A Stranger in Blood

The Dreamer’s Pause: A Stranger in Blood

Grief is strange when it comes for someone you never knew. It knocks at your door, not as a familiar face but as a shadow cast by the ones who weep beside you. Today, I lost my uncle. A man whose name I barely knew, whose life was lived in places I have never been. From Congo to abroad, back to Congo, and then Mali—his journey was vast, yet I only learned of it after his final breath.

He was not sick. There was no warning. A heart attack stole him away, leaving behind a son older than me and a baby whose name and gender I do not even know. The news came suddenly, carried through the voice of my mother’s youngest sister. A call filled with disbelief, breaking the silence of an ordinary day with an irreversible truth. My uncle was gone.

My mother cried. And though I did not know him, I cried because she did. Because grief is not just about who we lose—it’s about who is left behind to mourn. His sisters, all of them, weeping for the brother they loved. Still mourning an aunt who passed just three months ago, now crushed under the weight of another loss.

I sat there, feeling the sadness settle into the spaces between us. I wondered what kind of man he was, what dreams he chased, what stories he never got to tell. A stranger in blood, yet his passing left a mark. Because even when we do not know the ones who leave, their absence shapes the ones who stay.

Death has a way of making us pause. Today, I paused. For a man I never met, but whose loss was deeply felt.

Rest well, Uncle.🕊️

The Struggle of Not Meeting Expectations

The Struggle of Not Meeting Expectations

I’m 19, and somehow, I still feel like I don’t know what I’m doing. As a woman, as a daughter, there’s an expectation to have it all together—particularly when it comes to the household. I should know how to cook, how to clean, how to do everything perfectly. But here’s the truth: I don’t. I try, but I always end up failing.

Cooking, in particular, has been the biggest challenge. I’ve tried so hard to get it right. I’ve had moments where everything falls into place, where the meal comes out just as it should, and for a brief moment, I feel a sense of accomplishment. The house is in a good mood, my family’s proud, but then, it’s like I hit a wall. The next time, everything seems to go wrong again, and I find myself back in the cycle of disappointment. Sometimes, I even ask if I did it right, but there’s that fear of hearing that I haven’t. And it stings, every time.

The kitchen has become a battleground. When I stand next to my mom, I feel suffocated. There’s no room for mistakes, no understanding that I’m trying, that I’m learning. When I used to ask questions, eager to learn, I was stopped with words that still echo in my mind: “You’re a woman. You should know these things by now.” It was as if my effort didn’t matter. It wasn’t about learning; it was about being expected to already know everything. That left me with a sense of inadequacy that I carry with me today.

And it doesn’t stop there. I hear my mom telling others that I know how to clean but can’t cook. It’s almost like she’s announcing my failure, putting me in a box where my worth is measured by my cooking skills, or lack thereof. It makes me feel like I’ll never meet the standard, that I’ll always be seen as the one who can’t get it right.

Sometimes, I wonder if things would be different if I were a boy. I’ve seen my brother get away with things I could never dream of. There are no expectations for him to cook, no pressure to clean, no judgment for not knowing how to do those things. The privileges boys seem to have are stark. Maybe it’s easier for them, or maybe the world just expects more from girls. The roles we’re given are different, and it’s hard not to feel the weight of that difference every day.

But, as much as it hurts, I wonder if this struggle is just part of growing up. Maybe it’s not about getting everything perfect the first time, or even the tenth time. Maybe it’s about learning, trying, and finding my way, no matter how hard it is. Maybe one day, I’ll find my own way to do things, and it won’t be about meeting someone else’s expectations, but about doing things my own way, in my own time.