Title: Stepping Into the Unknown

Journal Entry: January 20th, 2021

My name is Ella, but I prefer being addressed as Ezer. Ezer means "warrior," and that's how I like to see myself. Ella, on the other hand, sounds too delicate. As the third child in a family of six, there's no room for delicate. My parents are very practical, strict, and overly religious.

I grew up in a Catholic home where my dad had a 'unique' view of gender roles, along with a long list of rules.

No boys.

No phone until after high school graduation.

No leaving the house without permission. And if—if—permission is granted, be back before six. Not 6:01, not even 6:00. By 5:59, you'd better be at home.

And this applied to everyone, regardless of age or gender.

No, I'm not exaggerating.

These rules kept us in check, but they also completely ruined my social life. I'm 17 and have never had a real friend, let alone a boyfriend (if I ever did, my parents would literally kill me). I still get lost in my own state, for God's sake!

All of this contributed to my decision to pick a university far from home. Dad wanted me to "go back to my roots" since it's my hometown, but honestly, I just wanted freedom.

As I stand at the entrance of my house, I'm finally happy to get a taste of that freedom. But my emotions are a mix of hope, enthusiasm, and uncertainty about what the future holds. This isn't the first time I've left home—I went to boarding school before—but it was a missionary school, which meant more rules. I guess I had some fun, though.

My parents even gave me "the talk" about sex for the first time... ugh, awkward.

I'm excited to meet boys, escape the suffocating clutches of endless rules, and experience life. But I hesitate.

I hug my siblings and grab my bags, heading toward my dad's car. I feel overwhelmed—caught between high expectations and the thrill of independence. This is supposed to be my chance to experience life to the fullest.

For as long as I can remember, I've felt trapped in a cage, yearning for even a little freedom. But now, away from my parents' watchful eyes and rigid rules about who I should be, I am determined to find out who I truly am—or who I'm meant to be.

As I board the bus, I glance at my dad through the window. Suddenly, I'm not so sure anymore.

I've left all the rules behind, haven't I? I should feel happier to finally get away. But, as the Bible says: "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it."

I'm realizing just how true that is. Unknowingly, I've built a wall so high that even I can't climb over it. Pretty ironic for someone who's been craving freedom.

Title: The First Blow

Journal Entry: January 21st, 2021

University feels like a whole new world—at least to me. Seeing so many people my age is both exciting and terrifying. Endless possibilities and it is really thrilling, maybe just maybe it might work...it could work.

When I got to campus, I tried to register and get cleared like everyone else. Luckily, my admission was late, so I avoided the overwhelming crowds. Whew!

Because of the unusually large number of students admitted that year (thanks to the COVID pandemic that disrupted the previous year's academic calendar), accommodations were scarce. As a result, I was assigned to stay with a family friend, I was a bit relieved by this, eager to fnd comfort with a familiar presence. Little did I know, my nightmare was just beginning.

I arrived at my "aunt's" house—a two-story building with 12 rooms in total, all owned by her. Most of the occupants were men (by men I meant bachelors), and I could feel their piercing stares as I carried my luggage. One of them even offered to help me with my bags, which only added to my discomfort.

My "aunt," a dark-skinned, curvy woman in her late twenties, unmarried and deeply immersed in her work, welcomed me into her home. Slightly intimidating, she lived with her mother and, occasionally, her eldest sister, who was a reverend sister. I was by far the youngest in the house (wake me!!).

Adjusting to my new environment, balancing registration deadlines at school, and keeping up with chores at home soon began to take their toll on me. It wasn't long before I fell sick.

Living in that house was incredibly uncomfortable. Being the youngest among three much older women who constantly nagged was driving me insane. I wouldn't wish that experience on anyone.

Not long after I arrived, I became the object of attention for the men in the compound. They found every excuse to talk to me, which didn't sit well with my "aunt"—or me, for that matter. I'm painfully shy, and I hated the attention.

My illness soon worsened, making it hard for me to keep up with household chores. Despite my efforts to manage most of the tasks, it was never enough for my hosts. Eventually, my mother was called, and I was accused of being lazy.

I was just 17, naive, and away from everything I'd ever known. I was trying to adapt under pressure but received no appreciation. The rigid gender roles in an African home are suffocating, especially for girls. Being sick felt like an unforgivable sin.

I don't know all the details of my mother's conversation with them, but what hurt the most was her inability to defend me. I could deal with their criticisms, but the betrayal from my own blood cut deep. I've been betrayed before, but this one left a mark I'll never forget.

A Quiet Place

Journal Entry: March 10th, 2021

After everything that happened, I reconnected with an old girlfriend from high school. Reaching out to her felt both nostalgic and necessary. I’ve never been much of a “girls' girl”—most of my close friendships have been with guys. Growing up, personal experiences with girls often left me guarded. Those experiences taught me to keep a distance, to avoid being vulnerable. But in this moment, reconnecting with her felt right, like seeing a familiar face in a crowded room.

She helped me find an off-campus accommodation, something I desperately needed. It wasn’t in the typical student area, surrounded by loud parties and late-night chaos. Instead, it was in a quiet, reserved neighborhood. At the time, that quiet felt like a blessing, exactly what I thought I needed. Looking back, though, I realize it wasn’t peace I was seeking. I’ve always had this tendency to run and hide when life becomes overwhelming. This wasn’t just a place to relax; it was a hideout, a fortress to shield me from everything I didn’t want to face. Isolation became my version of inner peace, but it wasn’t truly peaceful—it was lonely.

My roommate at the lodge was a stark contrast to me. Calm and cool-headed, she exuded confidence in a way that was both intimidating and inspiring. She was tall, pretty, and secure in herself, evident in the way she spoke and interacted with others. She didn’t seem to carry the weight of insecurities that I dragged around like old luggage. Surprisingly, we became friends—her, along with my high school girlfriend. The three of us balanced each other out in our own way, though my roommate was often away.

The lodge quickly became my escape. The silence of the neighborhood mirrored the walls I’d built around myself. I had spent so much of my life yearning for freedom and excitement, dreaming of the day I’d break away from my parents’ rules. But now that I had it, I felt trapped in a different way. My parents weren’t here to impose their restrictions, yet I still couldn’t step out of the mental cage they had built around me. It was as if their influence lingered, like a shadow I couldn’t shake off.

I thought the quiet was what I wanted, but it turned out to be suffocating. The four walls of my room became a prison, and the silence amplified my thoughts until they echoed endlessly. I told myself that this solitude was better, that people only brought drama I wasn’t equipped to handle. In this space, I felt safe from the chaos of relationships, from expectations, from life.

But deep down, I knew the truth. I wasn’t really living—I was hiding. The isolation I clung to wasn’t freedom; it was fear. Fear of getting hurt, fear of failing, fear of truly connecting. The quiet wasn’t a sanctuary—it was a mask for everything I was too afraid to confront.