The few mirrors I had access to — rearview, powder compact, a chrome edge here and there, weren’t big enough for That Girl. She retreated into some shadowy corner of my soul, and I once again started feeling my body was an expression of my inner being. I danced — West African style — with abandon. I got hair extensions and had flamboyant outfits made out of loud and beautiful cotton wax prints, and I felt tres chic indeed. I have a vivid memory of riding my bicycle down a hill, pedalling really fast with the wind combing my hair. I have no idea if my thighs were dimpling or my stomach was jiggling — only that I was powerful and very alive. I was hungry in Cote d’Ivoire, and I ate chicken and cabbage salad and cassava couscous until I thought I would burst. For a couple of blissful years without mirrors, the only girl there was me, and I knew she was vibrant and gorgeous.