Silence Behind the Silver Spoon and

Chapter 1: The princess with Paper Skin

I was born in Nigeria, the first daughter and the first grandchild in a home that had waited eagerly for my arrival. My birth was celebrated with lavish gifts, prayers, and quiet promises whispered over my crib. They called me a miracle a golden child sent to crown my parents union. To the world, I looked like a princess. But no one knew that my bones were already betraying me. My name is Ummu Hayy (Mother of the Living)

I was the eldest of four children. My siblings arrived in quick succession each with their own sparkle but I was always the one treated like glass. Not because I asked to be. Because my body insisted on it.

Our home was grand, with tall ceilings and polished tiles that clicked under my soft slippers. My parents were the kind people respected, hard-working, God-fearing, and generous. My mother especially carried herself with quiet grace, the kind that made people sit up straighter when she walked into a room. I think she wanted me to be just like her poised, composed, and strong. And I tried. I really did.

But even before I knew the name of my condition, I knew pain intimately.

At first, everyone thought I was just a fragile child. "She gets tired easily," my father would explain. "She's delicate," my aunties would whisper, pressing little prayer books into my palm. But I remember those nights the ones where I would curl into myself, clutching my limbs and crying into my pillow because something inside felt like it was tearing me apart. My parents would rush me to private hospitals, where soft-spoken doctors used long words and gave me injections that stung more than the pain they were meant to fix.

I was diagnosed with sickle cell disease before I turned three.

Of course, I didn't understand what that meant. Not then. I only knew that I had to take more medicine than my siblings, that I couldn't run too fast, and that grown-ups looked at me with a strange mixture of pity and hope.

When I turned four, we moved to the United Kingdom. My father went to further his studies, he was already a masters degree holder and a job that offered a good pay-check and we got access to world class healthcare. I didn't know it then, but that move was for me. My parents were determined to give me a chance a real chance,at life.

London felt like a different world. The skies were grey more often than blue, and I quickly learned that the cold was not my friend. Winter made my bones ache in a way Nigeria never had. I missed the sun. I missed the sound of Yoruba prayers drifting in from the kitchen. I missed the scent of jollof rice cooking on Sundays. But I kept those feelings to myself.

In school, I smiled a lot. I made friends with anyone who would sit next to me at lunch. I was the girl with the pretty accent and matching hair clips. But every few weeks, I would disappear. One day I'd be in class coloring or giggling over playground crushes, and the next, I'd be in a hospital bed, staring at a ceiling I'd come to know too well.

The crises, that's what the doctors called them, came like thieves in the night. They didn't ask permission. They didn't knock. Sometimes they started with a dull ache in my back or legs, and within hours, I'd be in agony. My mother stayed beside me through most of them, her eyes red from crying, though she always wiped her face before I could see. She thought I didn't notice, but I did.

We rarely spoke about my illness at home. Not directly. It was like a shadow that followed me around always there, always just behind me. I grew up with an unspoken understanding: I had to be strong, grateful, and quiet about the burden I carried. After all, I had everything. A beautiful home. Loving parents. Private doctors. A good school. What right did I have to complain?

But deep down, I resented my body. I hated the way it betrayed me at the worst times. I hated how I couldn't be like the other kids who danced in the rain or ran until their legs gave out from joy, not pain.

Sometimes, I would lie awake at night and ask God questions I didn't dare say out loud:

Why me?

What kind of life is this half-lived, half-feared?

What is the point of being born lucky, if your body makes you feel cursed?

But every morning, I put on my uniform, tied my shoelaces carefully, and smiled like nothing was wrong.

Because in my family, we didn't talk about weakness.

We dressed it up. We powdered its face. We tied a scarf around its head and sent it out into the world like royalty.

And that's exactly who I became a princess with paper skin, learning how to survive in silence.