Writers 
Roots in Concrete
Concrete in its roots,
I was raised where nothing was supposed to grow.
Between rent deadlines and generator noise,
between “God will do it” and “try again next time.”
They said the soil was poor.
So I became my own rain.
My roots are in concrete.
But concrete cracks.
And I found the crack.
I have been told “no” in 10 different languages.
Rejection email.
WhatsApp silence.
“Budget is tight.”
“We’ll call you.”
I gathered every “no”
and built a floor to stand on.
Some days I am tired in my bones.
Tired of pretending I’m okay.
Tired of smiling when my account is frowning.
Tired of being strong for people
who never ask if I’m tired.
But then I remember my mother’s hands.
Cracked, but giving.
My father’s back.
Bent, but never breaking.
Their struggle runs in my blood.
So I stand up one more time.
I am learning that growth is not loud.
It’s the ₦500 you saved.
It’s the skill you learned at midnight.
It’s saying “no” to pressure.
It’s saying “yes” to peace.
I have watched friends blow.
I have watched people fall.
I’ve watched myself bend.
But I did not break.
Because roots in concrete don’t need permission.
They find water in dry places.
They find light through small holes.
They push, slowly,
until the whole road shifts.
I am not late.
I am not behind.
I am growing underground.
And when I come up,
I will come up with flowers in my hair
and stories in my scars.
So to anyone growing in hard soil:
Keep going.
Water yourself.
Talk to yourself kindly.
The world didn’t see you plant,
but it will see you bloom.
I have roots in concrete.
Unlikely.
Unstoppable.
Still growing.
Still becoming.
Still here.
