chapter 3- unheard melodies

The house was unusually quiet when I woke up the next morning. My parents had left for a church meeting, and my siblings were at their various weekend activities. This was the perfect time.

I grabbed my guitar from under the bed, its strings slightly worn but still capable of carrying my voice. Perching on the edge of the bed, I closed my eyes and let the melody flow. The lyrics I'd scribbled late last night became alive, weaving a story of longing and defiance.

The chorus came out stronger than I expected, and for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel the weight of the world pressing down on me. I felt free.

Until the door opened.

"What in the world is this nonsense?" My mother's voice cut through the air like a whip.

I froze mid-strum, my heart slamming against my ribcage. 

My mother's voice cut through the air like a whip, pulling me out of the music I had been so immersed in. I froze, my fingers stiff on the strings of my guitar, and my heart hammered in my chest.

"What in the world is this nonsense?" Her words were sharp, her tone filled with disbelief.

I couldn't even find the strength to answer. It wasn't the first time I had strummed a chord in private, but it was the first time she had caught me in the act.

I turned around slowly, meeting her eyes. The expression on her face was a mixture of confusion and anger. "Are you singing again?" she asked, her voice rising.

I swallowed hard. "It's just… a song I wrote," I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper.

"A song?" She scoffed, stepping into the room. "Do you think this is some kind of hobby you can just dabble in? You should be focusing on your studies, Amara. I've worked too hard to make sure you have a future. And this… this is what you're doing with your time?"

My mother's disappointment stung, but there was something else in her voice—a fear. A fear that I would stray too far from the path she had envisioned for me.

I felt my chest tighten. "It's not just a hobby," I said, my voice trembling with a mix of frustration and sadness. "It's who I am."

"Who you are?" My mother's laugh was bitter. "You think this singing will take you anywhere? You're a girl, Amara. People like you don't get to dream like this. You have to be realistic. I want you to be something—something that will make this family proud."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw my guitar across the room and demand she understand, but instead, I sat there, gripping the instrument, feeling the weight of her words on my shoulders.

"Do you think anyone cares about your voice?" she spat. "You're wasting your time."

I couldn't take it anymore. The words stung like knives, but they also fueled something inside me. Something I hadn't allowed myself to feel in a long time—anger.

"Maybe you're right," I said, standing up abruptly. "Maybe no one cares. But I care. And I'm not going to hide this anymore."

My mother's eyes widened as I grabbed my phone from the table and, without another word, left the room.