The Only Stage

By Gbadebo John Oluwatomilayo, Federal University Oye Ekiti

Age:19

I remember the chill of the air on my palms, wet with fear. That was my life. Every time I had to stand up in class, at a family dinner, even just to answer a question, my heart became a trapped bird, fluttering against my ribs until I thought they might break. I was a whisper, trapped in a body that wanted to scream. I saw the audience, a sea of waiting faces, and the words I needed to say would scatter like sand in a strong wind. My throat would seize, and my voice, when it finally escaped, was a thin, shaking thing that made me feel small and weak. I knew I disappointed everyone, but mostly, I disappointed the quiet hope inside me that wished I could just be normal.

The worst moment was the school assembly. I had to read a short passage. I walked up to the microphone, and the whole world turned into a buzzing white noise. The light on the stage felt like a giant eye staring only at my failure. I could not read the first word. My legs shook. Tears of shame burned in my eyes, but I swallowed them down. I just whispered, “I can’t,” and walked away, the sound of my retreating footsteps echoing louder than any word I was meant to say. That day, I went home and thought my life would always be a series of retreats, a story told in silence.

Then, one evening, I was alone in my room. A song on the radio with a deep and sad melody caught my attention. My hand reached for the guitar my father had left in the corner, covered in dust. I didn’t plan to play. I didn’t plan to sing. But as I touched the strings, a note came out. It was true, steady, and clear. Then came another note, and then a line, and soon, I was singing the deep ache in my chest. The melody was simple, the words were clumsy, but for the first time, my voice felt like it belonged to me. It wasn’t a scared bird; it was a powerful river.

I sang every day after that. I sang in the shower, under my breath during class, and late into the night in my room. My dream wasn’t to speak; it was to sing. I understood then what was happening. Standing before people to talk felt like holding up a piece of glass to be judged. But standing before people to sing felt like opening my heart and offering them a piece of the truest, warmest part of myself.

The transformation was slow, like the first green leaves in spring, but it happened. When the school held its talent show, my friends urged me to sign up. The memory of the assembly was a knot in my stomach. But my dream, my beautiful, resonant dream, was louder. I chose a song about finding your voice.

I walked onto that stage, the same stage that had seen my great failure. The lights were still bright, the faces were still waiting. But this time, I didn’t see a judging crowd; I saw people waiting to listen to my truth. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and the first chord rang out. When I opened my mouth, the sound that came out was rich, strong, and honest. I wasn’t performing; I was sharing a secret. I saw one girl in the front row wiping a tear from her cheek. I saw a teacher nod slowly, a look of profound understanding on her face. In that moment, the stage wasn’t a terrifying place anymore. It was my home.

I finally understood: The power of a dream is not just that it gives you a goal, but that it gives you a voice you can trust. The scared boy who ran away was gone. I was standing there, a singer who had found his purpose in a simple song, and the music in my heart was a promise that I would never be silent again. My life changed not when the world stopped being scary, but when I finally found the one thing worth singing about.