The hospital smells like bleach and half-mended prayers. Mama’s hands rest on my ankle—swollen again—and I pretend not to wince. I’ve learned to treat pain like an old friend who overstays their welcome: nod, breathe, endure.
They call it sickle cell disorder in charts and whispers. I call it the thief of mornings. It robs me of dawn walks, hot breakfasts, the certainty that my body will rise without a fight.
But what they don’t always name is the second ghost. Depression.
Not the sobbing kind. Not even the quiet kind. Mine arrives dressed as fog—soft, clinging. It seeps into my joints like the disease itself, making heaviness feel familiar. I start skipping pills, then meals, then memories. Days blur.
One nurse, Afiya, notices. She doesn’t ask if I’m sad. She asks when I last felt like myself. I say, “Before my cousin died in this same ward.” She nods. She doesn’t flinch.
We start talking. Not about healing, but about making space for grief without shame. She tells me healing isn’t linear—it zigzags, stutters, sometimes pauses for months.
So I begin again. With a pen this time. Writing my body back to me. Naming the pain, the fog, the loneliness—not to escape them, but to understand their rhythm.