May 23, 2019 5:19 pm Published by 6 Comments

I lay there, quiet and completely aware of the mistakes I had made over the years. It was one of those nights when my eyes were heavy with sleep but my heart and mind won’t give room to such treachery. “There is no sleep for the wicked”, the bible would say.

Then I wondered if I was fit to be called wicked. If I already attained the title.

I started to think, to reminisce on the choices I had made. My life was good, maybe for the most parts. The other part was a battle most people couldn’t see. A fight for my identity. A fight for my beliefs, emotions and dreams. A constant fight.

A fight for my heart. Nothing was worse than hearing the doctor say “I’m sorry, its a heart disease”. I saw my world crumble in that huge but tiny white room. The walls closing in on me and crumbling the already broken pieces of my heart.

I wondered what hurt the most, my fight for survival or the betrayal by the one the last piece of my dying heart beats for.

Goddess! That was a name he called me, befitting for the most. My perfect smile reflected the purity of divinity. My aura was as powerful as Aphrodite, or maybe I thought so. He would say even gods would fall at my beauty. I believed that day after day.


No one had made me feel the way he did. We were perfect, I thought. I even believed we were a pair handpicked by God himself. I recall a certain lunch date we had, he held my palms and said: “Only God could have brought us together”. Now I have no choice but to wonder if God took us apart too.

If he chose the perfect time to burn my heart and take the one man I cared for the most. I wondered who lied, the God I didn’t hear or the man who kissed me with reckless abandon like a soldier possessing his treasures.

How could I explain that a diagnosis from the doctor changed the “verdict” from God? Suddenly I wasn’t the feared nor adored goddess, I was likened to a commoner on the streets of Vegas. Despised like leprosy on the skin of Namaan.

I couldn’t find Jordan, else I may have swum away from the bitterness my heart dwells in, from the lies I had endured for ages, from the deceit thrown in my face like Mary Kay foundation.

Just maybe I would have found the reason why no man should ever call me a goddess or any name similar. A goddess who could not save herself?  Such irony!

The doctor said I could live. It was a consolation but it would take a miracle. I thought I could live, I only hoped it would be by “An Angel’s Kiss”.

This time, my angel flew away and I’m not flying on his wings. My angel flew away when I lost wings and feet to even walk.

Don’t call me goddess, I have seen how powerless I have become. Surely, we won’t make the same mistakes again. When I live, call me “The Miracle”

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This post was written by Lisa Eze


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