Erm...

I think this was when my father started to hate me.

Today, I saw my brother again.

He’s in an “Ilekewu” (Arabic school) now — the same kind of Madrasah I once attended, and eventually left. He looked so small in that oversized uniform. Still curious. Still asking too many questions. I’ve missed him.

Watching him pulled me straight back to 2024 — the year I chose to rebel.

My father has always been big on Arabic school. It’s not just tradition for him; it’s conviction. He went through it himself, then made sure we did too. His siblings were even part of the first “Ilekewu” graduation he ever organized. My dad believes Arabic is the language of Jannah — not just symbolically, but literally. In his mind, what better gift could a parent give their child?

And truly, I don’t blame him.

But I also don’t blame myself.

Because me? I’ve always loved my faith, my Hijab — and my peace. I loved soft mornings, long walks, aesthetics that made sense to me. Not classrooms where boys slipped notes under their Qur’ans or stared out of windows just to catch my eye. Not the endless waiting. Not the time we were kept back till 7 p.m. just to collect results and I almost got hit by a car crossing the Isolo express.

I wasn’t failing. I was, in fact, doing very well. But I was tired. Not physically — soul tired. And one day, I said it: I don’t want to go anymore.

Well, this decision broke something in the house, and it's not my dad's glass cup, it's his heart and bone and…

My father didn’t shout. Not exactly. He just... shifted. He told everyone. Uncles. Aunties. His closest friends. I became a topic. A daughter with potential — who decided to “throw it away.”

I laughed it off, but deep down, it stung. Because I knew he wasn’t being wicked. He just wanted a daughter who’d sit confidently at Islamic lectures and be greeted with “As-salamu alaykum, Alfa.” But that wasn’t me. It was never going to be me.

Still, I felt sorry. I still do sometimes.

But I also grew. The moment I stepped away, I began leaning into myself. I honed my tech skills, started working, earning, dreaming. I built a version of me that felt honest — and even holy, in its own way.

These days, when I see my dad talk about Arabic and Madrasah, there’s still a bit of sadness in his voice. And I get it. He didn’t dream wrongly — I just had a different script and I wasn't ready to give it to a director.

This isn’t a story about defiance. It’s a story about peace. About not wanting to be pulled into a life that would cost me my light.

So, if you’re in a similar place — choosing between love and identity, expectation and self — I hope you know:

You’re not selfish. You’re not ungrateful. You’re just trying to become.

And that, in itself, is worthy.

With love,

Rosheedah

Your chaos curator — soft, stubborn, and learning to hold both. 🖤

And my Dad doesn't HATE me, he can't afford to. He literally can’t do a lott of things without this rebel of a daughter. 🥱😹