It’s raining. 

I am four years old.

The TV is on but I’m not watching it. My hand twitches. I crawl towards my mum.

Stop crawling, she says. Use your legs.

I avert my gaze.

Oya what’s wrong? Nono, what do you want?

I point towards the study.

Her face scrunches up.

Kwuo okwu, Ada m. Use your words. I did not give birth to a mute child.

I look away.

So you won’t talk?

Books. I finally murmur.

Louder, she says.

Books, I repeat, staring at her.

She tells me to go.

I barely hear her say, “we need to buy children books for this girl.”

It’s raining.

I am 8 years old.

The priest tells me I passed my first Holy communion test, but I am too young, and besides, my older brother is receiving this year, so why not wait till next year?

Wait wait wait.

That’s all I hear.

All my life I’ve been waiting for something that still hasn’t happened. Does it ever end? The waiting, the hoping, the aching for that which I can never get.

Ọ na akwusi? Does it ever end?

Wait wait wait.

Wait, that’s all I hear.

I walk home that evening, my back hunched from broken dreams and heavy books.

It’s raining.

I am 12 years old.

The class hush their speeches as I step in. Why are there so many students?

Why are they all staring at me?

Abort, my brain says, you aren’t wanted here. Abort.

I barely hear the question thrown at me.

I turn to the voice.

“What’s your name?” She asks me. Her large frame towering over mine.

“Irenonsen,” I respond.

Eh? I can’t pronounce it. Don’t you have another name?

I want to tell her my dad said I must use my native name in school.

For him, if people can pronounce Schwarzenegger, then Irenonsen shouldn’t be a big deal. Big people go by their native names, he says, and I am big, so I must wear my native name with pride.

Here in this room however, I feel very small.

Like a sheep between lions.

I remind myself that I want to be on a good footing with everyone here. That’s the only way I won’t get bullied again.

So, I turn to her and say “Christine.”

My name is Christine. 

It’s raining.

I am sixteen years old.

The darkness is getting bigger.

I have tried to explain it but the words get stuck in my throat. I wish you would look at me and see the stories on my skin.

Last night, you said I was frigid. I searched my mind wondering how best to tell you that you met a broken version of me.

See, I want you but I see his face everytime you’re on me.

I feel his hands grasping, probing for that which isn’t his. I feel his cold gaze and I remember. It’s you but also him.

Ọ nọ ebe niile. He’s everywhere.

I feel you above me, and I remember. It’s all I can do to just lie there and take it.

It takes every ounce of strength left in me to just lie there. I have nothing else to give.

Let me go if I’m too much for you. Or is it that I’m not enough?

It’s raining. 

I am 20 years old.

They say grief lessens over time. I disagree.

E chem maka gị tata. I thought of you today.

My heart clenched.

I wouldn’t say the grief has lessened but I will say it has morphed into a part of me.

I carry the grief so comfortably now.

I can think of you and not break down in tears. I have begun to accept that you’re gone. I haven’t moved on, but I’m moving through this world with memories of you.

I step out into the rain and say, “you would have loved this.”

I smile.

I go back in.