Poem By : Nonny Vee

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The 20 y/o girl I used to be.

If I could find you now, where would you be? In the sterile, chilled air of the oncology ward, listening to the steady drip-drip-drip of the poison that is also your salvation? Or are you in a university library, your head swimming with formulas and theories, a beanie pulled low over the hair that is no longer there, trying to convince the world and yourself that you are just like any other student?

I see you. I see you with a clarity that time has carved into my bones. I am writing to you from a decade in your future. Ten years. You, who was told to get your affairs in order, who was handed a hospice referral like a life sentence. You would not believe that we are still here.

But first, I need to tell you that I miss you. I know how strange that sounds. You are right here, in my memories, in the very blood that still courses through my veins. But I miss your specific kind of fire. I miss the way you set your jaw when the doctor said the word “cancer.” I miss the sheer, terrifying ambition that made you get out of a hospital bed, dizzy from chemo, and walk onto campus. You saw that degree as a golden ticket, the only way out of the poverty that haunted our childhood. It was more than a degree… It was a promise to ourselves, our family, a shield, a future. And when the diagnosis came, it felt like that promise was being ripped from your hands. You couldn’t accept that. So you entered a tug-of-war with death itself, with a blurry, uncertain future as the prize.

You were so beautiful in your defiance. It wasn’t a loud, dramatic beauty. It was a quiet, stubborn one. The beauty of showing up. The beauty of your stubborn faith.

Do you remember the physical cost? The weight loss that made your clothes hang like ghosts on your frame? The neuropathy in your fingers and feet that made typing an essay feel like climbing a mountain? The physical disability that left you mourning for what was once there? The exhaustion that was more than just tiredness… it was a lead blanket on your soul, a gravity seven times stronger than anyone else’s. You didn’t care. Or rather, you cared, but you refused to let it be the boss of you. Day after day, with the veins filled with the red devil’s poison, you hopped to class with your crutches – every step you took screamed I am here for a purpose – and a purpose you fulfilled.

All you wanted was to live your life as if you weren’t dying. As if you weren’t, at nineteen, being handed pamphlets on palliative care. You went to class with a port attached to your body. You studied between bursts of nausea and chest pains. You laughed with friends, your laughter sometimes a thin veil over a bedrock of fear. You were a masterpiece of courage, and you didn’t even know it. You thought you were just surviving – after all, you had no choice (so you thought).

I need you to know something. That fight you were in? You won.

You got your degree. You finished it in record time, a fact that still astounds me to date. You defied every grim statistic, every whispered prognosis. You lived to see the other side of that “blurry future.” The woman I am today is built on the foundation you laid with your pain, your courage, your sheer, bloody-minded will.

We have come so far. We have achieved so much. We have loved, we have traveled, we have built a life. There are so many blessings, moments of joy so sharp and sweet they still make you weep. I list them in my head sometimes, like counting jewels… Waking up without pain. A cup of coffee that tastes good. The sun on my face. The degree, framed on the wall. These are the victories you made possible.

And yet. This is the hard part to write. This is the part where I have to be as honest with you as you were with yourself in that hospital room. I am tired, my love. I am so, so exhausted.

The battle didn’t end when the scans came back clear. It just changed shape and location. Now, it’s a different kind of war. It’s the war of aftermath. The war of “what now?” The war of chronic pain that has overstayed its welcome, of hormones that rage like a storm inside me, medications with side effects that feel like a new disease. It’s the endless parade of hospital visits… not for crisis, but for maintenance. For monitoring. It’s the isolation that comes from living in a body that has been to war while your peers’ bodies have been on vacation.

Some days, the lead blanket of exhaustion you wore temporarily has become my permanent state. I tell myself, “Think positively… You’re alive…” But my body doesn’t listen. The pain doesn’t listen. The negative energy is a bubble I can’t pop, and it’s not easy to escape. Some mornings, the greatest achievement is the Herculean effort it takes to move my limbs from the bed to the floor.

I look for you in these moments. I search for that nineteen-year-old who fought death for a chance to sit in a lecture hall. I long for her strength. I feel like I’ve lost her, that the years have sanded her down into this weary, overwhelmed woman. I never thought, after all this time, that the battle would feel so familiar – like moving in circles.

But here is what I am learning, from my vantage point ten years ahead of you. Your strength didn’t vanish. It transformed. Your fight then was external, against a visible enemy… a malignant tumor, a disease. It was a sprint of sheer will. My fight now is more internal. It’s a marathon against the echoes of that war. It’s the management of the fallout. And my dear, a marathon requires a different kind of endurance. It requires pacing. It requires knowing that it’s okay to walk sometimes. To know that it is okay to take one step at a time. To rest when need be.

You fought to build a life. Now, I am learning how to live in it – as I am now, now as what I thought I would be now.

When you chose education over surrender, you weren’t just being stubborn. You were making a statement: “My life is mine.” You were claiming your identity back from the disease. I need to do that again, now. I need to find small, daily ways to claim my life from the pain, the fatigue, the overwhelm, the treatments, the recurrences… all of it.

Maybe it’s not about finding your old strength, but about recognizing that the strength I have now is just as valid. The strength to rest without guilt. The strength to say, “I am not okay today,” and to mean it. The strength to mourn… for the beautiful, ambitious 19-year-old you were, and for the woman we thought we would become. It’s okay to mourn them. It’s necessary. They are beautiful ghosts, and we must honor them before we can fully embrace the woman we have become.

You were a warrior in the bright light of crisis. I am a gardener in the quiet, slow dawn of survival, tending to the scarred but fertile soil you left me.

So, thank you. Thank you for fighting so hard for this future, even when it felt hopeless. Thank you for every class you attended, every page you turned, every tear you swallowed. You did it. You gave us a life. I won’t promise you that it will all be easy from here. That would be a lie. But I can promise you this… it is definitely worth it. The joy is worth the pain. The peace is worth the struggle. And the love is worth the loss.

You taught me that the will to live is not just about the heart beating in your chest, but about the soul firing in your eyes. You taught me that life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass… it’s about learning to dance in the rain, even if the dance is slow and painful.

When I can’t get out of bed, I will try to remember the feel of a textbook in your hands. When the pain is overwhelming, I will remember the fire in your belly that burned hotter than any fever. I will draw a line from your courage then to my perseverance now.

We are the same person, you and I. The same relentless and stubborn spirit in different seasons of the same storm. You are not a stranger I’ve lost. You are the seed from which I grew. I am still here because you refused to give up. And I, in your honor, will refuse to give in.

With all my love, and all the strength you lent me,
Your Older Self

Story written by: Mutshidzi

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I became my mother’s caregiver when I was just four years old.

My mother was from Opuwo, in the Kunene region of Namibia. When I was four, she became very ill. In our area, people strongly believed in witchcraft. They thought her sickness was caused by something supernatural, something that hospitals and doctors could not fix. She was stuck in bed for weeks, and she grew weaker every day.

One day, one of my mother’s nephews came to our village for a funeral. He saw how sick she was and knew she needed more than just medicine from a doctor. He suggested to my grandfather that he take my mother to live with him so she could get traditional treatment. My grandfather agreed, and the nephew said he would come back for her later.

Even after starting the traditional treatments, my mother’s health did not get better. On her good days, when she felt a little stronger, she would wash her clothes or give me a bath—things no one else would do for me. But those good days were rare.

The Journey to Find Help

One day, my mother decided we had to leave. She was very weak, but she took me with her to hitchhike to another village. This was where her own mother was from, and it was closer to the main road to Outjo, which made it easier to find a ride. We had no money, so we relied on the kindness of people we did not know.

We stayed in that village for a few days, waiting for a free ride. I remember one very hard day when my mother was so dizzy she could not stand. She asked me to cook porridge, a huge task for a four-year-old. As I struggled with the pot over the fire, an ostrich suddenly appeared and tried to eat our food. I was so scared that I ran into the house. When I looked back, the pot had tipped over, spilling our only meal. I cried from hunger and frustration.

Our luck changed when we were waiting near some stores. A woman who knew my mother came over and gave her N$10, which was a lot of money for us at the time. While they were talking, a car stopped.
The woman knew the driver and asked if he could give us a ride, explaining that we had no money. To
our surprise, he said yes.

Midnight in a Strange Town

The driver took us past Outjo all the way to Okakarara, the town nearest to where my mother’s nephew lived. We arrived at one in the morning with no place to sleep. The kind driver let us sleep in an old canopy outside his house. It was not much, but it kept us safe.

Early the next morning, we waited for the man to wake up. When he did, he asked my mother what we planned to do. She told him she was looking for her nephew who worked in the town. The man helped us find him, and soon my mother’s nephew came to take us to his home. At his house, we met another woman from my mother’s village. She was also there for traditional treatment for an illness. When she saw that my mother was much sicker than she was, this kind woman

washed our clothes and blankets and gave me a bath. I had not had one in days. She also cooked food for us. Our last meal had been breakfast the day before. Hunger was a constant part of our lives. Whenever I told my mother I was hungry, she would tell me, “Drink water” We accepted this without complaining.

The price of help

After three days, my mother’s nephew called the relative we were supposed to stay with, and that man came to get us. That was when our real struggle began. I now see it as a kind of modern slavery.

Even though my mother was sick, she was expected to do all the housework: laundry, cleaning, and cooking for her nephew and his family. The nephew did take her to a doctor and paid for her treatment, but in return, my mother had to work for him for free, with no end in sight.

The doctor found that my mother could not eat maize meal, the main food in our region. She could only have pasta, rice, meat, or milk. But the nephew said he would not regularly buy these more expensive foods. If there was no milk, she just did not eat. When there was milk, she would pour all of it into my porridge, leaving nothing for herself.

As my mother grew sicker from the hard work and lack of good food, I had to do even more. By the time I was six, I was washing her clothes and cooking for both of us.

School and Separation

When I turned seven, it was time for me to start school. My mother and I were sent to Okakarara to stay with her nephew’s son, who was the principal of the primary school I would attend.

Because my mother could not read or write, the only work she could find was as a domestic worker. She needed money for my school fees, so she took a job cleaning houses and looking after the children for one of my teachers. Her first full paycheck all went toward my education.

To earn more money and pay for the small outside room we lived in – which had only a toilet and no bathroom – my mother took on extra jobs. I helped by raking yards, and she washed clothes on weekends while working her main job during the week. We did all this just to have one meal a day and a roof over our heads. I slept on the floor of our little room and often got sick with the flu during the cold winters.

A Friend’s Kindness

I had a friend whose mother was also a teacher at my school. One day after school, she came home with me. When she saw how we lived, she told her mother. Her mother came to talk to me and asked if I would like to stay with their family on school days and come back to my mother on weekends. My mother agreed, hoping I would have a proper bed and regular meals. This only lasted for a month before the owner of our room became unhappy with the arrangement, and I had to go back to sleeping on the floor.

There were other small hurts, too. The principal, my mother’s nephew’s son, drove to school every morning with his wife and their two children. But he always left me behind. I had to take the bus to the very school where he was in charge. Even as a child, I wondered why he would not give me a ride, but I knew not to ask an adult such a question. This was our routine until the school year ended.

The Final Separation

During the December holidays, my mother’s nephew bought a farm and planned to move there in January. When the time came, they moved to the farm, and my mother went with them to continue her unpaid work. But there was no place for me there.

That is how I ended up being sent to boarding school, separated from the mother I had cared for since I was four years old.

To read Jasana’s emotional and inspiring story about her experiences at boarding school, click on the following link:

Growing Up In A Boarding School By Jasana Uandia

By: Jasana

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It all started when I was sexually abused when I was 11 years old

I am 28 years old and the firstborn in a family of 5. My life has always been a mystery. It started when I was 11 years old when my late uncle sexually abused me. My Mum brought her young brother with us. At the time, we lived in a two-roomed house. I was sleeping with my uncle in the living room. We never had a bed, but we used sofa cushions as a bed, so my little brother, uncle, and I slept together using the same blankets. Poor culture and ignorance, correct?

My uncle could take advantage of me in the night by playing with my private parts and rubbing his penis on me. I couldn’t say anything. I kept quiet because he threatened that he would beat me when Mum left the house. I was so angry and lost concentration on myself and at school. One day, I refused to sleep in the sitting room and insisted that I sleep with Mum. My Mum asked me why, but I couldn’t say. She refused as she thought I was childishly seeking attention. The next day after school, I went to my grandma’s place and didn’t return home.

While I was staying at my grandma’s place, my cousin and I were sent to get something from granny’s brother, who is far from her place. As we walked, we came across this man who said he knew me through a relative, although I didn’t know him. He greeted me and asked me about a relative, which made me trust that he knew me. He offered to escort my cousin and me, and we accepted. He suggested that my cousin go alone, and I would join her later as he needed help with something. Because I was young and naive, I agreed. I kept asking him where we were going. He kept saying Tifika manje manje (we will get there soon). Soon, we arrived at this unfinished house. He told me he wanted to pee and that I should wait for him by the door, which I did. He showed me a pack of biscuits and told me to take some. As I reached out to take one, he grabbed my hand and showed me a screwdriver, threatening to kill me if I screamed. The man had everything planned. I was raped mercilessly. I couldn’t scream. He took me back to where I had left my cousin with a biscuit in my hand. I was only 11. I was terrified because I had never gone through anything like that, and it shut me down. I never said a word to anyone until now.

Fast forward to when I was 15years old, my neighbour raped me. He was older than me; I think he was 25 by then, and he called me to go and play chess with him. We sat outside, and then he suggested we go inside as it was sunny. He was alone in the house. We went inside, and he locked the door, pulled me to the bedroom and took advantage of me. Afterwards, he released me as if nothing had happened and threatened to beat me if I opened my mouth.

In 2014, I got into a relationship with a guy. Because of the bad experiences I had had with sex, I could not have sex with him. He cheated on me with another girl and got her pregnant. It was okay for me as I despised sex. He told me that he didn’t want to continue with an ugly girl like me and that I embarrassed him in front of his friends. I let him go. This became a trend for some time, that guys, to a total number of 6, left me because of not having sex with them. I told myself not to date again and to concentrate on school.

In 2016, I finished school and decided to take up a job opening at one of the companies in the industrial area (Halla Industries). I met an older woman who became my friend. We went to work together and left the premises together. Her boyfriend was a soldier. One day, he came to pick her up from work to visit his farm in Kafue. My friend asked me to join them. It was a Saturday, and we arrived in Kafue around 3 pm. We started our journey home at about 6 pm and reached Lusaka at around 8 pm.

The man suggested that he drop his girlfriend first and me later. The girl insisted that he drop me first, but he refused. I was terrified because I knew something terrible was going to happen. He stopped to buy beer and cigarettes. When he returned, he asked me to sit in front of the car. I did. While driving, he started touching me. He drove to an abandoned place, stopped his car, dropped his car seats, removed my pants, and for two hours raped me carelessly. I couldn’t scream. He had a gun and told me that he was going to shoot me if I screamed. I just wanted to die as he did whatever he would have wanted to do with a woman. Finally, he decided to take me home, and when we reached my place, he raped me again before releasing me. He gave me k20 for a morning-after pill and warned me not to tell his girlfriend. Pointing a gun at me, he said if I did, he would shoot me and my entire family.

After this, I completely lost all sense of myself and any feelings of self-love. I hated myself and slept with any guy I called my boyfriend. In 2018, I was 22 and I met a guy who wanted to marry me. We had unprotected sex on several occasions, but to our surprise, I couldn’t fall pregnant. He said he was only going to marry me if I had a child with him. Unfortunately, I couldn’t fall pregnant. I figured my womb was disfigured because of an early exposure to sex. I went to the hospital, explained everything, did tests, and discovered that my intuition was correct. My womb was damaged. They suggested its removal, but I refused. Upon knowing that, the man fled.

In 2022, I met this angel of a man on an online dating site. He was gentle, God-fearing, loyal, caring, honest and all those things that describe a good man. I told him everything that had happened to me in the past and my condition of childbearing. Guess what? He didn’t care about that. He took me as I was, advised, prayed for me, and told me he would do anything to make me happy. He took me to a private hospital for checkups, and he was only a student at CBU. It was like sunrise for me.

I was so thankful to God that finally, he had wiped my tears away, not knowing what was ahead of me.

In November last year, he became ill and was taken to hospital; I went there to nurse him. They operated successfully, and he stayed in the ICU for three days and then succumbed to appendicitis. It has been 5months since he died. I feel useless. I don’t know what to think or do. I cry every night and day, asking God why it should always be me. Still, people from church and my late man’s relatives came on board, providing counseling, Prayers and words of encouragement. It has helped, but I have not recovered. Losing a loved one is so painful.
This is my story

By: Joyce

Joyce Kapapi on Facebook, Instagram and TikTok

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I spent my entire school career in a boarding school, where I was expected to look after myself from the tender age of 8, in Grade 2, until I graduated in Grade 12. I remember when I started boarding school during the second term of Grade 2 in the middle of winter, my shoes were stolen from my locker. When I told my mom, who was a domestic worker, that my shoes were stolen, she told me that she didn’t have the money to buy me another pair of shoes, so I had to attend school barefoot for the whole term. Then there was a time when my feet were cracked from walking barefoot and eventually bled, but I didn’t feel anything; only the other kids could see blood flowing from my feet, and they were the ones who showed me.

I never knew a mother’s love/attention since I started boarding school. l had to spend my holidays with a guardian, and I could feel a sense of not belonging there. If there is work to be done at home, no one else could do it besides me, starting from cooking, cleaning, laundry, and milking goats. I did not spend my holidays resting; I worked hard so that I could get a bar of soap and lotion for boarding school.

I had to do laundry for other girls in order for me to use their soap water to wash my own clothes, and iron their clothes so that I could iron mine because I did not have the privilege of getting full toiletries termly. I got old clothes from family members, especially from girls of family members where my mother was working. I never knew wearing store-bought underwear; only from the leftover fabric that my guardian was not using, she sewed some underwear or two.

Imagine a teenager who gets her period every month. Not having any sanitary towels to use, I had to use the mattress I was sleeping on. Every month, I would cut 3 or 4 pieces from the mattress, cover them with part of a t-shirt I cut up, and use that as a sanitary towel. It didn’t help much, but it was better than nothing. When the bleeding was too heavy, I had to skip school for the day.

Coming home for the holidays, you will face a constant reminder that it’s not your home. Since I was the only one doing all the domestic work, after I mopped the floor and the other kids came from playing and they wanted to use the bathroom, and I told them that the floor was wet, I was constantly told that I should let them enter their house, I should remember that it is not our house… this reminder lives with me until today.

Whenever you want to do something or you have an idea and you are looking for validation or support from your guardian, there was always a negative comment and eventually a big NO! That caused me to start feeling that I am not good enough, or anything l do is not good enough, or I cannot be better than someone else.

I am fighting daily to be better and to know that I am good enough, but this childhood trauma is stuck with me, that it causes me to procrastinate or delay very important things I have to do in order to make my life better and that of my daughter. I know I am stronger than my past. And every day, I choose to fight for a better life-not just for me, but for my daughter. I may still carry the scars, but they remind me how far I have come. I am learning, step by step, to believe in myself. No one can take away my power. No one can erase the fact that I survived.

And now, I am trying to build something new… a life where my daughter will never know the pain I knew. She will grow up loved, supported, and sure of her worth. The little girl who walked barefoot, who sewed her own underwear, who made do with nothing, she is still inside me. But she is not broken. She is a warrior. And warriors keep rising. My story isn’t over yet. The best chapters are still ahead.

Written By: Jasana Uandia

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Postnatal care seems to go hand in hand with the familiar scent of Dettol, the warmth of pap, and the soft puff of dusting powder. But once a child is born, not every mother steps into celebration; some step into waiting rooms, where the air is heavy with exhaustion, debt, and quiet sacrifices. I saw a woman. She had just put to bed, I could tell. Her wrapper was a mess, tied halfway across her breasts like it had given up mid-twist. The wrapper was crooked too—one end stopped at her knees while the other trailed the floor behind her. She walked with a limp, one leg dragging slightly behind the other like the pain hadn’t quite left her hips. Her face was stern. Flasks in one hand, a baby bag in the other. But there was no baby in sight. Just her, moving to and fro. Eventually, she sat across from me, untied her wrapper, and let her breasts hang loose, unbothered by who might be watching. From her bag, she brought out a small feeding bottle attached to a manual breast pump.

She clamped the device down hard onto her nipple. If she felt any pain or decided not to show it, I couldn’t even tell. She pressed and squeezed and pumped—each new clamp with a desperation stronger than the last. I saw it in how she constantly shifted on her seat, in how she took different positions—one time hunched over—and in how she flicked a trespassing braid off her chest. All I could do was will a spill of milk to gush into the bottle. Later, I prayed for just a trickle… just something.

It was hard not to look eager because I was unconsciously shifting towards the edge of my seat. I knew my brows were furrowed too. But nothing.

So I quickly ran the physiology of lactation in my head… I know all that is needed for the milk let-down reflex is touch reception; then afferents are passed to the higher centres, and subsequently, there’s a contraction of myoepithelial cells of the mammary alveoli, and milk flows in unforced rhythms.

But here, there’s more than touch reception—there’s pressure, cruel pressure, that I winced with each clamping. Still nothing. She then used both hands to press and knead the full mass of the breast like it owed her something. Still no milk, not even a drop. She switched to the other breast, but it was the same thing. I watched her body go from effort to resignation in minutes. Her face remained unreadable, but her hands told the story.

She tied her wrapper, this time properly, tightly above her breasts. Then she poured herself a cup of hot tea from her flask. I expected her to sip on it since I could see the steam rise furiously from the cup—but she didn’t. She gulped it all in one go. I don’t know what hit me more,
whether it was her silence or her desperation.

There was another woman. I first saw her while she was still pregnant, pacing up and down, hands pressed into the small of her back like she was trying to hold herself together. The next day, her stomach had deflated. I knew she had delivered.

I found her again, flanked by women in mismatched ìró and bùbá; and I caught my first glimpse of her baby—a girl, pink, wriggly cutie, perfect.

A little girl. So beautiful that she didn’t fit into the scenery the shrouding relatives painted. The baby was just in a class of her own, oblivious to the worry set deep in her mother’s eyes, to the endless stream of people passing by, to the mismatching of ìró and bùbá that all the women
donned like aso ebi, totally oblivious to the smell that is particular to the front of the maternity ward.

For the next two days, I saw the mother walk in and out of the maternity ward, baby in tow. But on the fourth day, something had changed. She was sitting on the bare floor near the neonatal unit, chatting with other women, her child at her breast. The baby’s pink had dulled. She still looked heavenly, but she was beginning to settle into the reality of her surroundings. Days passed. Then weeks. I watched them become permanent fixtures of the waiting room. It hit me then: hospital bills hadn’t been paid. She couldn’t remain in the ward anymore. Owó bed—bed fee—was piling.

She now slept on flattened biscuit cartons while the baby slept in a mosquito net cot. That initial worry on her face had hardened into despair. I watched her loneliness. I saw it in the way she walked—her head hung low, her shoulders hunched, footsteps slow, as though trying not to be noticed. I saw it in the three changes of clothes she rotated. In the way she asked a fellow waiting roomer for a sachet of water like it took everything in her to form the request. Also, I didn’t see any visitors around her again since the day after her delivery.

After three weeks, I got to see the baby’s face again. I saw her legs first, covered in reddish streaks and rashes. I was alarmed. Then, her face. She no longer looked like a newborn. Her eyes had already been lined with kohl, her stare jarring. How quickly she blended into the background weighed on my mind. I walked by faster that day—I needed to.

I wondered about the father. Then I got angry. At the situation. At the man. I don’t even know the full story, but in my head, I needed to pin the blame on someone. So I imagined him as a useless man, wasting his meagre earnings on burukutu. But when that made my chest feel too
tight, I changed the script. Maybe he was out there, struggling, trying to raise money. I let myself believe that too. But nothing worked really, so I muttered, “God abeg.”

One day, after five weeks, their corner was empty—they were gone. I missed the celebration and prayers I knew the other waiting roomers must have made at the news of their discharge, but I was relieved nonetheless.

There was another mother. She stood out—not because of herself, but because of her child. For four days, the waiting room had a new kind of brightness, and it was her child. The child was biracial—half Nigerian, half Asian. Her features were unmistakable: the curly long hair, the
small pink lips, the squinty eyes, and the flattened face. She couldn’t have been more than two years old, but she carried herself like someone who knew how much she stood out. She wore joy like it was her birthright, and she didn’t mind showing off her incomplete dentition at every given chance. She bounced around the room like it was a stage she was born for. Everyone gushed looking at her, and she returned the favour by giving high-fives and returning every smile with bigger ones—as if she knew that the waiting room needed lots of comic relief.

But her mother though… she looked like someone trying too hard and barely holding on. She was young—definitely in her twenties. She was bleached fair in complexion—you could tell because her knuckles, knees, and elbows had remained loyal to the essence of melanin. Yet, you
could clearly see that she was a beautiful woman. Her upper arm was tattooed with roses and some words that were already fading out.
The tattoo, though it had lost its shine, had become a different kind of artwork… one caught up in the meshwork of stretch marks that made their way out from her armpit. The sinewy stretch marks crawled across the ink. The bloom looked collapsed, and a rose stalk appeared to have been broken by the trespassing stretch marks.

Though rose tattoos are quite common, I wanted to hear the story behind this particular one. Maybe it’s partly because the tattoo looked like something entirely different or because this woman looked drawn and unkempt—a sharp contrast to her daughter.

Then it dawned on me—she’s trying so hard to keep her biracial kid on the pedestal. It showed in the way the girl was always dressed like she was ready to strut the runway. The fancy blouses, bouncy skirts, her curls styled differently each time, how each day came with different sneakers and crocs. The girl stood out. She didn’t fit the narrative of the room. She stood out too much. Just like a diamond in the rough… yet someone’s treasure.

The mother was making a sacrifice. She didn’t care how she looked. All her effort, all her money, all her attention went into that little girl. She wanted the world to see beauty where it hurt the most.

I never figured out why they were waiting roomers. I never knew their story. But for those four days, I watched a mother pour everything she had into making sure her child looked untouched by the weight of their reality. Maybe that’s what they mean when they talk about the joys of motherhood. But here, in the waiting room, those joys don’t always come wrapped in lullabies or pastel-coloured baby blankets. Sometimes, they look like a woman begging her breast to produce milk, while imploring a device determined to mock her. Sometimes, they look like biscuit
cartons and mosquito nets. And sometimes, they look like broken roses on bleached skin while a daughter spins in sparkly shoes.
Different mothers. Different stories.
Same waiting room. Same ache.
And still, somehow… same love.

By: Adeoluwa Deborah

The post The Joys Of Motherhood By Adeoluwa Deborah appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

My name is Joy. I am a Nigerian woman, the second of five children. My family lived in the city and came from a lower-class. While my parents and siblings stayed in the city, I was raised by my grandmother in the village.

Growing up in the village, life was extremely harsh I had to help with farming and do small- scale trading to support myself. I believe my mom took me to live with my grandma, not to punish me or because she couldn’t take care of me but because she didn’t want my grandmother to live alone She wanted me to be her companion.

I completed both elementary and high school in the village. After graduation, I moved back to the city to live with my family. The transition was difficult. I struggled to communicate and connect with my peers, to adjust to urban life, and to fit into my family’s way of living after being away for so long. To continue my education, I worked hard at various low-paying jobs. My father was not supportive or involved, which made things harder. At times, I could have lost my way as a teenager and young adult, but by God's grace and through my mother’s encouragement, I stayed on the right path. I stayed focused on my dreams, refusing to give up or be distracted. Although it’s been years since I graduated and I haven’t yet landed my dream job, I discovered a skill that changed everything: hair and wig styling. I now earn a living through the hair and wig business. I’ve been paying my bills and even supporting my family by selling hair and installing wigs.

In 2018, I applied for an Empowerment Fund using my business idea. My pitch was selected, and I received a small grant to start my business. Like many others, I faced serious challenges during the COVID-19 pandemic, but I stayed determined. I’m not yet where I want to be, but I’m getting closer every day.

My hope is that every girl from a humble or difficult background never stops dreaming. Stay resilient. There will always be distractions and obstacles, but when you know your worth and stay true to your path, greater things are possible.

Written by: JOY EIKOJONWA

The post Between Village and City Life~ By Joy appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

Hello! My name is Babirye Bridget. I’m 20 years old and from Uganda. I come from a family of three boys and one girl, raised by a single mother. She worked so hard—taking on multiple jobs just to feed us, send us to school, and keep a roof over our heads.

Growing up, especially in primary school, I was fearless. I would stand in front of my class, completely confident, speaking without hesitation. It didn’t matter if the students were older or younger—I said what I needed to say and walked away, unbothered by anyone’s opinion.

But in secondary school, everything changed. I was bullied badly because of my weight, and my confidence disappeared. I felt small and broken. That’s when my journey with God truly began—especially in 2023. He listened when no one else did. He never judged me, only welcomed me with open arms.

Today, I still love speaking in front of people, even though my accent isn’t “perfect” and my teeth need braces. But I don’t care! I am beautiful—with my natural melanin skin and my proud African hair.

Lesson: Life may knock you down, but with faith and self-love, you can rise again—unshaken and unapologetically  YOU.

By: Miss B

Instagram: Babiryebtidget522

@missb

The post Unapologetically Me ~By Miss Bridget appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

The joy of knowing I didn’t lose you—
The solace of knowing it could have been so much worse.
The pain you carried,
The self-hatred that consumed you,
I felt it.

The feeling of helplessness,
hopelessness, and despair
You tried to cover with your jokes,
I felt that so painfully
When I saw you on the
hospital bed in Maitama.

I saw how frustration and disappointment
Seeped into your body,
Weighing you down.
And yet, through the hurt,
You did everything to shield me.

You always made sure there was food on the table,
Clothes on my back, shoes on my feet.
You gave love,
Even when it meant sacrificing your own needs and reputation.

I remember you standing tall,
When someone wanted to harass me,
You were not going to have any of it.
You fought to protect me,
Even if it meant putting
Yourself through the fire.

Now, I wish I could go back—
To be the little girl holding your hand,
Sitting close to you in church,
Running to you for comfort.

I wish I could relive the days
When you wrapped wedding gifts on Saturdays; our duo weekend out,
Or let me model Kampala gowns for your customers.

I wish I could sleep beside you

At night I have nightmares about horror movies I watched during the day.
I wish we could go back to our kitchen in Kubwa
Time when I was learning how to cook Jollof rice a
And it always ended up under- cooked or overcooked.

But,
Now, I need to be your grown daughter.
I want to release you from your guilt,
The guilt that whispers you didn’t do enough,
The pain that convinces you of failure.
You gave everything,
And I see that now.

I want to hold your hands,
Like you once held mine when I was a child.
I want to look into your eyes and tell you,
“It’s going to be okay,”
Not just to comfort you,
But because I truly believe it will.

I want to shield you from hurt,
The way you shielded me.
But how can I protect you,
When I can’t even protect myself?

Poem and portrait by Mercy aka Itohan Ekle

By Mercy @vien_aout

The post YOUR GROWN DAUGHTER appeared first on Sheevolves.world.