The Voice That Rejected Masculinity

I was 17 when I first heard my voice the way others did. On a quiet Saturday evening, my mother’s bright orange Trium cellphone rang, its black body vibrating in an arc on the dining table. I checked the screen: “Mama I.” Her elder sister was calling from London. I pulled the antenna and pressed the answer button.

“Hello, Auntie.” I walked to my parents’ bedroom where the signal was stronger.

“Hello.” Her response sounded hoarse and uncertain, almost like a question. I pictured her in her cold London apartment. 

“Auntie, it’s me, Obinna. My mummy went for a meeting.”

“Obinna?” She gave a soft, surprised laugh. “Nke a olu gi di ka nke nwanyi. Your voice sounds like a woman’s.” I chuckled. The smile I plastered on felt tight. A man’s voice was evidence of him. Resonant, boomy, passing through thin walls and filling the rooms. Mine did none of those things. It stopped short. Thin, contained, traveling no further than the person in front of me. 

“How are you?” 

“I’m fine.” My free hand curled around the window bars. 

“What are you doing now? Are you done with secondary school?” 

“Yes, I gained admission into uni. I’ll be resuming soon.” I heard myself. She had drawn my attention to my voice, and a new anxiety had started blooming. 

“What course will you be studying—this your voice.” She paused occasionally, expressing disbelief, until we hung up. I laughed it off, willing the call to end. 

When my mom returned from her meeting, I followed her to her room to tell her that her sister had called.

“What did she say?” She was gently peeling off the red scarf that had held her head in a tight band. It left marks below her hairline. 

“I told her you went to the Onitsha women’s meeting. She said she would call you back.”

She started to take off her earrings and necklace. “What else did she say – Bia, help me remove this chain.” The necklace was pressed against her clammy skin. I unhooked it. 

“She was surprised that I had gained admission.”

“She thinks it’s only her children who should go to school.” I placed the chain on her stretched palm

Alone, I conducted a post-mortem on the conversation with my aunt. It couldn’t have been that bad, I told myself. My voice, travelling down the phone line, must have acquired a light, airy quality. The phone must have made my boyish voice sound undeniably feminine. The thought of my voice staying suspended between registers made my ears ring. 

A month later, my mom returned from visiting my aunt in Lagos. There had been talk about my voice. “Your aunty said your voice was killing her.” My mom told me as she unpacked gifts from a blue IKEA bag: ballet flats for my younger sister, an oversized checked shirt for me, yards of brightly colored fabric.

I wanted her to say more—to defend me, or even admit it bothered her. But all I saw was a smile that surfaced at the memory.

“Ike is getting married to a lawyer like him. I hear her father is rich.” She continued.

“Oh, this is the aso-ebi?” I picked up the fabric. It had a green-and-brown mesh design.

“Yes, they are having the Iñu Mmanya—wine-carrying in Nnewi.”

“She’s from Nnewi?” I said. But I really wanted to ask her: What did you say in response to your sister? Do you agree that I sound like a girl? Not a teenage boy, but a girl? 

In my first few weeks of uni, my elder sister showed me around campus. I let her be my voice in that short time. When we ran into someone she knew, she’d introduce me: “He is my brother. He just got admitted. I’m showing him around.” Her Igbo sounded fluent, when delivered in short, simple sentences. Most students spoke Igbo, a language I understood perfectly but didn’t speak. So when they said ‘Nno, welcome,’ I responded with a careful ‘Thank you.’

I knocked on a neighbor’s door. My sister had sent me over to get her charger. “Onye?”‘ The neighbour called from inside her room. I cleared my throat before I said ‘It’s me’ in Igbo. It was meant to sound low. But the sound died in my throat. Coaxing my voice lower made it disappear. It rejected masculinity. When I spoke again, I let my voice be what it is.

One afternoon, bored, I called my mother. I was sprawled on the narrow bed my elder sister and I shared in our one-room apartment. She picked up after a few rings. “Hello?” A question. I realized she must have answered without her glasses. 

“It’s me, Mummy.”  

“Oh, Nkay, Kedu? I’m not wearing my glasses. Didn’t see your name on my screen.”

I sat up. My panic surprised me. 

“No, it’s me, Mummy.” 

There was a pause. Not the pause of delayed recognition, but the pause of someone genuinely confused. 

“O, Ify.” Her voice faltered. 

“It’s me.” I was standing now, hearing my voice crack with irritation.

“Obinna … Is it you?”

“Yes, it’s me. You didn’t know?”

“I didn’t see my screen.” The line carried her confusion plainly, mixed now with embarrassment. 

I didn’t want to talk anymore. I reached for the white Monobloc chair I rarely sat in and lowered myself into it, legs suddenly unsteady. “I was calling to know how you’re doing.” But that was no longer the conversation I wanted to have. I wanted plausible answers to why my mother hadn’t recognized my voice. She had heard me speak all my life. If the phone had made it sound different, she should have recognized it by some distinct marker. The way people just know something close to them. The way I could pick her out from a crowd of parishioners after Mass—her particular fair skin, her arthritis-affected gait—even when I’m not wearing my glasses.

When the call ended, I stayed in the chair, rigid. Outside the door, two final-year students laughed loudly as they headed to their rooms. Their deep, effortless, male voices carried through the block. I listened to them as I felt a loss that I was too scared to name.

---

I wanted to change my call plan. I dialed the three-digit number for the call center and followed the prompts until I was transferred to an agent.

“Good afternoon, this is Ijeoma. How can I help you?” Her well-rehearsed introduction came out flat.

“My name is Obinna. I want to change my call plan; that’s why I’m calling.”

“All right, Miss Obinna, you want me to—”

“No, it’s mister. Mister Obinna.” A long beat stretched between us. I waited for her to catch up.

“But you sound like a woman. I’m hearing a woman’s voice.” Her voice was sharp.

“It’s my voice – that’s how it sounds.” The line went quiet again, heavy, before she asked for my security number. I recited the four-digit code, relieved this would prove I owned the line. Her keyboard clicked softly. 

“What’s your date of birth?” She requested; her tone had become tinged with distrust.

“June twenty-third.” 

Silence. Then: “I’m sorry I don’t think you’re the owner of this line.” For a moment, I couldn’t speak.

“It’s my number. But I just gave you my security code. You have my details.” My voice rose—sharp and high.

“You’re not the owner of this number.” She countered. Then the line went dead. 

I held out my Blackberry and saw the call timer stop, disappear. I pictured her, lips set in a straight line, ending the call. I imagined us face-to-face, me hurling every bitter word I’d swallowed during our conversation. But she was reduced to a voice on a line. All I had was my rage. And the rising panic that this was my life now.

One day at work, I had to schedule three candidates for an interview. All three called me Ma. Three times I sat stiff in my chair, phone clasped to my ear, correcting each candidate, “No, I’m male.” After ending the last call, I let my face relax and looked down at the list of candidates, replaying the conversations in my head. I scribbled notes beside each name. “Okay, Ma – Sorry, sir. The voices looped in my head, apologetic, awkward, endless. 

It was in that same office, where I had sat to call the candidates, that I rang a delivery man a week later. He was delaying my package.

“Madam, I’m bringing your item. I’m on my way, there’s traffic,” he said, the noise of cars and honking almost drowning his voice.

“Please, hurry. I put my office address, and it’s near closing time.” 

“Don’t worry, Madam, you’ll see me soon.”

The next time my phone rang, I started walking towards the gate as I took the call. “Madam, I’m in front of ehn …”
“Don’t worry I can see you.” I ended the call and opened the message containing the security code.

He was a short man, looking too dressed up in his dispatch-rider get-up. He was pulling a package from his box when I reached him. Everything on his face went still with confusion when he saw me. 

“I’m Obinna. Is that my package?” I focused on the small brown carton I suspected was my package.
“I need the code,” he said.
I repeated the numbers on the message, then he handed me the package. He mounted his bike without another word. I headed back to the office, barely feeling the weight of the package. Or the other weight. The one I hadn’t carried this time.