There are wounds you can't show anyone, especially the kind that don't bleed.
I washed my remaining pair of trousers that night, scrubbing the knees like that could erase the shame of sitting in that interview room. The water turned brown fast—dust, sweat, disappointment—all swirling in the plastic basin like a visual metaphor for my life. As I rinsed, my fingers cramped. I hadn't eaten all day, not properly. Garri and Milo wasn't food—it was surrender.
My neighbor's generator came on, loud and steady. The kind of sound rich people never have to deal with. I sat by my window, shirt damp, feet bare, stomach hollow. It wasn't just hunger. It was that other emptiness. The one that starts in your chest and spreads like wet cloth soaking up sorrow, that was when I saw the email. My phone had clung to 3% battery long enough for it to buzz—a new message from TalentLink Africa. Subject line: "Thank you for applying."
The body of the email didn't matter. I already knew how it ended.
"...unfortunately, you were not selected…"
Of course I wasn't. This was the fifth writing fellowship I'd been rejected from this year. And the third that hadn't even bothered to use my name in the rejection letter. I dropped the phone, turned off the screen. No point wasting battery on another closed door.
I lay back on the floor, my laundry dripping in the bucket beside me, the heat sticking to my body like shame. My hands trembled. My mouth went dry. I tried to cry, nothing came out, it had been months since I'd cried. Not because I didn't want to, but because I was past tears. Grief had hardened into something else—quiet, heavy, permanent.
I remember when I could cry at anything—a sad movie, a careless word, a missed phone call. But now? Now my sadness had teeth. It chewed me from the inside. Left no water, just wounds. There are days when I wish I had visible pain. A limp. A scar. Something people could see and say, "Ah, this girl has been through it." But how do you show people exhaustion? Not the physical kind—no. I mean the kind of exhaustion that makes your bones feel like sand. Invisible battles are the worst, because no one sees them, so no one believes you're losing. My phone blinked once more before dying. A message from someone named Pastor Chidi Prayer Group:
"Good news is coming your way this week. Type AMEN if you believe!"
I laughed. For real. The kind of laugh that feels like it might tip into screaming. I didn't type Amen. I deleted the message.
Let the good news come uninvited, if it dares.
I closed my eyes, and whispered—not a prayer, just a sentence.
"I don't know how much longer I can do this."
Then I slept. Not peacefully. Not soundly. Just enough to forget for a few hours that my life felt like a punishment without a crime.