Blessing Ngozi Obi real life story
His name was Sadiq Bello.Only his mother ever called him Sadiq. Everyone else shortened it to “D.” I will use his real name here, because he deserves at least that much truth. He was the first boy who looked at me and did not flinch.He was also the beginning of the end. Both things are […]
I carried two burdens, each heavy enough to crush me. One was mine. One belonged to my mother. Together, they made it impossible to stand straight. The first burden—my own—was who I was. It had started long before anyone noticed, before the whispers, before the black car. It was the truth I could not pray
I did not mean to study her hands. It just happened.After the cassette, everything in the house felt dangerous to look at—her face, her eyes, even her footsteps. But her hands… her hands betrayed her long before anything else did. They had always been farmer’s hands: hard, cracked, browned by sun and survival. But slowly,
My mother didn’t stop going to the farm all at once.It happened gradually—like rain that begins as a mist, too soft to notice, and only when you are drenched do you realize the sky has opened. One morning, she left her hoe by the door.The next, she sat outside instead of tying her wrapper for
I am writing this because speaking has never saved me. My name is Ifechi Japhet Nwaorisa. I was born in Owerri, Imo State, in 1992. If you are reading this now, I am thirty-three years old, and I am tired in a way that sleep cannot fix. This is not a confession, and I refuse
