Postcard on Brokenness

Of Hope and Broken Things…

“The wound is where the Light enters you.” - Rumi

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I don’t consider myself a pessimist. Melancholic, maybe. But I carry way too much hope to pass the pessimist vibe check. Yet, I sometimes feel that the world has more freezers than heaters. The world is a cold place, and it will break you…in a million different ways.

Oops!

When I was about ten, my mum gave birth to the prettiest baby boy. My immediate younger brother at the time was about seven, and we were over the moon at the thought of having a third member in our sibling gang. Oh my days! I still remember the smell of antiseptic that hung everywhere in our home like photo frames. It clung to everything, and in less than three days, my brain branded it the “baby smell”.

Some photo I took on my way back from church yesterday.

At first, my mum wouldn’t let us hold the baby, but eventually, she did. There’s only so much whining you can take from two overly stimulated kids, you know. Heavens! It was the best week of my life. For the first time, I felt like a big sister because even though I already had a younger sibling, the boy was way too stubborn to fit the description.

Then Sunday came. What to do? We had never missed a church service before—not since we moved to that city about seven years ago. My dad, a church worker (the type you’d describe as diligent), had to leave early for church. The baby was too young to be taken outside, so my mum had to stay home with him.

So, who would take us to church then?

We were so used to going to church that our young minds couldn’t fathom staying home on a Sunday. I remember my brother and I following a neighbor to their church. It was tons of fun. They had a more relaxed atmosphere than the stiff regiment I was used to. The people I saw were also flashier. I made a few friends with kids around my age and jumped up and down more times than I could count. Then, it was time to go home. Phew! What do they say about fun times having a short lifespan? But I had my baby brother waiting at home, so I couldn’t be bothered. My life was padded with fun from all angles. I walked home with a tilt in my step and excitement in my heart. Life was good.

Photo source: Pinterest

And then, boom!

I remember seeing my mother seated outside the house, staring softly into space. She wasn’t crying—at least, I didn’t see tears. But something seemed splintered about her stare. I couldn’t tell what it was, but despite being so young, I knew something had happened. Something bad. I’m not sure what happened next, but I guess we went in and couldn’t find the baby, and she wouldn’t tell us where he was. Later that evening, I saw her huddled with my dad, talking in subdued voices. Something was broken with the world. I was just hoping for the life of me it wasn’t the baby. But it was because the world has a way of breaking beautiful things. It took my baby brother.

“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.” – Ernest Hemingway

I saw a few people from church walking into our compound with hesitant steps. Some of them hadn’t even seen this baby at all. It all felt like a made-up story. But they handed in their condolences awkwardly, like unsure students turning in a test they know they’ve failed. I can’t remember a word any of the visitors said. They couldn’t be talking about my baby brother in the past tense. Where is he, anyway? What have they done with him? What have they done with my Victor?

Death is considered a grownup subject where I come from, and all things being equal, it should be. But the world doesn’t care about your age when it wants to break you. It took my baby brother. I remember asking my mum about him two years ago, and she told me how he passed shortly after we left for church and how they quietly laid him to rest later, away from our gaze. No need asking why. It was clear enough. A parent is primed to protect so, they did what they considered best for us. I mean, if they could keep us away from the details of his death, maybe they could, in turn, keep us away from the grief as well, the brokenness of it all. Except the world doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t care about your meticulousness. It doesn’t care about your control.

I’ve had to carry a piece of that day in my heart everywhere. I still remember him when I smell antiseptic. Sunday evenings sometimes still arrive with that same somber feeling. The name Victor still jolts my heart a couple of notches. It was a Sunday I would rather forget. One I thought I had forgotten.

Recently, I lost my uncle, my late father’s only brother. (Can 2024 stop already?) Grief is a complicated emotion, and sometimes it demands something other than tears. It has been demanding all sorts from me these past days, and sometimes I feel like an incapable supplier. It’s crazy, the things grief can ask of you. Sometimes, it forces you into a place of remembrance, and remembering is not fun when the memories are a mass of jagged pieces.

I’m not a pessimist, but I’ve watched life break me so many times. I’ve watched it leave perforations in perfect places. I once heard someone say that broken things shine the most, and I sat with those words for a while. I thought about all the ways life has broken me, all the things it has wrestled out of my grip. Judging by the brokenness math, my shine must be a dazzling light, then.

“Sometimes, when you’re in a dark place, you think you’ve been buried, but actually, you’ve been planted.” – Christine Caine

But you see, “broken” is not how I like to describe myself. The brokenness is not who I am. I refuse to be. Life can break all my bones, but I will never bow to the brokenness. And no, I’m not running from the truth, either. I admit that something (many things) is broken in my base, but I’m more. Plenty of good things have happened to me, too. Life has also taken me on multiple fun-powered trips. I’ve known love. I’ve known peace. I’ve known joy. I’ve seen light, and I’ve made room for it in my being. I choose light. I am light. This is not living in denial. This is living in intentionality.

I’m convinced the sky wore its Sunday clothes yesterday.

Back in uni, I would sulk and cuddle with sadness in bed all day long mourning the death of my dad who passed just before I turned twelve. I would shoo people away from me and wrap myself up in a cocoon of gloom. Hey, can’t you see that life has stolen so much from me? Can’t you see that I’ve been clothed in sackcloth, swathed in silks of suffering? I wholeheartedly embraced the “broken” tag and wore my badge with honour. To be honest, if that’s where you are currently, no judgment. Your path. We all get up to the light when we get to it. But I’m out of bed with brokenness. I have submitted myself to the greatest healer, and I know that no one is ever beyond repair in Rapha’s eyes.

Last week, when I slipped into hopelessness and started questioning the essence of everything, I would say out loud, “What’s the point?” Like, bruh! But you see, you’re wasting time here if everything is pointless. It’s okay for that state to be a phase but that definitely cannot be the way you spend the entirety of your time here. That’s not a way to live. Another dangerous way to live is expecting the worst of the world. And don’t you dare mention realism. That’s pessimism in party clothes. Life will break you, but life will also beautify you, sometimes—the latter more than the former. Run to light.  Crawl to it even if that’s the only way to get there. Get up!

This week, it’s my prayer that you will see more beauty than brokenness in your world. I pray that you will count more laughter than tears. May you shed every skin that brands you a victim and step into full ownership of your light. Welcome to light.

With loads and loads of love,

Odinakachi Nwonu.