Writers 
Weight and Wings
Mornings weigh heavily on my shoulders, heavy with bills that I didn't pay and dreams that cost more than my salary.
The alarm rings like a debt collector.
I answer, because I must.
They told me "work hard and it will pay."
I then worked.
I worked until my hands knew the shape of tiredness.
I worked so hard that "rest" became a luxury. I couldn't pay for it. And still, the month ends faster than my money.
I have knocked on doors that never opened.
Send emails and listen to nothing.
Smiled in interviews while my stomach growled.
watched people with less skill get more opportunities, and learned that life is not always fair.
But I continued to walk.
Some nights I cry in the shower, so that the water can conceal it.
Some days I laugh too loud, so people won’t ask if I’m okay.
I have had enough of being strong. But I am more tired of giving up.
My mother calls: "Have you eaten?"
Even when the response is garri, I always say "yes."
"Don't worry, my son or daughter," my father says. His voice is thin, but his faith is thick.
I rely on their power. when mine runs out.
Friends of mine have left the country. My classmates have bought homes.
I am still here, utilizing two buses, eating once a day, praying twice.
However, I am also learning.
Learning that struggle is a classroom.
That rejection is redirection.
That doesn't mean "never." So I save ₦200 when I can.
I clap for others and clap for myself.
I fall, and I get up slower,
but I still get up.
Because one day,
I will look back at this version of me
and extend your gratitude.
Thank you for persevering, whenever you wanted to.
I am not broken.
I am developing.
The weight is real, but so are the wings growing under it.
And when I rise,
I will rise with a story,
with wounds that sparkle like medals, and with a heart that knows, how to manage both praise and pain.
I am still here.
Still fighting.
Still believing.
Still developing.
