1
As you make your way to the stage, your legs tremble, but you pray in your heart that they won’t betray you with a misstep on the stairs. A round of applause erupts from the audience as you reach the podium. Your heart pounds like your mother pounding yam in the mortar, each thud sending shivers through your bones. Sweat pours down your face, feeling like a punishment from God. You bow your head and try to part your lips to deliver this hell of a speech you’ve been practising for two weeks. Your mother’s ears were never at rest with your daily practice sessions. Your sister, Grace, grew bored of listening to you. The mirror in your room had grown fond of seeing your pretty face, but today it wasn’t your mirror looking at you. It wasn’t your mother’s ears, waiting to hear every sweet and true word you utter. It was a crowd of people, sitting tightly in their seats, waiting for a twelve-year-old girl named Anna from the 8th grade to read a two-page motivational script, written by her English teacher, who feels everyone in the hall needs to hear something encouraging before the program commences. You groan inside.
2
You had already carved every word of the speech into your memory, but now your thoughts scatter like broken glass upon seeing these faces with different expressions. Some are friendly and smiling, while the majority are serious, with their hands cupped at their chins, waiting for something intriguing. The clapping stops. It is time to read your speech. You introduce yourself with a trembling voice. As you begin to read, your voice cracks, and the words jumble, but you press on because you desperately want to return to the comfort of your home. As you leave the stage, the applause from the audience isn’t as loud as when you made your debut. You know you didn’t do well. Without waiting to witness the rest of the program, you silently depart for home.
3
Back home, you struggle to meet your own gaze in the mirror. If it could speak, it might have taunting words for you. You wait for your sister to get home from work and your mother from the market, expecting them to scold you for blundering. Grace’s annoyance cuts through the silence as she listens to you lament your failure.
“After scattering your voice all over the house, you went and blundered things up,” she mumbles.
“Next time, I will tell Teacher Johnson not to include you in any commencement at the school. I don’t want you making yourself ashamed in front of your peers,” your mother frowns.
At school, the students watch a video of the program in the cafeteria during recess. You sit not far away, listening to Blessing fluently read her recitation. She is your classmate. This feels like a punch in the face. If Blessing can command the crowd to keep applauding until she takes her seat after her performance, why can’t you? Now, your soul foams like Saba powder soap mixed in water. You wish to time travel and make the crowd your fans.
4
You hurried to the teachers’ lounge to meet Mr. Johnson and appeal to him. You want to show the other students that you can do better. But your mother has already phoned him and requested that he stop pushing you behind the podium. “I can’t include your name on the program sheet for the school’s upcoming gala day. Your mother does not want this. Besides, how sure are you that you’re ready to face the crowd?” he asked.
“My voice is pleading to be heard by a room crowded with people. It doesn’t care if their faces are frightening or happy. It just wants to engulf the room and be listened to.” You have just spilt those words without feeling a crack in your heart. You have said your truth. Now, you’re free.
Mr. Johnson once again squeezed your name among the list of students who are to perform on gala day, despite the appeal from your mother. This time, you’re to read a poem that Mr Johnson has written in honour of Peter, who passed away from the 10th grade a few weeks ago. He was a joker, always spreading laughter in every classroom he entered. That’s why everyone carries him in their hearts.
5
Today, the second chance you cried for is at your doorstep. The hall is crowded. It feels like the fear that once captured you and had slowly let loose is creeping back in. Thick silence handcuffs the room. The program has commenced. You’re quietly seated, waiting to be called on stage. Other students have done their part. It’s your time to do the thing that wasn’t your thing. As you make your way, the crowd claps. Now you’re wondering, what if you stumble over your words again? What if you make a fool of yourself in front of everyone?
The sound of clapping fades away. Now you’re standing behind the podium with all your “what if” questions. You annoyingly pinch the baby finger on your left hand. You recall listening to Blessing doing her part. The ultimate feeling that held you in that moment comes back to swallow your nervousness.
Now, you’re reading the poem. Pronouncing every word with care. Keeping control of your tone. The crowd is captured, silently listening to this voice that has come to unravel the power it didn’t know existed.