English
FrançaisICASA Young Writers Series - Winners
Mutiat Amao, Nigeria
Winner - Harm Reduction
My Story
The morning sun forced its way into the semi-closed window, casting its orange glow throughout the room. She managed to open her eyes but shut them quickly as the sun reflected directly on her face. Re-adjusting herself, she opened her eyes and took a quick glance at the wall-clock.
It was past 8, she jumped up, her mother would be at her door, any moment from now. The sudden knock at the door earned her clearing everywhere quickly, hiding her belongings as fast as she could, she composed herself and opened the door. "Mama, good morning," she knelt in front of her mother, saying her salutations. A typical Yoruba lady, standing to greet would only get her tongue-lashed. "Did you sleep well?"
"Y-yes ma, I did." The truth was far from it, she barely closed her eyes to sleep before her alarm rang for morning prayers.
"Have you prayed?" Her mother's voice dragged her out of her reverie.
"Yes mama, but I went back to sleep after praying," she lied. Her alarm rang but she turned it off almost immediately. "Good," mother walked away to wake her siblings.
Her heart tightened at the lie she told, guilt swallowed her. She sat at the back of the door, burying her head between her knees, she sobbed quietly.
This was not the life she wished for; lately, everything she tried doing, proved abortive. She recently finished secondary school as the head girl yet every effort to enter the next phase fell through. Every colleague of hers moved forward, and there she was, still in her father's house.
The pain from last night ached, she had dragged the blade across her skin again. It stung badly, reminding her of what she had done. Her mind, occupied with the failures of her life; cutting herself proved to be her only way to heal.
She is Nigerian, they rarely believed in depression and suicide but here she was, at the very edge of taking her own life. She needed help, she knew. She wasn't the type that opened up, everyone would believe she was possessed if she dared say a word.
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It was mid-day, the sun in its intensity could melt iron, people walked about with umbrellas. She took a walk and found a quiet place to sit. She pulled the sleeves of her cloth, covering her wounds, she wanted no attention on it.
"I've been there once," a fair looking man said. He accommodated the other side of the bench.
"Sorry?"
"The weather is so hot, yet you wear long sleeves. I know the feeling, it's draining but please help yourself and talk to people you trust. They won't see you as a mad person, they will understand that you need help," he said and showed a part of his skin, his scars were healed.
**** **** ****
Anytime she looked back to that day, she always prayed for that man. She's still healing; family helped, friends did too. Don't wallow in pain. Life is worth living.