being left in the past

Far away from nature and far from anything familiar. His life started like a small seed hidden inside the stomach of an unknown world, tiny, fragile, with no reason for rejection, yet unsure of where he belonged. He grew and moved gently within the creation space of life, still trying to understand himself before he even arrived. The day he entered the world arrived with light and laughter. Wonderful smiles filled the room; sadness had no place there. People waited for him with open arms, as though the Most High had sent him with a quiet purpose. His mother’s face shone with blessing. Friends and family gathered around in the African way, showing concern, love, and joy in every gesture. Some had powder on their faces, a sign of pure happiness for a newborn child blessed with nothing but breath and promise. His siblings admired him with excitement, grateful for his arrival on earth. His father was present, wearing a proud and joyful smile, his only son had finally come. There was music, voices, and merriment surrounding him. A celebration of beginnings. But after that day, life shifted. As he grew slowly from infant to child, the world around him changed. He lost sight of his father, whose presence faded like a memory wrapped in silence. The joyful beginning turned into a childhood shaped by absence and quiet struggle. His mother became everything; parent, protector, teacher, and guide. She carried the weight of two lives, trying to give him a story that resembled a normal childhood. Yet, the reality felt like an Oliver Twist chapter, simple, plain, with no celebrations meant for him. School days were the hardest. He walked through noisy classrooms like a shadow no one paid attention to. He learned differently, felt differently, and struggled silently because no one truly understood how he saw the world. He was alone in his mind, even when surrounded by other children. Still, his mother held on. She pushed through every difficulty, hoping he would grow beyond the limits life placed around him. Even with little, she gave everything. She hoped he would see himself as more than the quiet boy standing apart from others. Through all of this, his vision stayed clear, even if covered by childish mistakes, confusion, and moments of letting people down. His heart carried a quiet truth: he wanted to do better. He wanted to rise above his past, his loneliness, and the invisible weight he carried. He was a child searching for meaning, for belonging, for a path that made sense. A boy shaped by struggle, raised by love, and guided by unseen strength. His story was not perfect, but it was honest. And it was his. The earth changes quietly, yet deeply, so deeply that even a child can feel it pressing against the walls of his small world. I remember watching life shift around me long before I had the language to describe what was happening. The air felt colder, the days longer, the nights heavier. I moved through early childhood with wide, uncertain eyes, trying to make sense of everything I did not understand. As a child, I made many childish friendships, simple bonds created from shared boredom, shared surroundings, and the shared confusion of growing up in a world that felt too large for our small hands. These friends had minds that mirrored mine: restless, curious, wandering but trapped. We tried to invent joy from nothing, tried to build fun in a life that refused to offer it freely. Our laughter was thin, our excitement easily broken. But still, we were children, and children always try. Yet even in that small circle of innocence, I felt distracted. Not by toys, or games, or dreams, but by the sound of her voice. My mother’s voice. It cut through everything: through play, through noise, through childish thoughts. It was not the soft voice of a fairy-tale parent. It was the voice of survival, firm, protective, shaped by the exhaustion of a woman who carried her children on her shoulders and carried her pain in silence. She wanted us close to one another, wanted us to depend on ourselves because she feared the world would not always be there to help us. She wanted unity. She wanted peace. She wanted us safe. My siblings and I learned early what it meant to stay indoors, to stay quiet, to stay still. Life inside those walls felt unfunny, heavy, and slow. The rooms felt like small islands floating in an ocean of uncertainty. Outside, children played in the sun. Inside, we waited. Inside, the air felt dusty with a kind of loneliness that children cannot name but can always feel. And always, always, we wait for my father. Waited for him to walk through the door like in my earliest memories. Waited for his presence to fill the house with laughter or direction or something, anything, that told us we belonged to a whole family. But the waiting stretched into days, into weeks, into months that blurred into each other like water on a dirty window. The waiting became a habit. The hope became a wound. And eventually, reality replaced expectation. He was not coming. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not for us. The nights grew colder because of that truth. The shadows are longer. I began to have dark nightmares, not the kind that vanish when you open your eyes, but the kind that follow you into the morning. Being left in the dark was not just a fear; it was a life I was living. I felt unseen, like invisible eyes watching me from corners I could not reach. I would wake up with my chest heavy, tears drying on my face, my heart pounding like it was trying to escape my small body. Yet I never told anyone. How do you explain fear when your voice is still learning how to exist?