I AM ZAINAB- reclaiming identity and voice in defiance of shame (SILENT CRIES)

I gathered up every fragment of courage I could muster, the kind that hides in the cracks of broken things. My hands trembled as I stood before her, my voice shaking as I said the words I’d buried for so long. “Mom,” I whispered. “I need to tell you something. I was abused.” Her eyes snapped to mine, sharp and cold. I expected surprise, maybe sorrow—but what came next shattered me. “Oh, you stupid, ungrateful child,” she spat, her voice like poison. “You think I don’t know? You think I haven’t seen the way you looked at him? My husband. You were trying to seduce him, weren’t you?” The ground beneath me seemed to tilt. My knees buckled slightly as my chest tightened, a fresh wave of disbelief crashing over me. I choked on a sob. “Mom,” I cried, “I would never… I would never do anything like that. I was abused. I needed help. I needed you.” But she turned her face away, as if my pain was too repulsive to look at. “Enough,” she said, her voice now eerily calm. “Don’t you dare tell anyone about this. Don’t bring shame to this family. We’ve suffered enough.” And that was it. No hug. No comfort. No belief. That day, I felt my world crumble beneath my feet. Something broke inside me—something that might never fully heal. The one person I had desperately hoped would hold me, would fight for me, turned her back and sharpened the knife instead. I began to question everything. Could a mother—my mother—truly be an Abiamo, as the Yoruba say? A mother whose heart beats in rhythm with her child’s pain? Or was she something else entirely—hard, impenetrable, empty of the instinct to protect? But then, the worst thought of all whispered into my ear, curling around my soul like smoke: Maybe she was right. Maybe I wasn’t the victim. Maybe it was all my fault. Maybe I was the reason this happened to me. That thought stayed with me, poisoning everything good I tried to feel about myself. It made me ashamed of my reflection, afraid of my own memory. And though deep down, a small voice cried out that I was just a child, that I was innocent—I could no longer trust that voice. I had spoken my truth and been punished for it. Not by a stranger. Not by my abuser. But by my mother. That day, I knew I had to bury the truth deep inside me—so deep that even I would forget where I left it. It had no place in the world I lived in. A world that twisted pain into shame, silence into survival. Not all stories are fairy tales. Not all cries are answered. And not all wounds are visible. I was a victim, but somehow, I was made to feel like a villain. Like I had asked for it. Like I had opened the door and invited the monster in. What was she wearing? they always ask. As if cloth could consent. As if bare skin ever means "yes." I was a child, barely even aware of my own body, let alone anyone else’s intentions. But still, the questions echoed. Maybe she flirted. Maybe she seduced him. They say it like it’s logical. Like a child could orchestrate such betrayal. They don’t want to believe the truth, so they mold it into something easier to swallow. Something uglier. Something that fits the silence. The other day, I came across a post. It said that for many women, their first sexual experience wasn’t one of love, or consent, or choice. It was rape. That truth hit me like cold water in my lungs. I wasn’t alone—but the realization didn’t bring comfort. It brought sorrow. Grief for the versions of us that were taken too soon. Grief for the innocence buried beneath suspicion and shame. They taught us to be ashamed of our pain. To carry it like a secret scar, hidden behind polite smiles and lowered eyes. And when we finally dared to speak, they asked the wrong questions. They searched our stories for holes instead of holding our hands. Maybe that’s why I stopped speaking. Maybe that’s why I learned to smile through the silence. Because in a world that punishes the truth, survival sometimes looks like pretending nothing ever happened. But the truth never dies. It just waits. Quietly. Inside. I AM ZAINAB. And though I have been through fire, though my soul has been scorched by betrayal, I stand. Burned—but not broken. For so long, I was taught to swallow my pain, to clench my fists and hold my breath through the worst of the storms. But I survived. And survival, in a world that tried to silence me, is a revolution. They tried to make me feel like I was nothing. Like I was the cause of my own suffering. But I am done believing lies. I was a child.I was innocent.And what happened to me was not my fault. They shamed me. They questioned me. They turned away when I needed them most. But their denial will not define me. Because I have something they will never take: My story. And in that story, I am not just a victim—I am a witness. A truth-bearer. A warrior made from fire and heartbreak. My pain has a name. My survival has meaning. My voice has power. So yes, I have scars. I carry shadows. But I also carry strength. I AM ZAINABA VOICE THAT CAN NEVER BE SILENCEDTHE VOICE TO THE VOICELESS.And this is only the beginning.

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