Breaking the Silence

By Diane Godwin, Abuja, Nigeria

The sun was setting over Abuja, smearing the sky with strokes of orange and purple. From the balcony of their flat in Gwarinpa, Adaeze could see the bustle of the city—green taxis honking impatiently, hawkers weaving between cars with sachet water and plantain chips, and schoolchildren in faded uniforms walking home in noisy groups.

But Adaeze sat quietly, hugging her knees. She was fifteen, and silence had become her second skin.

Inside, her father’s voice thundered. He had returned from work with his usual tiredness that often turned into sharp words.

“You must pass this WAEC exam with distinction,” he barked. “No excuses, Ada. You hear me? Distinction!”

Adaeze nodded, though her throat felt tight. What she wanted to say—what she always wanted to say—stayed locked in her chest. She didn’t want to be a doctor like her father demanded. She didn’t even like science. Her heart beat for music. She wanted to sing, to perform, to let her voice carry her to places she had never been.

But in her father’s house, dreams had rules.

Every evening after assignments, Adaeze would sneak to the back of the compound, where the mango tree grew tall and unruly. There, she would sing softly into the wind. Afrobeats, gospel, even songs she made up—her voice filled the small corner, free and unjudged.

Her younger brother, Chuka, sometimes joined her, tapping rhythms on an old bucket. He was the only one who knew her secret.

“One day, you’ll sing in front of the whole world,” Chuka whispered one evening, his eyes bright.

Adaeze laughed, shaking her head. “Papa would never allow it.”

“Then don’t ask for permission,” Chuka said simply.

His words stayed with her, heavy and daring.

The chance came unexpectedly. One Monday morning during assembly, the principal announced:

“Our school will be hosting an inter-school talent competition in two weeks. Singing, dancing, drama—anyone can audition. This is your chance to represent us.”

The crowd buzzed with excitement. Students whispered about forming dance crews or practicing comedy skits. Adaeze’s heart pounded. She could already hear the song she wanted to sing, one she had written herself, about finding light in the middle of shadows.

But fear followed quickly. What if Papa finds out?

She tried to bury the thought. For days, she told herself she would not audition. Yet, every night under the mango tree, her song grew stronger, demanding to be heard.

Finally, with Chuka’s encouragement, she signed her name on the audition list.

The day of the audition, Adaeze’s legs shook as she climbed the stage in the school hall. The judges—a group of teachers and senior students—watched with arms folded. The hall was filled with murmuring students.

Adaeze took the microphone. For a moment, the silence threatened to choke her. Then she closed her eyes and remembered the mango tree. She remembered the feeling of wind carrying her voice, the freedom in singing to no one and everyone at once.

She opened her mouth, and the first notes spilled out.

The hall went quiet. Her voice soared, clear and steady, weaving through the lyrics of her song:

“I was born with a voice, not a cage,
I was born with a fire, not a chain,
Hear me rise, hear me fly,
I am free, I am mine.”

When she finished, the hall erupted in cheers. Even some teachers stood to clap. Adaeze’s chest heaved, not just from singing, but from the shock of being seen.

She made it through. She was selected to represent her school in the competition.

That evening, Adaeze tried to hide her joy, but Chuka spilled the news at dinner.

“Adaeze is going to represent the school in the singing competition!” he blurted.

Their father’s spoon clattered against his plate.

“What nonsense?” he barked. “Adaeze, is this true?”

Adaeze swallowed hard. “Yes, Papa. I auditioned. I was selected.”

“You are wasting time! Singing will not pay your school fees or build your future! You will focus on your exams, do you hear me? Withdraw immediately.”

Her mother tried to calm him, but his words fell like hammers. Adaeze’s throat burned, but this time, something inside her refused to stay silent.

“Papa,” she whispered, then louder, “Papa, this is my dream. I want to sing. I can study, but I also want to sing. Please, let me try.”

The room froze. Her father stared at her as if she had spoken rebellion itself.

“You are disobeying me,” he said coldly.

Adaeze’s hands trembled, but her voice was steady. “I am choosing myself.”

That night, her father didn’t speak to her. But Adaeze felt strangely lighter, as if a door had cracked open inside her chest.

On the day of the competition, the school bus carried the contestants to the large auditorium in Wuse. Students from all over Abuja gathered, some in glittering costumes, others with instruments slung over their shoulders.

Backstage, Adaeze’s fear returned. She heard dancers practicing flips, comedians cracking jokes, singers warming up. Her palms grew damp.

“What if I mess up?” she whispered to Chuka, who had insisted on sneaking along.

“You won’t,” he said firmly. “Because this is who you are.”

When her name was called, Adaeze stepped onto the stage. The lights blinded her, the crowd looked endless. For a moment, she froze.

Then she saw a familiar face in the audience—her mother, sitting quietly, eyes full of encouragement. Her father wasn’t there, but in her heart, Adaeze carried the courage to sing anyway.

And so she did.

Her song rose through the auditorium, weaving hope into every corner. The crowd swayed, clapped, and cheered as her voice carried. She sang not just for herself, but for every teen who had ever been told to stay silent, to bury their dreams.

When the applause came, it felt like thunder.

Adaeze didn’t win first place. She came second. But in her heart, she had already won something greater.

At home, her father remained silent for days. Then, one evening, as Adaeze studied at the dining table, he cleared his throat.

“I heard about your performance,” he said gruffly. “The principal called.”

Adaeze froze, bracing for anger.

Instead, he sighed. “You sang well. But don’t let it distract you from your studies. Balance, Adaeze. Balance.”

It wasn’t approval. Not yet. But it wasn’t rejection either. It was a crack in the wall, a possibility.

Adaeze smiled faintly. “Yes, Papa.”

Inside, though, she whispered to herself: I will not stop singing. I will never stop.

Months later, Adaeze continued singing under the mango tree, but now, she no longer sang in secret. Her classmates often begged her to perform at events, and her songs began to spread beyond the school walls.

She knew the road ahead would not be easy. There would be exams, responsibilities, and battles with expectations. But Adaeze had tasted freedom, and freedom once tasted could not be forgotten.

She was no longer just the quiet girl in Gwarinpa.

She was Adaeze- the girl who broke the silence.

And nothing could chain her voice again.