I grew up where the wind carried old stories,
at my grandpa’s place,
a home held together by love,
even on the days when a meal was a prayer
and breakfast was a blessing we hoped for,
not something we expected.
Childhood taught me lack
before it taught me laughter.
It taught me how to fold hunger into silence,
how to pretend the world was normal
even when my body needed things
nobody talked about in whispers.
I missed pads the way others missed holidays,
and in that quiet ache,
I looked for belonging in the wrong arms,
searching for comfort in someone
who only knew how to take,
never how to stay.
I was still young
when life placed motherhood in my hands—
a tiny heartbeat
that reminded me how strong a girl can be
even when she feels like she’s breaking.
The baby daddy ran,
left his shadow behind and nothing more.
But I stayed.
Held my son close,
taught him that love doesn’t run,
that strength doesn’t make excuses,
that a mother’s heart can build a home
out of pieces she gathered on her knees.
Raising him alone
was walking barefoot on life’s sharp stones,
but every step taught me power.
Every tear taught me prayer.
Every morning, I rose again—
even when yesterday tried to bury me.
It was extremely hard…
being the first daughter,
bearing the weight of expectations,
carrying families on tired shoulders,
fighting battles I never had the language for.
But somehow,
in all this heaviness,
I learned how to breathe again,
how to stand again,
how to smile without pretending.
My story is not polished,
it is stitched with scars,
braided with strength,
and lit by a fire
that life failed to put out.
I grew from what was meant to crumble me.
And even now,
with my hands still healing,
I hold my head up high
because I know,
I am still rising,
still becoming,
still rewriting the girl who lacked…
into a woman who overcame.
AFRICA IS LOUD AND SILENT ON PAINFUL CASES SPOKENWORD
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