All in Personal Essay

Thirteen years ago today, my mother knocked on my bedroom door around midnight, and I told her to come in. For some reason though, my door was stuck, and my uncle had to break down the door before my mother could come in. As soon as my mother sat on my bed, I knew what she was going to say. I knew that my father had passed away, after a two-year battle with brain cancer.

Memoirs Of A Naijamerican Bride III: A Doubt Stained Love Story (Or: How I Dealt With Premarital Anxiety)

What if we shined light on the cracks more often? What if our descriptions of our journeys are the maps that those behind us desperately need? And no, I am not suggesting that we gather all our dirty laundry and air them in the market place. But as discretion guides us, can we at least put our clean laundry out in the sun? Can we acknowledge that the clean clothing we dress our tales in, once had dirt that came out in a rinse?