VIVA VOCA (second edition) BY Afolabi Oluwafunmilayo

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VIVA VOCE (SECOND EDITION)
I paced up and down the changing room while I anticipated for my name to be called. I have tried all I could to avoid me this embarrassment but the school principal made it clear that each of the J.S.S 3 students must make a presentation on the school graduation day and the least I could do was to sing the school anthem. That shouldn’t be much of a task right?
I collected the microphone almost immediately I heard my name and mounted the stage with my jelly like leg. Nudged by the thunderous applause from the audience, I smiled as I glanced at the crowd while I waited for the leading sound of the piano, but then I saw my father. His stern look terrified me as I remembered his warning “hope you are fully prepared? Don’t go and disgrace me in school today o! If not, mtchew, olodo, good for nothing child” he said. Right beside him sat my mum still hailing with her clap but then the smile on her face changed into that of disappointment spiced with anger almost immediately I saw her, and that was when I realised I have been standing for too long without singing and she is disappointed in me again. If I were to be home I know what I would have gotten from her rolling tongue.
“No, I won’t let this happen” I said to myself as I tried to sing the first line of the anthem. “Ttttooo...Co...”, I stuttered as the lyrics faded from my brain. My hand got sweaty and I didn’t know when the microphone fell. The noise was unbearable. I blocked my ears with my hands as I ran offstage with teary eyes. Now I believe I am a loser.
 “What happened?” My friend asked. “She is shy”, my teacher said, “don’t mind her she is just being lazy” my mother answered.
I am not shy, I am only scared, not of talking but of the pain that comes with rejection. I am not lazy, I am only scared, not of trying but of the pain that comes with losing, especially when my act doesn’t please you. Coward, loser, dotard, failure, dumb, fool and many more names you have called me, yet you never cared to ask WHY? After all I wasn’t born like this. Instead I grew to be what you have sown into me. Yes! You built me into this. “How?” Mother asked. “Mummy do you remember my favourite pot?” I asked. “The silver one you mean?” She answered. “Yes, the silver one,” I answered.
“I couldn’t stop doting on mama’s silver pot, its argent nature mesmerise me. The pot with a lustre that glitters even in the beam of the darkest night. It is a distinct work of art with no emulation. It’s opening is covered with a glass crown, at the centre of this crown lies a golden globe that distinguished the pot from every other pots in the kitchen. Every meal from that pot was a delectable one and when I praised the pot for its meal you told me it was not just the pot that made the meal sumptuous but what you put into the pot. ‘Mummy, What if I broke the glass cover will you still cook with the pot?’ I asked. ‘Certainly not, I cant cook with a pot that has no cover,’ she answered. ‘Oh!’ I exclaimed. ‘Mummy, will you be angry at the pot because you can no longer cook with it.’ I asked again. ‘No, I wont but I will be angry at you for breaking the cover.’ She replied. ‘Hum!’ I sighed. So mummy why? Why did you join others in breaking my crown? When you know I am of no value without my cover. ‘What crown,’ she asked? ‘My confidence’ I said. Mummy I am your pot and my confidence is what crowns me, without it I am just a container of no value, and my purpose will forever be forgotten. So now you know, my problem is LOW – SELF ESTEEM. I wasn’t born with it, you sowed it into me and yet you blame me for the harm you’ve caused. ‘How?’ You asked, but I say: what if? A little more of your time I could get, and a little more praise you could give. I’m not asking too much, after all that is what is expected of you as my mother. Father, what if? Your anger you can keep and every mistake I made is not compensated with aggressive lashes and negative words. I know, you are to put me on the right path but only with love will I learn not out of fear. Every minute things you ignored matters in building me, and every form of abuse, criticism and negative words I’m subjected to has cut me down bit by bit and made me inferior. I am a pot and it is what you put into me that I will give to you. I am afraid of trying new things because you have made me believe I am nothing and all I am now is a child that only wants to please you while my passion remains buried in the fear you have birthed.”
However it is not too late, I can be a pot again if you will fix my glass cover and replace my crown. I can make you proud and my life delectable meal it can make for you but only if you will raise me with love.
.....Silence we will be no more
By Afolabi Oluwafunmilayo,
For Rising Child Foundation