Letter from an Orphan

Baami, Iyemi, otojo meta. It has been a long time, my lovely angels in the sky. I am writing this with a hand that trembles, not just from the cold of this room, but from the uncertainty that these words will ever reach the shores of heaven. This script flows with tears and a jagged kind of fear... the fear that I am shouting into a void where you can no longer hear me. Since you left, the world has shrunk. It has become a place of sharp edges and cold stares. You remember how you used to call me "Princess"? Here, that name has been stripped away, replaced by the heavy silence of a house that is not a home. They took me in, your brothers and sisters, saying it was "for the sake of blood."But blood is a thin soup when there is no love to thicken it. I have learned the hierarchy of the dinner table: I am the last to eat and the first to be blamed. I carry the scars of chores that never end, my hands calloused before my heart had a chance to grow. I see the way they look at their own children... with a softness that is a foreign language to me. When their daughter trips, she is gathered into arms of silk. When I stumble, I am met with a tongue of fire, told I am a "burden" or "unproductive." There are nights, Iyemi, when the loneliness is so heavy I can’t breathe. I lay on my mat and try to conjure the smell of your wrapper.... that scent of lavender and woodsmoke. I wrap my own arms around my torso, squeezing tight, trying to trick my brain into thinking it’s your hug. But the air is always thin, and the warmth never comes. I am a child trying to build a shelter out of shadows. And Baami, there is a man here who raises his hand against your princess. He says he does it "in the name of love," to "correct" me, but his eyes hold a darkness you would have never allowed. Every time his hand connects with my skin, I look at the door. I wait for you to barge in, chest out, voice booming, to tell him that no one touches your jewel. I wait for the thunder of your protection. But the door stays shut. You aren’t coming, are you?🥺😞 People see orphans and offer a pitying smile, then turn away to their warm lives. They don't see the "shadow-life" we live. They don't see the way we apologize for simply existing, for taking up space, for eating a slice of bread. We are the invisible children, the ones who grew up the moment the soil hit your caskets. Our childhood was buried in the same earth that holds you.<img src="/media/inline_insight_image/1768731946914-01.jpeg"/>If you are reading this and you still have the luxury of a mother’s nagging or a father’s stern advice... cherish it. Do not roll your eyes when they call to check on you. Do not sigh when they ask about your day. You are holding a treasure that some of us would trade our very souls to possess for just five minutes. To have a parent is to have a shield between you and the cruelty of the world. Once that shield is gone, the world hits you with everything it has, and it does not pull its punches. Love them. Honor them. Because once they are "angels in the sky," all you are left with is a pen, a piece of paper, and a heart that will never truly be whole again.

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