Coming Home to Myself: A Story of Healing
“For this is the thing with secrets: They are thrilling to a child who has lived his life only in the open.”
Radio Lagos, Tiwa tiwa mutiti
I am not even sure how old exactly I was. Eight, maybe seven, the memories come in scraps. But he was older and should have known better.
Healing should never have to be forced,
Bring your hand
I am fine. There is nothing wrong with me. I am really very fine.
God instead of Caly to die, please kill meIf anybody beats you come and tell me
Is there something I can do?
NahI am fine
I am just playing with you
How could he not know that something was wrong? How could he not tell?
What if I had told someone the first timeWould it have been any less horrific if he had not been a neighborAre you sure it was abuse, Caleb?He was just catching fun. Maybe you are attaching too much importance to this.
But on those days, I take solace in a quote from poet Nayyirah Waheed: Be easy. Take your time. You are coming home. To yourself.
And I am happy, nothing is going to stop me.
I’m making my way home. I’m making my way I go solo, oh, I go solo.
Enter your email address to receive notifications for author Caleb Somtochukwu Okereke
You have been added to the notification list for author Caleb Somtochukwu Okereke
More in this series
“A smell of burning flesh fills the theatre. I was expecting the smell of blood—its rich, metallic, almost bitter-tasting organic scent.”