MIRA'S SPACE

Finding My Sword

“Find yourself,” they said. “How the hell did I get lost?” I asked.

You see, all I remember about getting into this dark pit that dimmed the enviable light of my writing abilities, is losing my aunt.

When I got that distress phone call on April 2, 2017 that her breath was forever gone, something died within me. I felt the absence. I felt the stench. Like the rot of a once blooming fruit.

“what was the last thing she did before she faded into darkness?” I asked.

“she tore apart her wristband” she, in one last breath, cut into two, the circular adornment that testified to her faith.

This maddened me the more. Perhaps it was confusion. I thought it was rage but at the point, I was an unhealthy hodgepodge of varieties of gloom.

You see, my aunt lost herself, her skyscraper dreams, her relationship with God, her career ambitions, in the euphoria of marriage.

And when all expectations came crumbling down in the form of excess weight, lack, the need for one more son, in laws that were better off as enemies, a failing health, and the loss of her voice, she had lost the fight. Or conceded to losing before the final whistle.

Now I had a battle. To fight off the recurring sounds of her voice that buzzed past my ear so frequently I became delusional. To convince myself that marriage is not the worst institution on the planet. (I mean God wouldn’t be mean enough to house two souls as one with a malign intent). To ward off the spite that came with the fact that she died without tasting a penny from me after all she did for me. Yes, I hadn’t made my first earning but that spite grew even the more. And the most daunting battle of all, to forgive myself. Somehow I blamed myself. Maybe if I had paid her a surprise visit in Abuja, I would have seen how deteriorated her body and soul had become and sought for help.

But when I set to fight these demons, I realized I had lost my sword. I must have dropped it on the lonely road of questioning and wishes and regrets.

Writing is the weapon with which I take on the world. It doubles as my therapy. But, I couldn’t write. A word. I was empty. Depleted. The words would stop right behind my throat. They would never dance on paper.

I made up excuses. I needed a laptop to write. Phones are not the best for me. I wasn’t good enough. I needed to work on my writing skills. The excuses ran up into a mountain. Leaving me deeper in the abyss of angst.

Until I found my sword once again. A little over two years later. I shook off the uncertainties, doubts, worries, fears. My healing came slowly but surely. From few letters, to few words, to few sentences. Sentences became paragraphs. And with every letter, a pang of pain manifested, slitting the core of my heart till I bled deep from inside, and then wore off. The more I wrote, the more powerful I became. The more demons I conquered. The battle is won.

Writing is a journey. I stumbled on the way but I am right back in shape to take on this quest. Of course, with my veritable sword in hand!

Miracle Okpara is a graduate of English Language and Literature from the University of Lagos, Akoka, Yaba, Lagos. She contributed to an anthology of short stories by the Department of English, UNILAG titled "International Sisi Eko and other stories" Her hobbies are singing, acting, and reading fiction.

Miracle presently works as a Tax Analyst at KPMG, she also anchors Mira’s Space, a column on SHEGZSABLEZS’ BLOG where she shares her poems, short stories and timeless pieces of art. Please follow the link to view her profile on Medium.com