Give broken a chance.
Reluctantly, l close Robin Sharmas book The monk who sold his Ferrari. I was so caught up in a world of my own I didnt realize the sun is about to set. The horizon shimmers a beautiful crimson orange, with slight strikes of red on its trailing edges. The chirping birds building a nest on the mango tree branch next to the garden seem to be my only companion in this humid Sub-Saharan night. The stars arent promising to make their glorious appearance in the sky today. Everything seems to be in its right place. As l sit on the wooden bench at the center of mothers rose garden, my thoughts began to wonder off. Reading insightful novels has always been a thought-provoking act for me. Instinctively, my mind goes takes a trip down memory lane, to that one day in particular
He gave her the first punch. I could almost swear l heard a bone crack. In a split second, another one follows. I already knew how the scene in front of me would unfold. I had seen it a countless number of times before to leave room for doubt. Instinctively, l ran to pick-up my 7-months old sister and went to lock ourselves up in the bathroom. I was desperate to save the few shreds of innocence left in her so that she didnt grow up thinking the world was a messed-up place. My brother refused to leave mothers side, so they got beaten up together. I dont remember for how long we stayed in the bathroom. The only thing l remember was father frantically shouting for me to open the door. When l did, he stormed in and went to pour the contents of mothers purse into it. Needless to say, the contents were mainly mothers salary for the month that she had withdrawn from the bank that afternoon. As if on cue, my sister, whom l had safely secured on my miniature back let out an earth-shattering cry
For the thousandth time, l reread the essay prompts and feel sorry for the admissions officer who is going to read this. Even l cant figure out the question to which l am responding. My logical mind wants me to tear this paper like l have done to the seven drafts l wrote before this. And yet a smaller quieter voice inside my heard is screaming for me to tell my story as it is. I do not want to invoke pity in someone, nor do l want to make the admissions officer think l am a broken kid. Like the countless times before, I am stuck trying to run away from the very story that makes me me. As if in cahoots fate, my brain seems to become an abyss of emptiness stretching to infinity whenever l try think of another way to write my personal statement.
Yes, more than a few times l have wished for a better childhood. I have wished for a better father. More importantly, l wonder if l would be the same person l am today had l travelled down experienced a different childhood. Would l appreciate the power that education and women emancipation holds reducing the cases of gender-based violence in our society? Would l fully grasp the effect that every corrupt decision l make whilst serving has on others has had l not witnessed the police officer send mother back home to talk things out with her husband after she asked to filed a report against father? Would l understand the power of standing up for your own rights had l not seen mother walk out the door with nothing but her children to start her life afresh away from violence? Would l know the value of hard work had l not been with her from the day she bought her own fork and spoon set to the day she put the last bit of furniture in her new home?
Frankly speaking, l am still on the road to recovery, but l am proud of how far l come. l have stopped wishing for a make-over. I cant change where l come from or what l have been through, so I why should l be ashamed of what defines me? The sky is jet black now. Only a few stars ignite the sky. Somehow, they resemble my ultimate life goal, to be the best version of me that l can ever be.