NUGBIDOGBE- EMBRACING THE BURIED CHAPTERS

 When I first came across Maya Angelou’s quote, "Embrace Your Stories, for within its chapters, you may find the key to your true self," I did not just love the message but was triggered and quickly countered, "Not all chapters should be embraced." This quick response served as a soothing balm to my “all active”  inner man who would have dug the buried chapters of my story that hold terrible memories if I had agreed to it.    

                                         NUGBIDOGBE.

As the early birds ministered their song of the day, the sun was up and about to journey to the east as well. We equally made our way to our classes for the day’s lesson. Our Literature teacher, before delving into that day's lesson on the novel Native Son, asked about our dreams and aspirations. Caught between honesty and the casual responses of my junior high school days, I said "store owner" when it got to my turn.

Laughter was the feedback from my colleagues, and the teacher questioned angrily, “Why make your parents waste money on education when you could be running a store?” After a lot of questioning and discussions, he retorted, “Well, everyone can't be in an office; some must sell tomatoes by the roadside to make ends meet.”

Later, as he exited the classroom, I wrote, "If only dreams could materialize as effortlessly as we dreamt them." I wouldn't have given up on my dreams or been torn between telling the world who I wanted to be or lying about it. Childhood dreams, once lofty, are now masked by specters of poverty, insecurity, and a confused self. I barely knew who I was and what I wanted when he asked that question.

In my dream world, I envisioned myself as a journalist and an author close to other literary giants like Chinua Achebe, Ama Atta Aidoo, Wole Soyinka, Kofi Awoonor, and Anyidoho, who tirelessly told the story of our pre/post-colonial days, keeping African history alive. However, the dreams dropped and even died when the failure happened.

No, the dreams didn't die just because of failure; instead, the reactions killed them. These reactions redefined identity at an early age. Coming from a coastal village where a look at your lip from a neighbor who had traveled even before your birth could tell the family you're from, or a look at your nose could make you pass the eye DNA, I believed then that identity was just my name and my family name that tells my story even before it begins, or perhaps my pointed nose or red lips that showed I’m the granddaughter of Lakpator, specifically Amable’s child.

However, the real meaning of identity became clearer when I failed my class six promotional exams and was questioned as to why I couldn't be like my academically successful brothers. This realization came with the understanding that despite sharing the same surname, school, and food, among many other things we did together, we were inherently different individuals—not just because we identify as a boy or girl or have different first names. This got me wondering why the preacher proclaims us all as God's children created in His image, or why my grandma says we have the same blood, and the Rastaman claims we are all one people despite color differences when we are more than different in all dimensions.

Living in a community where every glance conveyed a story, I felt the weight of being different, from academic failure to my personality. The comparisons and the questions about why I couldn't be like my siblings made me feel unloved and fueled self-hate. This battle against self-hate led me to the world of invisible companions whose voices tell the story of who they think I am, some echoing who others say I am.

In the time of battling self-hate, colorism in my school, and poverty, coupled with destructive voices that only suggested the better option was to hit the exit button, I confronted my true self within a glass room. Here, I unclothed my soul to a man in wine-colored scrubs, revealing my real self, and my dreams, and painting the picture of the person I aspired to be when I was a dreamer. In that room, I received the message of uniqueness.

Days after exiting that room, I got myself a diary, one that holds positive affirmations. In that diary, I wrote, “In a world where our past is used as a weapon against us, our failure a destruction, and our one wrong a cancellation of all our good, we have to be who we are. It's only if we know who we are, that we know what we want and what we can go for. Regardless of what people say we are or how they describe us, we have to be who we are.” A true self is a better self. I backed it up with Rachel Platten’s “FIGHT SONG” and Chinua Achebe’s quote on identity.

I've grown to realize the hardest battle one can fight is the battle against oneself, but if you know who you are, you are close to winning the battle. The answer to the question “WHO AM I” in my diary is, that I am a songbird, an oracle, and a phoenix sailing through the fire to come out brighter than the brightest sun.

At first, it was burying my chapters to find peace in the soothing ones, but I discovered in the journey to finding myself the need to embrace every chapter of my story. It’s not just a chapter but a contributing force to my growth, shaping me into the individual I am yet to become. I hope to find strength in recognizing and embracing every facet of this narrative.