I was born in a small village in Northern Nigeria, surrounded by love, family, and the constant hum of daily life. From what I’ve been told, my early childhood was just like any other child’s, filled with laughter, play, and the warmth of community. But everything changed when I turned three, though I didn’t understand it then.
I didn’t respond when people called my name. I didn’t flinch when there were loud sounds around me. My parents noticed that I was different, and after seeking help, they received news that shattered their world: I was deaf.
I never heard the news myself, of course. I was too young to even grasp the weight of the words that would define my life. My mother cried for days, and my father didn’t speak much about it. He just looked at me, his quiet sorrow visible in his eyes, though he never once turned his back on me. The village wasn’t as kind. The whispers started, some said I was cursed, that I was a burden, and others said it was punishment for something my family must have done. No one said these things to my face, but I felt it. I felt it in the way people started to avoid me.
The isolation began early. At school, I was left alone, unable to understand the lessons, unable to communicate with my teachers and classmates. The other children didn’t know what to do with me, so they stopped trying. I remember watching them from afar, wanting so desperately to join in their games, but feeling trapped in a silent world that no one else seemed to understand.
For a long time, I felt like I was disappearing. Even in my own home, surrounded by love, I still felt lost. My family adored me, but they couldn’t fully connect with me. My mother, though, never gave up. She would sit with me, holding my hands, tears in her eyes, but always telling me I was special, even if the world didn’t see it yet. She was my rock, my foundation, even when I felt like I was sinking.
It was around this time that I discovered drawing. I couldn’t speak, but I could draw. I started with simple things; flowers, trees, the sun. But as I got older, my drawings became more detailed. I began to express my feelings through colors and shapes. My sadness, my anger, my loneliness; they all spilled onto the paper. In my drawings, I was free. It was my way of talking when no one could hear me.
One day, something happened that changed everything. It was during the village’s annual festival. The elders had set up displays of local crafts and artwork, and somehow, I’m still not sure how, one of my drawings ended up among them. It was nothing special, just a picture of the village market, something I had drawn from memory. I thought no one would care. But they did.
People gathered around, admiring my work, not knowing it was mine at first. When they found out it was the “deaf girl” who had drawn it, they were shocked. The same people who had once pitied me or ignored me were now looking at me with a new kind of respect. It was the first time in my life that I felt seen, not as a burden, but as someone with something to offer.
The village chief, a man who had barely acknowledged me before, came to my house that evening. I’ll never forget the way he spoke to my parents, telling them that I had a gift, that I was more than my disability, and that I deserved a chance to grow. He arranged for me to attend a special school for the deaf in the city.
I remember the day I left for that school. My mother hugged me so tightly, her tears soaking my clothes, while my father stood in the background, his face a mixture of pride and sadness. I was scared. I had never left the village before, and I didn’t know what to expect. But I knew I had to go. I had to find out who I was beyond the walls of my silence.
When I arrived at the school, I felt like I had stepped into another world. It was loud, but not with sounds, rather, with hands. Everyone spoke through sign language, something I had never seen before. For the first time in my life, I could communicate with others. I wasn’t alone anymore. I made friends. I learned about the world. I learned about myself.
My drawings became more than just a hobby. They became my voice, telling stories that words couldn’t. One day, my teacher entered my artwork into a national competition. I didn’t think much of it, but then I won. Suddenly, my work was being displayed in a gallery in Lagos, and people were talking about me—not because I was deaf, but because I was talented.
When I returned to my village after the competition, everything was different. The people who had once whispered about me now welcomed me with open arms. I was no longer the cursed child; I was Amina, the artist. The same village that had once closed its doors on me now embraced me.
But it wasn’t just about the recognition. It was about finding my place in the world. For so long, I had felt like my disability defined me, like it was a wall I couldn’t climb. But I’ve learned that my disability isn’t a wall—it’s just a different way of seeing the world. And in that world, I have something to say, even if I say it without words.
My journey is far from over. I continue to create art, not just for myself, but for others like me, for those who feel like they don’t have a voice, for those who feel invisible. I want them to know that they are not alone, that they matter, that they have something to offer the world, even if the world hasn’t figured out how to listen yet.
This is my story. A story of silence, yes, but also of strength, hope, and the power of believing in yourself, even when others don’t. My name is Amina, and I’m proud of who I am—not despite my disability, but because of it.
Editor’s note: Amina (pseudonym) shared her story with Ndubuisi Nwosu and the story is told in first person.
So Captivating and emotional