The sunlight slips through her curtains,
She wakes to bells and distant chants,
The spring does not ask permission as it beats against the rocks, When does the silence finally come?
She shoots out of bed,
Scrolls through her phone,
Sighs as the requests keep piling.
At least it was work from home today.
She smiles while sipping from a cup of honeyed orange tea, Then she stands beside the flower beds in her fertile garden, Watering the alamanda vines
As they crawl from her hands and seat themselves in the wet soil. She watches the numbers climb on her laptop,
As she peels a plump orange with unhurried fingers. Oh, what we do with our influence.
Then her mother calls.
In the ever-energetic voice of an African mother, she asks, “Oshun, when will you get married?”
Alas,
Not a day passes without reminding her she needs a man. We forget
From her comes life.
AUTHOR BIO
Amaka is a Nigerian student nurse and writer passionate about storytelling, psychology, and social issues. Her work explores womanhood, identity, resilience, and the quieter forms of violence often overlooked in society. Through essays, poetry, and commentary, she aims to create honest conversations that challenge, question, and connect.
