Monday, 12 September 2016


My voice was born from years of silence, years of being afraid, years of being ashamed, years of being in unbearable pain - the type of pain where in the deadness of the night you're curled on your bed clutching your heart, barely breathing, sobbing uncontrollably.

My voice is my mother, pouring her entire soul, blood and energy into someone - without wanting anything in return.

My voice is my father who fought wars within- the ones we never understood. All we did was hide from the stern man who always found something wrong with us.

My voice is the girl who was let to be vulnerable,  the one who opened herself up like a flower to the worst kind of dog that preyed on her vulnerability and left her feeling less of a person - questioning whether she was enough.

My voice is the child who was so beautifully born, but carries the burden of his father's words - stupid, bad, worthless, lazy, dumb.

My voice is the girl who is still looking for love at 30. Having no one stepping forward to call you his own does something to you. You begin to think there is something wrong with you. You become desperate to find love in anybody - a wife beater, a drunk, a womaniser.

My voice is the boy who was raped at 5 for the first time by his uncle who was giving him a bath. He slapped you and told you you're not man enough to bear a little pain. You grew up shrinking inside, dreading going into the men's washroom anywhere for fear of being abused.

My voice are the helpless people on the streets of lagos, the ones who sleep by the road side, the ones who do not know where the next meal will come from, the ones with throats so dry they could barely beg.

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