Waist beads, Mami Wata & the bodies we do not own

Trad wives, divinity coaches, "tomboys" and swords.

Currently: Looking forward to breakfast

Reading: The Binding Room by Nadine Matheson

Watching: Love Rats on Netflix (definitely a cheat code for celibacy)

Listening: ‘My Heart’ by Asake

Thinking: I need to stop procrastinating and start re-writing this third novel.

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Content note: This post mentions miscarriage and discusses body image issues.

For my 35th birthday, I bought myself two things.

First, tooth gems – a teenage dream realised two decades later, but this time with medical grade bonding and not nail glue bought from the hair shop.

Second, waist beads.

It took a couple of weeks before I actually wore the beads because I really, really don’t like my stomach area: stretch marks, diastasis recti (post-pregnancy belly bulge due to separated abdominal muscles) and then a nice bit of belly hang due to weight gain. I’m trying to be mindful with my language, but I have a very complicated relationship with my midsection. The complication being, I absolutely hate it.

Knowing that ultimately such feelings are not useful, the thinking was that by adorning a part of my body that physically disgusts me, I might neutralise any feelings of hatred. Instead of the wrinkly, sagging flab I associate with elephant skin, I would see something pretty that I associate with my Yorùbá heritage. 

The day I decided to finally face the mirror and tie the beads around my waist was not an auspicious day; it just felt time to stop being silly about it. I took a shower, did my mini cleansing ritual (more on that later), lovingly moisturised my body from head to toe, and carefully and methodically tied five strings of coloured beads around my waist…

…and to my surprise, immediately, I felt everything.

I stood in front of the mirror, raised my arms up and bent over to my right, in upward salute side bend pose – or ‘parsva urdhva hastasana’ if you’re a real yoga babe. The feeling of the beads rolling up and down my skin felt sensual and quietly soothing. I reversed the move, bending over to my left. The quiet click of beads knocking beads felt satisfying.

I ran my fingers over them, circled my hips back and forth and just couldn’t stop staring at them. I couldn’t stop staring at myself. As I got dressed, the beads felt like a secret tucked next to my skin.

*

It might shock anyone who knows me that I didn’t buy waist beads in my trademark purple, as pretty as those were. The beads I chose are a mix of pearlescent white, coral red and gold, for Ọ̀ṣun, the river oriṣa in Ifá.

My self education on Ifá – the spiritual practice and understanding of the world originating with the Yorùbá people – began in earnest at the start of the year. At the end of 2023 I had a miscarriage and I wanted to start the new year releasing the mental and emotional baggage that such a deeply destabilising experience can bring.

I began looking for some kind of cleansing ritual to physically signal the metaphysical process that I was embarking on. (I’m what you might call a Type A personality; I’m a fan of habits and rituals.) After casting about for a starting point, I remembered the book The Handbook of Yoruba Religious Concepts by Baba Ifa Karade. I had bought it a couple of years ago, but it sat on my shelf unread.

The Handbook was an enlightening read in general, but finding out more about Ọ̀ṣun, what she symbolises and who she is, resonated with the woman that I thought I might want to be:

“Ọ̀ṣun is the oriṣa of unconditional love, receptivity, and diplomacy. She’s known for her sensuality, fine artistic development, and beauty. Ọ̀ṣun is a river divinity symbolizing clarity and flowing motion…Ọ̀ṣun is also the divinity of fertility and feminine essence…[and]...is the oriṣa of the humanities and fine arts.”

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The great irony of experiencing a miscarriage is that it grounded me in my body, my feminine body, in a way that nothing else – not pregnancy, not childbirth – has done before. I had a lot of time to contemplate this as I waited for ultrasounds and the results of many, many blood tests.

It was a watershed moment; certain things felt clarified and drawn into sharp focus. But I also knew that the act of processing and healing would involve reconciling myself with a body that I’ve largely tried to ignore.

So now to the actual ritual. Honestly, it’s just vibes. It’s prayer and the conscious act of acknowledging and releasing; it’s engaging my senses in a way that helps with staying present in the moment; it’s choosing particular body scrubs and soaps which have aromas that I associate with whatever my intention may be; it’s the act of cleansing as a sort of baptism, a physical act to represent the psychological change.

In a similar vein, the waist beads in Ọ̀ṣun’s colours are an outer object to remind me of an inner intention, each colour a reminder of the qualities that I want to cultivate within myself.

*

Femininity often feels defined by a certain level of public performance. Whether it’s trad wives on Instagram or divine femininity coaches on TikTok, so much of modern femininity is about proving your qualities to outside observers who will evaluate and leave their judgement in the form of likes, comments, follows or perhaps a message in your DMs.

As such, this continues a narrative that we’ve been told from birth, that femininity, whatever it is, is never really yours. It exists to be judged, measured, weaponised and consumed by others. It is ‘you’, but the ‘you’ that lives outside of you; the face that must always remain on display. 

In retrospect, I think this was the thing that I was always bucking against as a teenager, in my oversized tracksuits, “boy shorts” and baggy T-shirts. Because femininity also felt like a liability: the softest part of your underbelly exposed for the world to prod and poke. It made you a victim of the usual sort (sexual harassment and assault) or a victim of other people’s expectations and opinions. So adopting a uniform of masculinity was not only physically comfortable, it was also a mask and a shield.

With this as my miseducation, it makes sense that as I’ve grown older I’m drawn to the idea of the female transgressor. Sula, the eponymous protagonist from Toni Morrison’s second novel, the Hangman in Cowboy Carter’s ‘TYRANT’, sirens, mermaids and Mami Wata; female-coded figures who wield their femininity like double-edged swords, equal parts seduction and slaughter.

These women, these myths, possess themselves – their whole selves – in ways that are seen as threats to men, and so, as patriarchal logic extends, as threats to society itself. Now, I’m not trying to steal anyone’s man nor lure lustful wanderers to their death, but the idea of laying hold of something that I have always accepted exists outside of me is thrilling.

More thrilling still is laying claim to this for my sake and my sake alone; not as someone’s wife, lover or significant other, not in order to please or appease anyone, apart from the woman doing parsva urdhva hastasana in the full length mirror.

*

I was a good wife, though I won’t pretend to have been the perfect specimen. It’s funny that even then I viewed myself at the same distance as I view that version of me now. What I mean is that I was constantly observing myself from the outside, how does she [i.e. me] appear to other people? Workshopping her presentation with an imaginary audience of critics – is she doing/moving/being as she’s meant to? Are her conclusions beyond reproach?

I was doing the best I could with what I knew of the world and myself at the time. But would that version of me have worn waist beads? She would have probably asked her husband what he thought about them and her decision would hinge on his assessment.

There is a logic to that, underpinned by the doctrine of mutual submission in marriage (your body belonging to your spouse and their body belonging to you), but what does that mean for a young woman who has never owned herself by her own rights?

Scattering her beads before she’s even had a chance to gather them.

*

In Yorùbáland, waist beads (ìlẹ̀kẹ̀) have traditionally been worn for a variety of reasons. They were often a rite of passage for young women, and they symbolise femininity, fertility, confidence and overall well-being and beauty.

While there are spiritual and superstitious practices associated with them, such as protection and attracting the man one desires, practically they also have their uses. Before the advent of body weight scales, pregnancy tests and hormonal contraception, waist beads could be used to track weight loss and weight gain, detect early signs of pregnancy as well as predicting ovulation.

Wearing my ìlẹ̀kẹ̀ on a daily basis has given me an appreciation for how much my body changes. Where the beads sit on my waist is the result of a complex equation, depending on how much I’ve eaten, what I’ve eaten, the time of day, the time of the month and how good my posture is.

I used to think of my body as a machine, but I’m realising it is a wonder; a finely tuned universe, in and of itself.

*

Ówànbẹ̀ is one of a few Yorùbá words for a party, or large celebratory gathering. Our people are known for our weddings (and funerals and birthday celebrations and memorials and naming ceremonies) that are hundreds and hundreds of people deep. 

‘Ó wà ńbẹ̀’ translates to ‘it is there’, and while the ‘it’ could be the function, the gathering, the food or enjoyment, I once heard another explanation that sticks with me…

Imagine the party, a crowd of well-wishers and enjoyment-seekers gathered under the expanse of outdoor marquees. Night has fallen, but this place is a beacon, strings of lights holding the dusk at bay.

On the dancefloor, a young man pulls in, his dark eyes fixed on the face of a young woman whose hips are moving with the drumbeat as if of their own accord. They dance for a while, then his fingers reach out, creeping across her waist until he feels her ìlẹ̀kẹ̀ rolling under the fabric of her wrapper. “Ó wà ńbẹ̀,” he whispers, his voice low and thick in her ear…

*

Besides my sons, who see me in various states of undress around the house and don’t bat an eyelid, no one else has seen my waist beads. Well, you, dear reader, know about them now, but if I hadn’t written this, they would have remained a promise between my body and my higher self, hidden from public view.

I’ve heard it said more than once that the most important promises you make are the ones you make to yourself – and they are simultaneously the hardest to keep. Without another party to police your personal integrity, your noble intentions are easily overtaken by convenience, so-called pragmatism or simply a lapsing attention span.

We all need our totems, so as I’m falling asleep, my fingers will often find them, counting each string like a Catholic praying the rosary: “You are here…in this body…this body is yours…and it feels so good.”

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If you enjoyed this edition of The Life & Times… you’ll enjoy my previous post, ‘Confessions of a CHURCH GIRL’.

I’ve written more expansively about my personal journey with body image and the quest for being “embodied” and you can read that over on Black Ballad.

Finally, I’ll be outside at a couple of events at the end of October:

Thurs 24th Oct: in conversation with Diane Abbott MP in Bath

Thurs 31st Oct: joint author talk with Shani Akilah, author of For Such A Time As This, at Brixton Library