Shrivelled up inside Feeling worthless You ever think a six-year-old should feel like that Just because they couldn't add 2 plus 4 in math? Over the years your words pummel my tiny mind Invisible claws digging deep Leaving gaping wounds of insecurity Your face says it all That crease in your forehead foretells of the coming ‘licks' My eyes dart in panic to the dining room chair Where your favourite leather strap hangs carelessly Just waiting to attack mercilessly and make my skin black Why can't you see that I'm giving it my all? The unending comparisons with my sister's aptitude Makes me want to hold my head and bawl Her perfect scores drive me up the wall Oh the wall, where I distractedly watch a lizard crawl ‘Whap!' My scream, a sob, a bawl Let that leather strap sing Cause that's the thing My copybook page dotted with the watery evidence of my failure My leaky eyes and snotty nose run like a free flowing river Why don't you know I'm trying my best? Oh the stress! Is you, is me, is the leather strap under duress Grannie in the corner watching with eyes gleaming Liking the way that the strap falling Mummy working..oh I miss she No one knows my pain Except God, but then again.. He doh answer No matter dey say He hear My cries, my six-year-old pain Have me thinking to run away On days like this where bliss is a definite miss They say is for my own good But my lost voice breaks my heart Somedays I plot my master escape in my head To sneak from my bed and just fled Lying in the dark, no meal because I didn't answer correctly Math ain't my forte Don't they see I just want to play? The neighbourhood kids screaming for fun and games Me always at my desk Studies more important..the adults say But wait eh Someday when I am grown I will have my say Because no one better lay a finger on my chile This mummy will be a tiger Who wants things better And the power I hold Will definitely be told And the mountains my kid will climb Would be so better than mine For it all starts and stops with me No generational curses and lame-o excuses But the truth that to be better, You must conquer that pain Unlocking and understanding are the key My mummy and daddy didn't know better But these books I reading and these TV programs I seeing Got my brain cells electrifying Change is in me I hold the power! Its up to me..let ME determine my FUTURE!

April second 2020, Bryan, my beautiful boy, lost his fight with addiction by an accidental overdose. I lived through those five days of him in CCU, sitting every day at his bedside, but I still have a hard time grasping that it is real. Somewhere in the back of my head I know it happened, but I won't accept all of it. If I do, I will surely fall off the face of the earth. The autopsy would determine the actual cause of death was fentanyl intoxication. I wasn't there when Bryan overdosed. I was on vacation, and I am learning to forgive myself for going and that somehow if I was home, this wouldn't have happened. On that Friday, Bryan had gone to the park with his sister, brother, sister-in-law, and his nephew. They would recall that Bryan was in a great mood, playing with Nolan and running around. They said he was happy. But that's what's hard about anxiety and depression. People can't see what's in the inside and addicts are good at hiding their addiction. They were all to go bowling that night, but at the last minute, Bryan decided to stay back at the house. He told them all to have a good time. He was going to watch TV and go to bed early. They returned three hours later. The lights were all on. They comment to each other that it was weird that Bryan had left all the lights on. Even stranger was the fact that the front door was locked. Bre went downstairs to turn off the lights and when she turned to go upstairs, she heard Justin screaming. “Call 911! Call 911!” Bryan was slumped over on his bed, face down, with one foot on the floor. He was pale and had blood coming from his nose. There was vomit on the bed where he laid. “I knew he was gone when I was pounding on his chest,” Justin would later tell me when recounting how he gave him CPR until EMS showed up. When EMS arrived, they administered two doses of Narcan. They were able to restart his heart and get a faint pulse. He was rushed to the hospital where he was put on life support. The day that Bryan was brought in, the doctor told us that in his opinion, Bryan was brain dead, but he needed to run a series of tests to confirm his prognosis. For twenty-four hours, Bryan was put into cold therapy. This would allow his brain and body to heal at a faster rate. After forty-eight hours, they began to warm him and run tests. Bryan failed the response test. This meant even though he wasn't on any pain medications, he didn't respond to pain, light, or breathing stimuli. He also failed the apnea test, which was, when taken off the ventilator, he could not breathe on his own or keep his blood pressure up. Then they performed an EGG and CAT scan. He had slight brain activity and blood flow to the brain. Unfortunately, the part of the brain that regulates breathing, swallowing, blinking, basically anything that would allow Bryan to function, was completely dead from being without oxygen too long. The part that was receiving blood flow was memory, and was nothing that would matter for Bryan to come back to us. The doctors could not legally declare him brain dead and call a time of death. Wednesday morning, Bryan's kidneys shut down, he developed pneumonia in his right lung, and he could no longer maintain oxygen saturation above eighty percent. Gift of Life deemed him unable to donate. So at 2:45 p.m., I made a phone call and as a family we decided to end Bryan's suffering. I couldn't see through the tears, and I felt suffocated with my mask on. I rip off my mask and take his limp, swollen hand and rub it all over my face. I fold down the blanket and pull his gown over to the side and place my cheek against his chest and breath him in. Under all the antiseptic hospital smells, I can recognize my child's scent. It's a strong, warm, sweet musky smell, and I inhale it as if it is a life source to me. It actually is. At three p.m., the doctor came in and explained what was going to happen. I listened to every word, nodding as she spoke, but inside I am screaming, Don't let this be happening! She turned off all medications. His vitals started slowing down within seconds. Oh God he's really dying! I laid my head on his chest to hear his heartbeat for the very last time. The respiratory doctor announced that she was turning off his ventilator. No, don't leave me! But Bryan did leave me at 3:45pm that day. Every sound, every smell, every second of that afternoon is forever etched into my memory. Goodbye, my Beautiful Boy. I love you and I'll see you when I see you.  

The man and the woman, a union ordained for bliss Bliss ethereal yet tangible, like the honeyed taste of a kiss But this bliss is sent to hell, when the man says he is a beast Of course not with his mouth, but when his pride becomes his fist. Iya Bisi said "For my children I will stay". "I need to be around to get the daily bread in place". Really, she had hidden fears about what people would say If she fled for her safety, away from Baba Bisi the Great Should we wait until her eyes are swollen and black? Before we see that our vision is blurry and dark Mandela's hands in the air spoke of a freedom age Why do the hands of our brothers speak of bondage? Zainab swore she would go to the university But Hassan came with naira for his bride Thus scissors went into her private princess parts Another child has become wife. Bolanle's oranges were neither ripe nor exposed And her thighs were warmed by a baggy pair of clothes She was three days in as the latest teenager on the street Then three rounds of rape sent her hanging on a rope. The pandemic strolled into our world Then quarantine drove us into our homes But Ogechi's home was a prison, and she was a detainee She lived in a ring with a stronger opponent and no referee In fact if their common name was Floyd, He would be Mayweather and she would be George. She was one woman with one thousand responsibilities. Everyday came with reasons to stretch her abilities. But even elastic strings have their limits Maybe hers would be the day her heartbeat is quiet. This message to our society must go viral. We must wake up to cherish our women. We are blessed to have these living, breathing temples Who are we to desecrate deity?!

If you have the privilege as a woman to never have been sexually abused or assaulted, it might be difficult for you to understand the mixed emotions you might have towards your abuser. Let me explain better. When someone you love or admire assaults you, you might not hate them immediately, heck, you might never hate them at all. It's difficult to go from admiration and love to hate. It's also a very exhausting process. When my favourite person in the world, outside of my nuclear family assaulted me when I was barely 8 years old, I didn't know how to feel. I was pretty close to my mum so I just had to tell her. Before I did, I made her promise to not flair up. I didn't want my abuser to feel ‘bad'. Obviously, she flared up and banished him from visiting or sleeping over. This was very difficult for all of us because we really loved this person. His mum (of blessed memory) was my favourite aunt and my mum's closest sister. My brothers also didn't know what happened at the time so they didn't understand why he was banished. The next time I met him at a family function, I was worried sick that he would hate me. To give context, this man is about 20 years older than me. I remember how relieved I was when he smiled at me. It meant he didn't hate me. It's been about 15 years since this thing happened and although he took the time to apologize to me when I was much older, I almost can't stand him. It was like one day, a switch flipped in my head and I instantly became angry. But even then, sometimes I still admire him. It's really exhausting. While interning in a broadcast outfit when I was 18, I went to get this exclusive interview with a (now dead) well-known and loved musician. Apart from the fact that he was loved by the general public, I also really loved his music. The interview took place in an apartment. First, we watched him play his instrument and I videoed the whole thing with a smile plastered on my face. I couldn't wait to show my father. I was watching this man play live! This legend! Throughout my stay there, this entertainer kept looking at me funny and making inappropriate sexual comments. I was starting to get uncomfortable but we were so many in the apartment so I didn't really feel threatened. While trying to leave the apartment, this man rushed behind me, held me behind and groped me. I tried to get away from him but he held me firmly. I almost had to be forced away from his grip after I raised an alarm and I immediately ran outside. I really admired this man. I loved his music but I was highly irritated. When I got home, I still showed my family the video before I dropped the bomb. I went to bed that night watching the videos of the talented musician that I really admired with mixed feelings. The days that followed weren't any better. I had to conduct vox-pops on this man, asking people what they loved about him. I didn't even know how to feel. When he died and I kept seeing the news everywhere, all I could remember was the humiliating incident. My best friend asked me if I was okay, and my mother told me how uncomfortable she felt seeing everyone worship the man and was wondering how I felt about it. How did I feel? Was I glad that he had died? Did I hate him or dislike him? Honestly, no. Do I still think his music is great? Yes. Would I listen to his songs? Maybe. Sometimes I think about these unfortunate experiences and I'm angry with myself for not hating my abusers. I should hate them right? Imagine not knowing how to feel about a terrible thing someone has done to you because you remember all the good that they have done. If you're feeling this way, I just want to let you know that it's okay to feel what you feel. Sometimes you hate them and sometimes you don't. But don't ever beat yourself up about feeling any type of way. If you feel like you can forgive them, it's fine but if you can't forgive them, that's equally okay. I've heard people talk about how it is impossible to heal from abuse if you don't forgive your abuser but I've also read too many articles that say otherwise. People shouldn't tell you how to feel about these things, it's pretty complex so it's okay to heal at your own pace.

I was the perfect child. Even as a baby I rarely cried or fussed. I stayed asleep during the nights and rarely threw tantrums. I always followed directions and was never the type to jump and run around. In public I would sit by my mother's side, dressed up in white and pink with my hands in my lap. Many of my family members would compliment my parents about how well behaved and quiet I was. Of how lucky they were to have such an easygoing child. But even with my mellow personality, my childhood was not without near death experiences. I almost choked on a penny once. Another time my mom found me sticking my dad's razor into my mouth like a lollipop. Somehow I had managed to climb up the cupboards and was attempting to mimic seeing my dad shave. I still have the scar on my lower lip from that incident. A reminder of one of my many instances of mischievousness. My parents tried their best to make a childproof home. But I had the knack for bypassing their safeguards. One of my favorite spots to play in was the cupboard under the sink. I liked to used the cleaning product containers as dolls. My dad installed two locks on that door in order to prevent me from going inside but I eventually figured out how to unlock them. Apparently I had a knack for undoing locks as well. My parents would scold me of course, but I would just giggle and smile at them in response. Even after more than two decades my parents still talk about how they remembered those days. I have two younger siblings and we constantly prank each other. And while they were much more energetic and impulsive in their younger years, my own sense of mischievousness never lessened. And while I was the perfect child, I was still a child nonetheless.

My favorite color was yellow. It had always been and would continue to be yellow. It was one of the only things about me that remained unaffected without opposition. When I decided that yellow was my favorite color, I said that it was because yellow was ‘the color of happiness'. To me, it represented positivity, brightness, and energy. The color yellow was my color. I was about 15 years old, so he had been hurting me for about 7 or 8 years. I was living in hidden fear, but I never stopped being a positive person. Yellow was still my color. He worked at night, so he was usually asleep during the day. Today was different- he was asleep, as usual, but, today, my mom was home. We were in the kitchen, making pineapple cupcakes together. I was frosting a cupcake while standing by the stove, and my mom laughed, “You're pushing too much icing. A little goes a long way - yea, like that.” I giggled and suddenly felt icing being smeared on my face. I was startled for a second, but then I grinned. “Oh my God, you did not! You asked for-” I stopped mid-sentence. My stomach dropped the second I heard the dreadful sound of the bedroom door being wrenched open. My unsuspecting mom still had a smile on her face as she turned around. Suddenly, everything changed. I felt all of the happiness in the room drain and turn into fear. “Why the f*** are you so f***ing loud?! You're f***ing useless! Fat f***ing pig!” The sound of his voice filled the room, and everything happened in flashes and blurs. He flipped one of the cupcake trays and threw the other across the room. With every step he took, I stepped back, until I was cornered. As my tears blurred my vision, I felt my heart pound. I could feel my chest move with each breath, but I felt like I was suffocating. I blinked, and, suddenly, he was right in front of me, looking down at me. He grabbed my arms and shook me as he screamed, “What are you crying for, you pathetic little sh*t? I haven't even touched you yet.” Every word he shrieked sent spit flying at my face, mixing with the seemingly endless stream of tears. My hyperventilating made my throat catch, and I coughed as my tears continued to flow. I instinctively turned my head away, and the sudden movement made me lose my balance. I tried to pull my hands up to prevent myself from falling, and I jerked my shoulders away. He didn't like that. He immediately grabbed my arms again and slammed me into the counter. My head hit the open cabinet door behind me, and pain seared through my entire body. I could feel myself getting dizzy, and my vision became even more blurred than before. I could faintly hear my mom shouting, but the sound of her voice seemed far away, as if it were merely a figment of my imagination. But, then, he was pulled off of me and shoved away. It seemed to take all of her strength, and when he sprung back, he began to walk towards her. She continued to yell, attempting to hide her fear, but she inched backwards until she was right up against the fridge. He towered over her, and everything went silent. Time froze. I could see that there was nothing good left in his soul, if he had one. His presence was more terrifying than ever. He clenched his jaw and his nose twitched, and, in a sudden movement, his fist smashed into the fridge door right by my mom's head. “STOP!” I heard myself scream. This caught him by surprise, and he turned his head towards me. My mom ducked under him, and he tried to grab her as she was getting away from him. I ran forward and tried to push him away from her, but he grabbed my arm and threw me to the ground. My vision went black, and I still couldn't hear past the ringing, but, once I felt my mom's warm hand on my back, and she helped me up, everything came rushing back in. I could hear every sound and see everything clearly. Chairs were knocked over, and there was icing on the walls and floor. His voice was still booming in my ears, but he was speaking slowly and clearly, with a horrifying grin on his face. “Call the cops, I dare you. Clarksville's fastest response time is not fast enough, I promise.” My mom grabbed my hand and ran out of the house as fast as she could. We got in the car and drove to the police station. The car ride was silent. At least, I remember it that way. I couldn't speak. I caught a glance of my reflection in the side mirror. There was icing in my hair and streaks of mascara on my cheeks. My lip was swollen and bleeding, but the only marks on my arms were cuts from his fingernails. Perhaps the bruises couldn't be seen because the devil could hide them. The police didn't seem to be too worried, and we didn't go home for a couple of days. He was never punished. Even though he is physically gone, he is still always with me. I fight his voice in my mind every day, and almost all of me has changed. Except for my favorite color, my favorite color is still yellow.

Between war, negative life circumstances, depression and my dreams which one will win? You will be an important person, an American soldier told me. Alone in the jungle, I am freezing, I am hungry, I am afraid. There is a lot of blood. Let me hide. There are dead bodies. What's going on? I do not know where I am. I am lost, I am afraid of Dracula. The Bush is moving, it might be a lion, not maybe a tiger or cheetah. Oh my God, I am too young to die. Anyway, I am not ready to die. Come on, dying at this age. I just totalized 11 years old one week ago. “I am screaming mom, dad, where are you? Like ten times”. My parents are not responding. I am hearing some noise, it is a roar. How did I get in a jungle? All these thoughts in my head, let me take a nap and maybe tomorrow will be a better day. I remembered Mama once said to me “jo never ever forget to pray before sleeping" in my prayer I thought God to bring back my parents and help me remember what happened? I found a tree where there was a little bit moon shadow far away from those dead bodies. I decided to force myself to sleep despite it was cold. In my dream, my mom and dad calling my name I am alone in the jungle. It was all dark. ''They found me and mom asked me why am I alone and crying?" "I told them I am lost, and I was looking for you". "'My dad told me don't cry any more, my son". "You are the son of a leader who will be a leader". "He said son remembered you have my blood." "I gave you everything u need". "Life is going to be difficult but if you are keeping working hard and praying". "One day you will be successful and make us proud". "Life took us away from you, but we are watching over you and just know we love you". After that, I saw a person with a bright shadow appearing and tell them the time is up. My mom and dad hugged me for the last time, and they disappeared. Directly I woke up in the jungle early in the morning, I thought about my dream, but I realised what happened yesterday was a bad dream. instead, it is a reality; I am a child turned a man. So, I decided to find a way out or find where people are. I started walking, walking without resting and I didn't eat. I kept walking until I saw a river. I was thirsty so I decided to drink water from the river, and it tastes like salt, but I had no choice. Then I had a pen and a small paper in my pocket, but I don't know where it was from. the pen I had in my pocket just felt down in the river. It started flowing and I decided to follow the pen as I followed the pen, I saw a girl running so I decided to follow her. By following her, I saw there was a kind of armed soldiers I never saw before after her, so I decided to run smartly behind them to discover what is going on? Then I saw one of the soldiers getting out of the car and took her by force, so I was behind the remaining soldiers. I saw the soldier who was before her, trying to take off her clothes so she is shouting leave me alone and I thought they want to rape her.

The smoke burned my nose and eyes as I sat barefoot on the small alleyway behind our house. I was shaking, my small hands clenched together in fear as my mother stared at me, eyes filled with a concoction of emotions. She sat with her back up against the front of the red minivan as she started on another cigarette. As she flicked away the glowing embers, I noticed her hands were also trembling. I think about moments before. My mother had burst into my bedroom, I witnessed a side of her I had never seen before she began screeching about how she didn't want me anymore. How much trouble I had caused her and that she was bringing me back to my father's house. To cast me from her life forever. I could feel my heart crumbling in upon itself and before I realized what was happening I flew down the stairs and out the door. I had no inkling about where I was going, especially without any shoes. Yet, I raced down the block, my phone in hand poised to call anyone that could be of aid, my heart was pounding and my face streaked with tears. Around the corner, I saw mother whisking the minivan down the street approaching me. I panicked hoping for the opportunity to flee or hide. I did neither. Instead, stood frozen in the middle of some stranger's yard. She took the corner hard and I heard the distinct screech of the tires as Mom stopped the van next to the curb getting out of the car. She rushed towards me in a flurry of hatred, gripping my arms, pulling me towards the van violently. My body was racked with sobs as I mustered the strength to try and resist her grip when she finally pushed me into the car, I could do nothing but wail in the back seat. We drove off, stopping in the parking lot of a run down drug store. My mind was ablaze with the understanding that my own mother wanted to be rid of me, relinquishing me to my father, never to see my siblings again. My mother doesn't want me and that she might have finally lost it. My mother doesn't want me. My mother doesn't want me. It played over and over again and soon I began to say these words aloud. Could she really discard of me easily? Had our relationship had always been shallow, strictly on the surface? What I did know was the there was no going back to a normal "mother and daughter" relationship. Maybe a new barrier that could never be broken down. Coming back from the store, I was jerked from my thoughts when mom opened up the car door and a new package of cigarettes. Lighting her cancer stick she sat, dragging in her calming poison and I began to scream. Telling her that if she left me I would never want to come back, but she remained silent. I never stopped crying for a second to tell her how terrified I actually was. The panic that she was going to bring me back to my father's house. To the place where I would have to explain why I had no shoes, why I couldn't stop blubbering, why I would never see my mother again. For several minutes we sat there in the weed-infested parking lot. Her cigarette smoke was beginning to infecting the air outside of the van. And without even so much as a glance over the shoulder at me, she began driving back towards the yellow house. I was taken aback when she turned into the driveway and put the car in park. Still shocked that she actually brought me back to the house I had no idea what to do. I got out of the van, through the still wide open door and up the stairs to my room. There I sat on the bed, my arms wrapped around my legs as I began to shiver. I rocked myself back and forth to sooth the emotions that stirred within me. Minutes passed when suddenly I heard the sounds of footsteps on the stairs. I knew it was mother, but that didn't stop me from flinches at every step she took in my direction. She told me to come outside with her, and I did. There we were. I listened to her sorry attempt to apologize, her explanation about the contents of a letter. A letter that told her of the amounts of money she had to pay to my father; a child support bill that drove her to near madness. But to me, I saw it as where my mother would rather choose money over her own child. To her, it was the thing that induced overwhelming emotion that took control and made her execute such rash actions. Could we ever go back to where we had been in our relationship? Of course, things never meant to be said, but maybe they were things that had always been thought. I said nothing but remained stationary, sitting on the ground. My feet raw from running, the dry dead grass scratching at the bottom of my thighs. Attempting to understand her position and reasoning. After she stopped she asked me: “Could you ever forgive me?” my mother voice shook violently on the verge of tears. My eyes were dry, my body drained, my soul empty. I embraced her and said nothing, worrying whether or not the end of the cigarette in her hand was going to burn me.

I have been to a plenty of places in my country, Vietnam. The impression that strikes my mind strongly is girls' marital status. 80% of the places I visit, I meet girls under 18 years old who experience two or more years of motherhood. The prospect becomes a little brighter in more developed provinces as girls in their twenties get married without having a job. I feel so bizarre that girls become mothers even before they are turning to women. I can never expect this early marriage practice would obsess me so much that I spend days finding an answer to my question: Early marriage, why? I was shocked to find out that in a study published by UNESCO: ” Early Marriage: an harmful traditional practice”, it is reported that 12% of Vietnamese women get married at exactly 18 years old. More alarmingly, nearly 5% of Vietnamese girls aged 15 to 18 are currently in marital union. Travelling to the west of Nghe An province, it is not hard to catch sight of young girls singing lullaby, cuddling their babies. At first glance one may mistake they are raising their siblings. However, that sad rhythm is for their own children who are at most 14 years their mothers' junior. If one end of the scale involves child marriage, the other is women in their early twenties marriage. While teenage mothers are stripped off of their rightful decision making capability, the young girls passing the 18+ threshold should have been oriented to make judicious choice. I have witnessed a dozens of my cousins and distant relatives who secure a bachelor degree in a university or college just to get married without seeking a job. Young girls under 18 years old with low autonomy in decision making , there are three main primary reasons. Among the ethnic minority located in mountainous area of Vietnam, a depraved custom called “ wife stealing” still exists. It is so rife that this practice becomes a cultural niche rather than a crime. In these far-flung community, puberty and menarche are considered as time of transition to adulthood. Girls reaching this biological threshold means becoming eligible for marriage, regardless of age. Once a girl is abducted by a man, she indisputably becomes his wife whether she likes it or not. In this case, young girls' parents can do nothing but let everything take it course. It is an ironic fact when a girl's future is in a stranger's hand. The second cause for low autonomy in decision making is socio-economic condition. A vast majority of girls are advised or forced to drop out of school because of family's insufficient financial capability. Marriage is an outlet for family burden as financially speaking, parents are no longer responsible for their daughter ‘s material life. The third root of the problem is herd mentality. The fact that dozens of generations get married before 18 years old is considered as a legacy in ethnic minority. Young girls tie the knot as their grandmothers, mothers and peers do so at an early age. This harmful practice fuels an unchangeable social norm to such an extent that a girl is alienating herself from the community if she refuses to get married early. Girls' psychology is tremendously affected by harmful social ideology which brainwashes their marriage propensity. At the other end of the scale standing women whose have high autonomy in decision making, still prefer early marriage propensity even without a job. All my sister-in-law relatives become manual worker, butcher, housewife or online salesman after their marriage. Their monthly income is not stable and sometimes not enough to make both ends meet. I asked them why they don't spend more time improving their skills and prepare themselves for a permanent job before getting married or taking care of their own parents who has raised them all their life just to see them off too early. I asked them why they don't study more because life is so beautiful and there are tons of things to discover. I wish once in their life time they are empowered to stand on their feet, to be hunger for knowledge, to long for discovering this beautiful world instead of getting snowed under with house chores, breastfeeding, sleepless night, unemployment nightmare. I desperately wish they read more books, beautify their souls with music and poem instead of marital burden. I cannot stand the feeling when I see girls in my ages raising their children without being well-prepared mentally and physiologically. I wish they realize they are beautiful, smart and valuable, and they can color their life much more vibrantly if they don't give up self-schooling too soon. I cannot breath when I read news reporting maternal mortality among girls because of unintended pregnancy, abortion, preterm labor. I feel speechless when seeing young girl coping with two children in their arms, if I were them, I could not handle this. If they had better education, if they were treated equally, if their human right was prioritized, their life would be different.