a pyrrhic victory

Photograph of Howard University, September 9, 2024, by Ikran Abdi.

When the privilege worship the concept of meritocracy in front of my face, it feels like a taunt. A subtle jab that I didn’t give enough as if I haven’t feared that the world beneath me will cave in from the crushing weight on my shoulders. I have been forcefully restrained, cursed to watch from afar, and held myself upright as envy was shredding at me from the inside. I broke myself into pieces to reach the finish line then whisked away to be questioned for doing so.

Why am I given resentment before I am given grace? Why must I bear my fists first? They slice my skin in search of blood, for proof of my humanity, and left me alone to tend the wounds.

I was betted on. I’ve been wished upon stars. If anyone, they whisper, it’s you. Words that were meant to be of comfort rather than prophetic, but I clung onto it anyways. I never saw myself becoming someone, let alone of significance, but I was believed in. If I went back into time with the knowledge I have now, I’d do it all over again. A decision not stemming from choice, but rather it being the only way through. I’ve always known that. Preparation was my strength. To survive before it was deemed necessary.

Strategy was more than composing a plan, but having to sacrifice for the bigger picture when needed. Achievements attained through ease is a narrative that cannot sell, though I forget I am not only the author of this story, but the protagonist who has to live it. The classic tale of transforming pain to power satisfies outsiders looking in although the ending is never as hopeful as the epilogue—when the aftermath doesn’t absolve the scars and the initial glimmer of triumph begins to rot, ridden with stains of smoke ashes. When does a body register that it is over? I swear to you that I once glowed.