ADURAGBEMI- A DEFINING MOMENT

<img src="/media/inline_insight_image/file_00000000d7b861f48c1ed6ab85dbd152_1.png" style="background-color: transparent;"/>I remember vividly an event that, to this day, I believe shaped my childhood. It was supposed to be a normal afternoon. School had just closed, and I was walking home alone, clutching my worn-out bag close to my chest. The sun was high, beating down on my skin, but my mind was already at home, hoping there’d be something decent to eat. Then I heard the voice I hated more than the sound of hunger. “Adura! So you’re still forming important, abi?” It was Nnamdi. Again. I sighed and kept walking. He jogged to catch up, his stupid grin on his face, like he enjoyed making my life miserable. “I said I’m talking to you,” he said, stepping in front of me.“Nnamdi, please I don’t have your time today,” I muttered, trying to move past him. But he blocked my path, snatched my bag from my shoulder, and laughed as he tossed it to the ground. It landed with a loud tear—the side ripped open, and my books spilled out into the dust That was my only school bag. My eyes widened in rage. “Are you mad?!” Before I could stop myself, I shoved him back—hard. He stumbled, surprised. But I wasn’t done. All the frustration, humiliation, and anger I’d bottled up over time exploded.I lunged at him. He tried to grab me, but I slapped him—once, twice—and kicked him in the shin. He screamed like a baby and fell on his backside, dirt staining his uniform. “Don’t ever try me again!” I shouted, breath shaking. Just then, like a well-timed curse, my mother’s voice rang out behind me. “Adura!” I turned slowly. She was standing there, arms folded, looking at the scene in front of her—Nnamdi on the ground, me standing over him with wild eyes and clenched fists. Her face twisted in disbelief and shame. Without another word my mom dragged me home and gave me the beating if my life that evening. “Adura, ṣe ẹran ni e ni? Are you an animal?” my mother snapped, her voice filled with fury and shame. “Why are you not living up to your name? Look at your siblings......Iwo naa ni sha ( it's always you) Those words stung deeper than any slap. They pierced through me like a dagger. I clenched my jaw, fighting back the tears that threatened to escape. I won’t cry, I told myself. No matter what, I won’t cry. But inside, I was crumbling. Why wouldn’t she ever take my side? Just once. That’s all I ever wanted. For her to see me, to hear me, to understand that I was hurting. That I wasn’t trying to be difficult—I was just trying to defend myself. But to her, I was the problem. I went to bed that night with an empty stomach and a heavy heart. My pillow was soaked with silent tears I had sworn not to shed. There was no comfort, no words of reassurance, not even a moment of concern for how I felt. Just silence… and pain. By morning, as if the night before hadn’t broken me enough, my mother dragged me to Nnamdi’s house. She knocked on the gate with the same intensity she had used to beat me the day before. When his mother answered, my mother didn’t waste time. “She must apologize to your son,” she said firmly. I stood there, ashamed, humiliated. Nnamdi stood behind his mother with a smug smile on his face. The same boy who tore my bag, who pushed me to the ground, who had humiliated me in the street—he was now the one receiving an apology. Through clenched teeth, I muttered, “I’m sorry,” And in that moment, something inside me changed. Just as I finished apologizing, I glanced at my mother—and what I saw took me by surprise. She was crying. Not loud, dramatic tears, but quiet ones—the kind that told a story deeper than words ever could. Her shoulders trembled slightly, and for the first time, I saw beyond her anger. I saw her pain. It hit me like a wave. My so-called stubbornness, my fiery reactions, my inability to hold back—it was taking a toll on her. All this time, I thought she didn’t care, that she didn’t understand me or even want to. But maybe she did. Maybe she was just as overwhelmed as I was. In that fragile moment, she pulled me aside. Her voice was softer now, cracked with emotion and love hidden behind years of tough discipline. “Adura,” she said, “you may not be wrong. I know you’re not. But life isn’t always about who is right and who is wrong. Sometimes, it’s about who has the strength to endure.” She held my face gently in her hands, looked me in the eyes, and said something I’ll never forget: “Adura, ìbínú kì í dá’bi ìmọ̀. Kí ló ṣẹlẹ̀ sí ìtìjú? Kí ni sùúrù rẹ̀? You let that boy steal your peace again because you couldn’t control your fire.” "People in life will deliberately make you angry, frustrated just to see your reaction but don't give them that satisfaction". “Ìfaradà là ń fi ń je ewé ewé àlùkò.” It was more than just a proverb. It was a truth she had lived. A truth she was now trying—however imperfectly—to pass down to me.“In this life, it’s not just fire that wins battles. Sometimes, water does too. You have to learn to flow, not just burn.” I stood there, confused and humbled. Her tears told me she wasn’t just angry—she was scared. Scared for the kind of world I would grow up in. A world that wouldn’t always be fair to a strong-willed girl like me. A world that could mistake my boldness for rebellion, my voice for disrespect, my strength for defiance. She wasn’t trying to silence me. She was trying to prepare me. In her own way, she was teaching me that patience isn’t weakness, humility doesn’t mean defeat, and perseverance is not giving up—it’s standing tall even when you’re forced to bow. That day didn’t fix everything between us, but it opened a door in my heart. A door to understanding. A door to grace. And though I still had a long way to go, I started to realize that growing up isn’t just about finding your voice. It’s about learning when to use it, when to hold your peace, and when silence can speak louder than words......

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