning when I would wake and stare at the mirror, I’d be reminded of just how unseemly and plain despicable my nose is, plastered rigidly against my face. I would always walk into the kitchen after this stare-down contest with my soul that torched me to bits to Mum frying omelettes or making toast. Her laughter would always sweeten the air and I would feel safe. Safe enough to ask, “Is my face okay? Is my nose just right?”

“It’s perfect, just as God made it,” she would say as she plated the meal or maybe brewed the tea or grabbed fruit juice from the fridge. Her warm smile and doting gaze would always calm me. For a few minutes and then the unsettling would bubble up to the surface and pump its pulses harder, stupidly persisting, like it never left.
It began at 15. The obsession with my nose, the self-loathing. Ever since I hit my senior year in junior high, I couldn’t get the image of my horrid nose out of my head. I’d always stare at the mirror and get negative feedback, then pick my face apart till there was no shred of self-worth left. It didn’t matter that I was preparing for my Basic Education Certificate Examinations (BECE). It couldn’t tear away my persistent fixation on my flawed outlook. To the extent that, because of my nose, I skipped classes sometimes. It didn’t surprise me that I didn’t ace my final exams consequently. I had just one A in English and a plethora of Bs and Cs in the other subjects. Kofi, my bestie aced his though. I’m so jealous of Kofi. He has an amazing social life, a beautiful girlfriend and is headed to Achimota school next month. While I didn’t perform well academically cos of my nose and have to get into a third-class school. I couldn’t even cope after the first term at this school so much so I have to attend a new private school as a day student. I had told Mum that I was getting bullied often and extorted from in the boarding house so she let me off the hook real quick to pursue day school.

As for the non-existent girlfriend and empty social life, they remain a tongue clipped off, moisture sucked out of a salivary gland, tough nuts that remain uncracked. What else did you expect? Who would want me with this paper-slice of a nose?
I feel the world houses no space for me cos I am so debilitated by my condition that now it’s even difficult stepping outside. I have been missing classes just like I did in junior high cos the burden of my mind is back-breaking. Whenever Mum asks, I just respond that I am unwell – it’s the migraines, it’s the tiredness from commuting to and from school for such a long distance. And it always does the trick. Mum’s always unsuspecting. I have gotten by these two and a half years in day school by acing my English tests and performing passably in the others. Since junior high, I never excelled in other subjects but I would always submit the best English essays. The self-loathing never touched English. Literature was the only thing that offered me some solace. Novels and poetry collections from bestselling and critically acclaimed authors sometimes distracted me from the pain.

Nowadays, however, the pain’s gotten worse. It’s like every trauma since turning 15 has gotten compounded. Literature is not helping much either. So much so I’ve began talking down on myself whenever I’m home. Voicing out the demons in my head and punishing myself. But I got caught. Mum heard me and shrunk into splinters on my latest tirade in my bathroom. On that Saturday afternoon, my clothes for school had been washed and firmly pressed and she had entered my room to drop them off on my bed. The television was on, and Mzbel’s voice drawled out: Abi 16 years. Ago dey bee like this oo. If you touch my ting oo, I go tell Mummy oo. The adjoining bathroom was ajar so Mum could pick out my words seeping out as she pressed her left ear closer to the door’s slight opening. She heard it all. The blaring of the music was not an impediment. And it was the first time she’d heard the real me. I had said I was unworthy and slapped myself silly. I had said I was the ugliest beast in the world and then picked at my skin. I had said I didn’t deserve to live and screamed at the mirror and slapped myself some more. I had said I didn’t deserve to have blissful friendships. That my nose disqualified me from romantic love. Then I’d crumbled to the floor and sobbed so hard, lost in my pain, swimming in its depths. She opened the door fully after my sobs had turned to soft coos and just stood there, cupping her arms around herself, breaking, wailing, shrinking.

“Benji, this – this has to stop,” she said as she began to wipe her face with her left palm. “Oww. My son, how can you say those words to yourself? I suspected something was wrong but I didn’t know you hated yourself this much.”

Shame sliced at my skin.

“Mum, I can’t take it anymore. I can’t.” I pointed at my nose.

She looked confused.

“It’s hideous.”

The confusion persisted for a moment then realization dawned. She raced at me and grabbed me so tight in her embrace. We cried together, on the floor, her arms soothing me as she rubbed my shoulders.

“No child of mine is hideous. And your nose is just fine. Something else is the problem.”

The next day, I was seated in front of a clinical psychologist at Pantang and I got diagnosed of body dysmorphic disorder.

“Aren’t I just vain?” I told the plain-faced female doctor seated at her desk. Mum held my hand tightly.

“No. A lot of people struggling with this condition feel they are just vain but it is a genuine worry that they carry. Often people who struggle with this feel it so strongly, some even begin feeling sensations around the concerned body parts and it worsens their mental health and peace.”

“Yes, I’ve felt this same thing too. All these years. A weird sensation on my nose.”

“You are not alone in this. It’s just not something that’s talked about a lot in Ghana so I’m sure it made you feel isolated in your pain. But there are strategies to help you deal with it. I will teach you all you need to know in our upcoming sessions.”

“Thank you so much, doctor,” Mum said.                                                       

“Thanks a million. I feel so seen,” I said.

“You’re welcome. So sorry you had to deal with this alone all these years,” the doctor said.
It’s a long road to healing but I’m willing to take every step I need to.

A glint creeps into my eyes. I am smiling. Mum is smiling. The doctor is smiling.

“I can’t wait for our next session.” I shake the doctor’s hands.

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David Agyei-Yeboah is a Ghanaian artist.