She was young — not yet 20. She was all dressed in black. Here I pause to describe 2 parameters. Dressing in black is a custom in this town — Stockholm. Live here long enough and your wardrobe mysteriously acquires a darker outlook (part of the mystery being that ¾ of what´s on offer in the shops is black …). The other parameter is to note that stating that she was all dressed in black probably gives the impression of much more clothing than she had on — she was dressed in tiny shorts and a tank top. It was a hot summer day (by Swedish standards anyway … so probably 15 degrees). We were down to single-layer dressing (of course with the obligatory jacket carried in a bag, just in case you turned the corner into a blizzard!).

We were in a tram. I was seated a couple of feet away from where she was standing. She calmly occupied her space while engrossed by something on her phone and I took a moment to take her in. Apart from her face, neck and hands, just about every visible space on her skin was covered by a tattoo. I didn’t study these to try and get an understanding of the tapestry … that seemed a little too intimate for a tram journey, but I found it captivating. Captivating that she had had the freedom, at such a young age to get so much done. It told me that she likely had the support of guardians/parents (tattoos, like everything else in Stockholm, don´t come cheap), who gave her the space to do this. I was honestly also captivated by the fact that she could get away with wearing so little!

I realized that my African-Christian upbringing as a woman had not given me such lee way. I was taught to reduce myself and my desires. Taught to dress “chastely”. Taught to fade into the background as much as possible. Taught that the adults were always right and were always more important. Taught that it was wrong to be who I wanted to be. Taught opinions are better kept to oneself. I realized that this young woman´s mind was probably much more liberated than my own, even though I was double her age. In the search for self, she would probably have less baggage.

It took me another year to feel comfortable in short shorts (tank tops are not for me). Along the way I kept asking myself why I needed to dress in shorts anyway — was it my rapid westernization of falling off of my morals. And the realization hit me: it was just because I could.