ìrora: Yoruba
Pain, ache, agony, mal are the top translations of “ìrora” into English.
Call me ìrora, I’d take it.
Give me death, I’d take it. Tell the world ìrora died. Carve a casket, throw me 6 feet's deep and tell people ìrora got her freedom. When you pour sand over me, smile.
Favorites suck but imagine not being on the list of the creator’s favorites. But I have more agony. ìrora is silent. Give me a freaking crown. I deserve it. How many times have you bled this year? Try me!
As I hyperventilate at 4am hoping there was a hand to hold. Someone to shoo ìrora away until she leaves me alone. There are a lot of thing I should tell you about myself. Let’s play a game. I tell you about me, you pretend to care.
ìrora has had me for three years. Holding onto me like a prized possession whilst treating me like the fig tree that refused Jesus fruit.
ìrora has blessed me with more bloody situations that the average woman. Then sprinkle in hospital visits like a Yoruba woman aggressively sprinkles pepper into her food. That’s me. Now, take a stick and hit me. Maybe if I break, ìrora will leave. Push me to edge of a cliff. Did you call me sucidal? You still do not get it. I am running.
I am on a race against life and ìrora. I just need a break from ìrora. I need a break from washing blood stains aggressively off every peace of clothing every weekend. I need a break from being unable to go around because I feel like death but death in an accident. I need a break.
You say I should pray like olódùmarè does not see. Afterall, they swear his eyes are on the sparrow. I know he sees but he plays favorites. Now you shame me for living every day in pain. When last was I free? Try about three years ago.
I woke up again, bed and body covered in blood. I type this from my toilet seat as i sit in my bloody mess. One more drug and I may loose it. One more symptom, get me a therapist. How do you navigate life in your early 20s when you constantly have to be strafed in a thick pad that you feel between your thighs as you move around. Cramps that feel like a pull on your vagina.
I have prayed. I have cried. I even took a trip. I have learnt shame and perseverance. I have told olódùmarè no more. I have pleaded that I no longer wish to be part of his strongest avengers. I have lost my faith because all my life, I have not found myself in his book of favorites. Now I float, loathing my creator. Avoiding his existence because it is blurry looking from my pain.
Now, let us play two truths and a lie. One, I may never be free from ìrora. Two, at least one in ten women all over the world live with ìrora. Three, ìrora. has a cure.
Everytime you feel the urge to comment on a woman’s body or life generally, remember one in ten women suffer from PCOS and it is just one out of the many things women pass through that affect their entire life and appearance.
Lastly, remember it is none of your business.
