It’s been four months since I got my braces. Every month, I go in for a check-up, and today was no different — except that today left me feeling defeated.
I still remember how I got here. Someone believed in me and sponsored my entire braces journey. I mentioned it once in one of my blogs. It’s something I’ll never stop being grateful for. Every appointment reminds me of that blessing. But today… today tested my heart.
The day started early. I woke up at 7am to a cold, rainy, gloomy morning. Still, I got up, dressed, put on some music, took a bath, and got ready for my appointment. By 9am (not exactly on the dot), I caught my bus. The ride was actually quite peaceful — the gentle sound of raindrops against the windows, the gray skies, the quiet of a city slowed down by weather. I even saw two of my aunties and greeted them before settling into my phone. Eventually, I got tired and just sat back, taking in the stillness.
I arrived at the dentist, greeted the receptionist, and confirmed my appointment. She checked my name — Lilo — and asked me to select a date for the next visit. I did, thinking everything was sorted. I wasn’t jumping for joy, but in my heart, I was actually excited to just be progressing.
Then, I asked if my dad had already paid for today’s appointment. That’s when the mood shifted. She told me there was no proof of payment. No confirmation. She asked me to call him, and thankfully, I had a little bit of airtime left. I called and explained the situation. He asked for the dentist’s number so he could speak with her directly. I changed my data quickly, WhatsApped him the number, and called again to confirm. He said okay.
Then, a few minutes later, I was called in for my appointment. The dentist greeted me kindly, asking how I was doing. I shared a bit about how the braces were feeling, and he got to work. The usual — removing the old metal wire and replacing it with a new one. My elastic color changed too — from pink to black. I hated it. I wish I’d chosen a bright, happy color, but in that moment, I didn’t even have the courage to ask.
Suddenly, I heard my name being called outside the room. Loud and clear. I said yes. The receptionist was on the phone with my dad, on speaker. That’s when it happened. In front of the dentist, the assistants, whoever was in earshot — I heard her explain that braces appointments must be paid for on the same day. And I was confused. Embarrassed. Hurt. Because I knew we had the money. The sponsorship covered it. Why was this happening?
She walked into the room and reminded the dentist that he had already started the appointment, implying that there was no going back. I sat there, a lump in my throat. I could feel my entire mood sink. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t ask for a new color. Couldn’t even look around. I felt like crying.
All I kept thinking was: what happened to the money? The money that was meant for this. My money. The money someone entrusted to my family for me. I didn’t want to believe that it had been used for something else — but the signs were there. Every time I mentioned my appointments lately, my dad got nervous. Not obviously, but in that subtle, macho, African-parent way. Now I realize that was a red flag.
After the appointment, I went to the front desk again. The receptionist smiled at me gently, not saying much, but I knew she could see the pain on my face. I felt so exposed. So small. I walked out of the building like I didn’t care about anything anymore. I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want to be seen. I just needed air.
I went to buy food, caught a taxi (since I missed my bus), and stopped by my cousin’s house. I needed those hours of not seeing my parents’ faces. Just five hours of being somewhere else, somewhere safe.
Later, I caught the bus home — a long ride, probably an hour and a half, but it felt like thirty. I came in, and of course, like African mothers do, my mom acted like nothing had happened. Just started asking me to do things. I didn’t roll my eyes. Didn’t talk back. I just did them.
Then my dad came in. I thought he had gone far, but he had just been around the neighborhood. He couldn’t even look me in the eyes. And I couldn’t look at him either. Eventually, he tried to make small talk. Then he brought out a packet of sweets — his way of apologizing. Typical African parent move. It didn’t work. Not this time.
What broke me the most is that I can’t even ask him questions. You can’t confront African parents — they twist things, make you feel guilty, act like you’re disrespectful for just wanting the truth. I couldn’t even express my pain.
So here I am now, thinking hard about my life. I’m on a gap year. And I know now: I can’t depend on my family for big things. They try, but the truth is, they don’t have money. Especially in winter, when they earn less. Summer is when they hustle, when things are better. But now? Things are bad.
And I’ve decided: I’ll do any job. I don’t care what it is. Cleaning, lifting, anything. Because this is what happens when you depend too much. I never wanted pity, and I still don’t. I just wanted to tell my story — the raw version. My blog is my diary. And today, I’m writing as a girl who got caught in the rain, not just outside, but in her heart too.
But I’ll get through it. I have to.
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