I was born where leaves held witness.
Where a young girl became mother with no applause,
And the banana grove cradled my first scream.
I bled before I spoke.
I burnt before I walked.
And they named it a sickle cell crisis—
But I call it origin.
My first pain did not ask for permission.
It came wrapped in wind
and lingered long enough to build mythology in my marrow.
They diagnosed me at four.
But my bones already knew.
They had memorised ‘Fever’ like scripture.
twisted into shapes that hospitals mistook for chaos.
Now I return to the grove.
Not for answers,
but to lay down a wristband like an offering,
to pour warm water as prayer,
to say: this body holds memory,
but refuses erasure.
My first crisis is archived in soil.
It is not forgotten—
It is transformed.
I wear it now as a ritual:
A fire circle in my chest.
A chant in my veins.
A softness in my resistance.
So let no form say final.
Let no chart say complete.
I am still scripting the footnotes of my healing.
And my pain?
It speaks now.
In my own voice.
In every page I’ve refused to leave blank.