Nsasaawa-My cloth Of Many Colours
When finally leaving the hall chapel a few days back, I paused outside room 30, heart thudding quietly against the backdrop of distant laughter and footsteps echoing within. The door looked the same, but everything else had changed. I thought of knocking to say hello to the current occupants but I hesitated—not because I feared who might answer, but because of the flood of memories that surged through me like a tide I hadn’t braced for.
Room 30. The place where I first learned how deeply shame can bury something beautiful.
My mind switched to my ‘ nsasaawa’—my grandmother’s handmade cloth, stitched with love and stories. Each patch was a memory: a piece of her old church dress, a scrap from my childhood school uniform, even a swatch from the wrapper she used to carry me as a child and several other pieces she kept from her clients when she was actively sewing as a trade. It was more than fabric. It was home.
On my first night at university, I brought it out proudly and laid it on my bed like a badge of honour. But that pride was short-lived. A roommate glanced at it and scoffed, “What’s that? Looks like something from a village drama.” His words sliced through me. I laughed awkwardly, pretending not to care, but that night, I folded the cloth and shoved it deep into my suitcase.
For weeks, I slept under a thin blanket, shivering through the cold Harmattan nights. I told myself I was adapting, fitting in, being “normal.” But the truth was, I was slowly erasing a part of myself. I chose discomfort over judgment. Silence over self-expression.
Then came the pneumonia. A brutal reminder that denying who I was could have real consequences. I spent days alone in the hospital, lungs aching, body weak, spirit even weaker. And in that bed at the Tech Hospital, I thought of my grandmother—her hands, her warmth, her voice saying, “Paapa you are different. Never be ashamed of who you are and where you come from.”
When I returned to campus, I unpacked the nsasaawa and laid it on my bed again. This time, I didn’t care who saw it. And something unexpected happened. My roommates noticed. One asked about the radiant colours. Another said it reminded him of his own grandmother. Even the boy who had mocked it before ran his fingers over the fabric and said softly, “It’s actually beautiful.”
That moment cracked something open in me. I realised I had spent so much energy trying to be accepted that I had abandoned the very thing that made me feel whole. And ironically, it was my authenticity—not my conformity—that drew people in.
Reflectintrospection
As I walked away from room 30, I didn’t feel regret. I felt peace. I had come full circle—not just to a physical place, but to a deeper understanding of myself.
So, if you are hiding your own version of the nsasaawa—whether it’s a talent, a tradition, a dream, or a truth—unfold it. Lay it out. Let it breathe. You never know who might be waiting to see it and say, “That’s beautiful.” And even if no one notices it, it still remains your truth, your blueprint, your divine mandate to live for a purpose.
Authenticity isn’t weakness—it’s power. Pretending to be someone else is exhausting. Being ourselves and accountable for our every action/inaction is liberating.
Our uniqueness is our gem. The things that set us apart are often the very things that connect us to real people and our destiny. Being Simple, Pure, Original, Truthful, Organised and Natural is ‘SPOT ON’!.
We must never outsource our self-worth because people’s opinions are fleeting but our truth has permanence.
Serenity Prayer
Dear Lord,
Grant us the peace to honour who we are,
The courage to show what makes us different,
And the wisdom to never trade our authenticity for approval. Amen
