THE WOMAN WHO CHOSE HERSELF
"Where Does a Broken Woman Go?"
Amara stood outside the church, the hot afternoon sun beating down on her bare shoulders.
Guests poured out behind her, whispering, pointing, judging.
But she kept walking.
One step.
Another step.
Each one heavier than the last.
Her phone vibrated in her small purse — a dozen missed calls from Chuka, three from her mother, and a long list of texts from unknown numbers.
“Come back.”
“Forgive him.”
“Don’t be foolish!”
Amara turned off the phone.
For once, she didn’t want to hear anyone’s voice except her own.
She didn’t know where she was going.
Home? No. Her parents would pressure her to reconsider.
Friends? They were mostly Chuka’s friends too.
Hotel? She had no reservation. No plans.
Tears welled up in her eyes again, but she blinked them away fiercely.
She hailed a taxi, and as she entered, the driver asked,
“Madam, where to?”
Amara hesitated for a long moment.
Then, in a soft, shaking voice, she said,
“Anywhere but here.”
The driver gave her a strange look but nodded and started the car.
As the engine roared to life, Amara leaned her head against the window, watching the streets blur past her.
It wasn’t just the church she was leaving behind.
She was leaving behind the years of trying to be perfect.
The years of shrinking herself to fit into someone else’s dream.
The years of sacrificing her happiness for the sake of appearances.
For the first time in a long time, Amara realized something:
She was allowed to choose herself.
Even if it hurt.
Even if it was messy.
Even if no one understood.
And so, as the taxi sped farther away from everything she knew, Amara allowed herself to smile — a small, broken, but genuine smile.
Freedom was terrifying.
But it was hers.
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