The Weight of Being Me

Johannesburg greets us with sun-split skies, unfamiliar roads, and a feeling that tastes like freedom laced with fear.

We land with two suitcases, a shared Google doc of goals, and enough love to start a small revolution.

Our apartment is on the third floor of a quiet building near Braamfontein.

One room, no air conditioning, but a tiny balcony that overlooks the city lights.

Tari calls it *"home with a heartbeat."*

I call it *"ours."*

---

The first week is clumsy.

Tari forgets how to reset the stove.

I accidentally pay double for a taxi.

We get lost looking for the nearest grocery store and end up eating crackers for dinner.

But we laugh.

So much.

Because starting over doesn't feel like losing.

It feels like learning.

---

I get invited to co-facilitate a youth writing workshop in Soweto.

The students are loud, bright, curious.

They ask questions I'm still asking myself:

"Ma'am, how do you know if your voice matters?"

"Have you ever hated your own story?"

"What if the world isn't ready for your truth?"

I answer honestly.

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Tell it anyway."

---

That night, I lie in bed beside Tari and whisper, "Do you ever wonder if we're doing the right thing?"

He turns, sleepy-eyed. "All the time."

"Does that scare you?"

He smiles. "Yeah. But being brave isn't the same as being certain."

---

By month three, Tari is dancing nearly every day.

His face is on posters around the city. His name, whispered backstage.

He's magnetic on stage—unapologetic, electric.

But offstage?

He's tired.

Quieter.

He comes home late with sore muscles and eyes that don't always meet mine.

---

One night, after his performance, I notice him flinch when a fan hugs him.

Later, in our kitchen, he drops his bag too hard.

I say gently, "You okay?"

He nods.

Then lies.

And I let him.

Because sometimes, even love needs space to breathe.

---

Meanwhile, my writing is growing louder.

I've been invited to speak on a national radio show about youth, identity, and African storytelling.

Producers call me "a new voice for the generation."

But with visibility comes weight.

I stay up at night responding to messages from girls who say:

*"You made me feel seen."*

*"How do I survive this stage of my life?"*

And I don't always have the answers.

I just write what I know.

And hope it's enough.

---

Then comes the secret.

Small. Unspoken. But growing.

I've been late.

Not just with my period—but with my words, my clarity, my calm.

I take the test in the early morning. Alone.

Two pink lines.

And for the first time in a long time—

I'm afraid.

Not of being a mother.

But of becoming someone new, again.

Without warning. Without a plan.

---

*Excerpt from Ayanna's journal:*

*Love is not always a firework.*

*Sometimes it's a whisper on the bathroom floor at 6 a.m., saying: "Okay. Let's figure this out."*

*Even if you're figuring it out alone.*

---