From Me to You, My War Cry

Image source: @octavia_tomyn_art on instagram

Author’s Note: “From Me to You, My War Cry” was written as a letter to my mother, grappling with the weight of generational trauma, cultural inheritance, and resilience. It explores the intersection of family, identity, and mental health, while serving as both a lament and a declaration of love.

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Mommy,

Do you regret it?

The choice that you made all those years back.

The world you knew suddenly being pulled from under you.

Your naivete, like swirling dust, blinded you.

In the old world you knew you might’ve never known my father

Fate is funny that way.

War you ran from sent you to the refugee camp where you met him.

You thought he was just like you.

Thought like you,

God-filled like you.

The devil’s mark was on him, your parents smelled it.

Why didn’t you listen to them?

What was it about him that you placed all your trust in?

You leaped into marriage faith first,

passport freshly stamped with refugee visa.

Then, you had me.

Do you regret it?

Having me?

I know you love me.

Because I come from you, so you have to

And you bare pieces of your fragmented destiny to me

through tough love and forewarnings, you warn me.

to be smarter than you were

To know who I will marry.

If God showed you all you would pass through, would you do it again?

I don’t want you to.

I think of who you could’ve been. I cry for her at my altar,

questioning fates hand.

My siblings and I exist, and your suffering is offhand.

I think of who you would be.

if the Kono woman could live in Freetown and be free

but I know it’s deeper than me.

Dads’ family

They tried to make my mommy a martyr.

And I’m their next victim.

This curse is sickening.

A large family full of scorned women,

who swallow their fire and quietly raise their children,

tolerating the toxic traditions they pass down to us.

Because -what will everyone else think?

Unbeknownst to mast- elders

The gossiper’s gaze is minor.

in juxtaposition to the eyes of proverbs 15:3

I noticed it after that one incident, by now it’s too late for both of us to escape.

Indentured servitude is our only option,

and I’ll gladly serve my sentence with you

I’ll serve it for you.

I’ll suffer if it means you sigh relief.

You are my creator.

You work till skylight to see me eat.

I want to feed you.

Before he martyrs you,

He’ll murder me.