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.
More in this series
I feel what I feel, and I cry in the shower with a beer, but the week before I turned thirty, I felt nothing.