The Day I Walked Out

By Diane Godwin, Abuja, Nigeria

I grew up in Abuja, where the air hums with traffic and ambition. Everywhere you turn, there’s a plan for who you should be, how you should live, and the right way to dream. For me, that dream was already decided before I was old enough to choose—medicine.

My father, a civil servant, always said, “Doctors are respected everywhere. You’ll never go hungry if you wear the white coat.” My mother, though softer, repeated the same tune. “Medicine is the future, Diane. Be wise and follow it.”

So I studied. I memorized chemical formulas, drew neat diagrams of cells, and solved equations until the numbers blurred. But at night, under the faint hum of the ceiling fan, I wrote. Poems, stories, scribbles—words poured out like secrets I could only tell the page.

Yet I never let anyone know. In school, I played the role of the obedient student, quiet and precise, my uniform ironed, my assignments done. I wore my silence like armor, convincing myself that blending in was safer than standing out.

But silence is heavy. It drags you down like wet clothes. The more I tried to carry it, the more it drowned the fire inside me.

The turning point came on an ordinary Thursday at Government Secondary School, Garki. I was meant to present a science project—something about acids and bases. My chart paper and markers were ready, but my notebook of poems burned brighter in my bag.

When the teacher called my name, I stood up, trembling. My classmates expected diagrams and explanations. Instead, I opened the notebook.

The words leapt off the page. I read a poem about chains—chains not made of iron, but of expectations and fears. I spoke about voices locked in silence, about the hunger to breathe freely, to live truthfully.

At first, the class was stone quiet. I felt my heart collapsing. Then, from the back, someone clapped. Another followed. And then, suddenly, the whole room was alive—clapping, cheering, calling my name.

For the first time, I wasn’t invisible. I was seen. I was heard.

That night, Abuja’s noisy streets mirrored my racing thoughts as I walked home. I knew the science project had been left undone, and my parents would be waiting. Sure enough, my father’s voice was sharp the moment I entered.

“Your teacher called. You embarrassed yourself, Diane! Why can’t you just focus on medicine?”

Normally, I would have bowed my head, swallowed my words, and nodded. But something inside me had shifted.

“I don’t want to be a doctor,” I said, my voice shaking but steady enough. “I want to write. That’s who I am.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any I had ever known. My father’s face tightened, my mother’s eyes filled with tears. Harsh words followed—about disappointment, about throwing away my future. But through it all, I felt strangely unbroken.

Because for the first time, I had spoken my truth.

Freedom doesn’t always arrive like a thunderstorm, with lightning and rain. Sometimes it begins as a single word whispered out loud, refusing to be swallowed back. Sometimes it looks like a teenage girl in Abuja, standing in her living room, daring to claim her own voice.

That Thursday, I walked out of silence. And though the road ahead may be filled with arguments, misunderstandings, and battles yet to fight, I know one thing for sure: I am unshackled.

And I will not go back.