Behind My Teeth - by Oluwaseun Balogun

I became good at swallowing words. Not food. Words. Questions. Explanations. Defences. Anything that might sound too loud, too questioning, too much. I learned to keep them tucked behind my teeth. I remember sitting among the adults while they spoke. Someone said something about me, and I felt a sentence rise before I could stop it. I was ready to explain myself. Then came the warning. “When your elders are speaking, don't talk.” The sentence disappeared. I swallowed it. Someone would say something about me, and I would sit right there, listening to a version of myself I didn't recognize. I had the words. I knew exactly what I wanted to say. But I knew better than to say them. I had already learned what happened when I did. Sometimes it was the look. Sometimes the raised voice. Sometimes the rod. And sometimes, before anyone had to do anything, I silenced myself. I remember standing there with so much to say, feeling like my mouth belonged to somebody else. Like I had been given a voice but not permission to use it. So I stayed quiet. But the words didn't disappear. They followed me home. They waited until the room was quiet, then came back. I should have said this. Why couldn't I explain myself? Why was a question treated like disrespect? The older I got, the harder it became to swallow everything. I began noticing things I couldn't unsee. Things that didn't become right simply because someone older had said they were. That frightened me. Not because I had nothing to say. Because I had too much. I had spent so many years keeping words behind my teeth that I no longer knew what would happen when I finally let them out. Still, I spoke. I remember the first time. The hesitation. That small pause where an old warning rose in my head. Should I really say this? I said it anyway. Nothing dramatic happened. The room was still there. The people were still there. And so was I. But something had shifted. I had crossed a line I'd spent years being afraid of, and once I crossed it, I couldn't pretend the line was as powerful as I'd believed. There is a boy I keep coming back to—the one sitting with his hands in his lap, a whole sentence sitting behind his teeth, watching the adults decide what was true. If I could sit beside him now, I wouldn't tell him to be brave. I'd just say it for him. Whatever it was. I don't even need to know. I'd let him watch someone say it and survive it. That's all he needed. Not permission. Proof. I am still learning when a word needs to leave my mouth and when silence is enough. But I know what it cost me to keep swallowing every sentence. I don't want to pay that price again. So if the words come, I will let them come. If the story is mine, I will tell it. And this time, I won't leave the ending behind my teeth.

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