Months passed, and life moved on. Then, one day, my father visited me. We laughed, we talked—he was my everything. He had helped me through so much, and I promised myself I would repay him one day.
Men came into my life, not just for relationships but for marriage. I prayed about it, asking for guidance, for direction.
For a while, things were good.
Until January 20th.
That day is burned into my memory forever.
An urgent call from my mother—my father had been rushed to the hospital. My father, the strongest man I knew, the man who never got sick.
That evening, my friend called me in a panic.
"Who kicked the bucket? Who kicked the bucket? Your aunt is crying so loudly."
My heart dropped. I cut the call immediately and began rebuking the spirit of death. Fear gripped me, but when I called my mother, her voice was steady.
"My daughter, he's fine."
Relief flooded through me. I smiled, forcing myself to believe it. Maybe it was all a misunderstanding.
The next morning, my mother called again.
"You and your brother will come home today. Bring some pears for me and send them through public transport."
I didn't question it. I simply prepared for the trip, excited to see my father again.
But nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to face.
At exactly 6:00 PM, we arrived.
The moment I stepped foot into my father's home, I knew something was terribly wrong.
Tears. Wails. Mourners filling every space.
Water flowed like a river from the eyes of people who had once been full of life. My mind refused to accept it, my heart clinging to denial.
No.
Not my father.
I ran. I ran to the garden, away from the suffocating grief, away from the truth I wasn't ready to face.
I wept, bitterly, uncontrollably. My uncles found me, their voices gentle but firm.
"Be strong. If you cry this much, what do you want your mother to do?"
But I couldn't stop. I called out to the forces, to the spirits, to anything that could hear me. Tears rolled down my cheeks, my heart shattered into pieces.
"The sweetest man in my life has left me. One of my uncles is a black sheep. I'm broken."
I forced myself to walk back, every step heavier than the last.
And then, I saw my mother.
Her sadness was beautiful, yet tragic. Her eyes had given birth to rivers of pain.
She looked at me and whispered, "Forgive me, my daughter. I hid the truth so you wouldn't cry at school."
But I was already frozen.
Because the truth had found me anyway.
And it had broken me completely.
The days that followed were nothing but a blur. A long procession of sympathizers flooded our home, their condolences empty echoes in my ears. The burial arrangements moved swiftly, yet my mind remained trapped in a cycle of disbelief.
Paul came.
He stood beside me, holding my hand as though his touch could stitch the gaping wound in my heart. He didn't speak much, only offering his presence, and for once, I was grateful. Though I had never truly loved him, in that moment, his quiet strength became an anchor in my storm.
But even with him beside me, the world felt cruel.
My father's burial was a moment I wished I could erase. The finality of watching them lower his body into the ground ripped through me, leaving scars I knew would never fade. The soil swallowed him whole, and with him, a part of me disappeared too.
When the funeral ended, life didn't wait for me to heal. I had to return to school, to my routines, to a world that expected me to move on as though nothing had happened. But how could I? How could I pretend that the most important person in my life hadn't just vanished?
I found solace in the culture I had embraced. It became more than just a practice; it became a refuge. The spirits had warned me before, had told me about the cleansing, about the weight I carried unknowingly. Now, I wondered—had they known about my father too? Had they whispered warnings I had been too blind to see?
I became more immersed, desperate to find answers. If I had a destiny, if my path was already written, I needed to know.
Paul noticed the shift in me.
"You've changed," he said one evening, his gaze searching mine. "You're distant, lost in something I can't reach."
I forced a smile. "I'm fine."
But I wasn't.
I had lost too much—friends, trust, love, and now, my father. Pain had become my therapy, my closest companion. I no longer feared heartbreak or betrayal. I expected them. They were the only constants in my life.
One night, unable to sleep, I sat alone, staring at the moon. A question burned in my mind—who was I now? A grieving daughter? A lost soul searching for meaning? A girl playing pretend in a love she didn't feel?
I closed my eyes and whispered to the universe, to the spirits, to whoever was listening:
"What is my purpose?"
The wind howled in response, carrying with it an answer I wasn't ready to hear.