The Weight of Being Me

It starts with a poster taped to the back of the English Department door:

*"National Young Voices Writing Contest — Theme: Becoming"*

The word hits me like a whisper I didn't know I needed.

*Becoming.*

Not *healed.*

Not *perfect.*

Just *becoming.*

---

Tari sees me staring at it. He reads the poster, then looks at me.

"That's yours," he says, no hesitation.

I shake my head. "I'm not ready."

He folds his arms. "When will you be?"

I don't answer.

Because I don't know.

---

Later that night, I sit in my room, flipping through old journals—pages full of poems I never showed anyone.

Some raw. Some bitter.

All true.

Nene walks in, chewing gum like it's a rebellion.

She picks up a page.

Reads.

Then looks at me like I'm the sunrise.

"You know this isn't just writing, right? This is testimony."

I roll my eyes. "Don't go full TED Talk on me."

She grins. "Too late."

---

It takes three days to convince myself to enter.

Three days of doubt.

Of imposter syndrome whispering: *You? What do you have to say?*

But I write.

Not for the judges.

Not even for the prize.

.For the version of me who thought silence was safer than story.

---

The submission piece is a letter in poem form.

*"To the Girl I Buried So I Could Survive"*

*You were never too much.

Just too tender for a world that eats softness.

You were never broken.

Just reshaped by pain no child should carry.*

*This isn't an apology.

It's a welcome home.*

---

I hit *send* on the submission before I can talk myself out of it.

Then I close the laptop and exhale.

Not victory.

Not pride.

Just… release.

---

Two weeks pass.

The contest isn't even on my mind anymore. Life goes on—lectures, laughter, late nights with Nene, coffee runs with Tari, and occasional silence when the past visits uninvited.

---

Then one morning, an email notification lights up my phone.

*Subject:* *Congratulations – Shortlisted Finalist*

I stare.

Blink.

Stare again.

---

Nene screams first.

Then spins me in circles until we're both dizzy.

"You did it, girl! You bared your soul and it made *waves!*"

Tari takes the phone, reads the email quietly, then looks at me like I've just rewritten gravity.

"I told you," he says, voice warm. "That story was always waiting to matter."

I laugh, teary. "What if I don't win?"

"You already did."

---

The shortlisted finalists are invited to Abuja for the finals. I almost say no.

But then I remember what becoming means.

Not waiting to feel whole before moving.

Just… moving anyway.

---

The weekend of the event, I travel.

Suitcase light. Heart heavier.

Tari sees me off at the station.

He gives me a journal.

"It's empty," he says. "For what you'll write next."

I nod, but I don't cry.

Not yet.

---

In Abuja, I'm surrounded by voices. Young writers. Brave ones.

Their stories echo mine. Not in details, but in emotion. In ache. In hope.

We are strangers bound by the same wound: survival.

---

When I step onstage to read my piece, the world stills.

I speak not as the girl who was left, broken, forgotten…

But as the woman who chose to speak anyway.

---

And when the applause comes—loud, unfiltered—I don't think about winning.

I think about that yellow dress.

About the silence.

About the fire.

And how it never really went out.

---