Unveiling Scars, Rewriting Stories
photo by Angela Roma
Sadé was raised Christian. One of the few constants in her childhood was that classic black leather-bound book with the words ‘Holy Bible’ written in gold on the cover. Her father had brought it with him when they left Nigeria, and he had seldom parted from it. The rare times Sadé mustered up the energy to think about Christianity or the Christian God, she was always baffled that religion was the thing that would move her otherwise stoic father towards the extremes of emotion. Most of the time, however, she was bored. She attended church services like her father wanted and would find herself immediately tuning out the preacher and his sermon. She did not try very hard to hide that she thought her father’s passion uninteresting. Once or twice, she had stayed up past her bedtime and would hear him praying for her salvation, for Christ to make himself known in her heart. In response, her father’s God sent The Pastor.
The day The Pastor arrived, the smell of party jollof reached all corners of the church. The aunties looked upon the tables heaped high with food with pride. “My Oga at the top!” could be heard from the lips of the elder uncles whenever they embraced The Pastor in greeting. Everyone gathered in the main hall of the church well after the sun had set, and The Pastor finally set out to do what he had been flown in from Nigeria to do: preach. Recognizing how important this man was to all the people around her, especially her father, Sadé did her best to pay attention to The Pastor’s words. Pretty soon, however, she found herself yawning and relaxing further and further into her seat.
Sadé wasn’t sure how long she had slept. She awoke slightly, hovering between her dreams and reality, when she found herself being carried. “Shh,” her father crooned, coaxing her back to sleep. Seconds or minutes or hours later, the pain woke her up, bright and red-hot against the sole of her left foot. She whimpered as she opened her eyes. She looked down at her body and found her arms bound. The Pastor sat by her feet holding a fire tong in his right hand. Sadé looked around the room and saw the church elders, the faces of the aunties who made sure she always got some meat pie with her jollof, the uncles who would play with her whenever she asked them to. Her father knelt, praying, a few feet away from the bed where she was bound. He thanked God for meeting Sadé’s mother, for giving Sadé’s mother the strength to birth his daughter despite being sick, for the existence of his beautiful daughter, for The Pastor who was here to remove the demon from his daughter’s spirit so that she could know Christ.
Sadé doesn’t like to dwell on what happened after her father finished praying. It’s not as if she could ever forget the smell of burning flesh, her flesh, or that she lost her voice in the days following the intervention from the screams and shrieks of pain that went unacknowledged by those around her. Her body would—and did—eventually heal, though, leaving behind scars on both legs that ran from her ankles to her knees.
Over the years, Sadé’s scars became a silent burden she carried, a reminder of the pain she endured and the struggle to reclaim her body. She would spend the rest of her adolescence and early adulthood avoiding activities that required her to expose her legs. She never entered the pool or went to the beach, though she loved being in the water. Summer became her least favorite season because she could never wear shorts. Using clothing to cover up the physical scars from that night was easy. What Sadé found nearly impossible to handle, however, were her own memories of the events of that night, returning in the form of nightmares that would wake her up most nights from fretful sleep, her brain refusing to let her move on. Despite her efforts to conceal her trauma, the emotional weight of her past lingered within her.
One day, while browsing through an art exhibition, Sadé stumbled upon a captivating painting. The artist had depicted a dark-skinned woman with intricate tattoos made up of various shades of yellows, reds, and blues covering her body. The image resonated deeply with Sadé, stirring a longing within her to find a way to rewrite her own narrative.
Determined to break free from the shackles of her past, Sadé began researching tattoo artists who specialized in scar cover-ups for dark skin. After weeks of searching, she chose a talented artist named Praise, whose social media account showcased her ability to transform scars into beautiful works of art for clients who looked like Sadé.
On the day of her appointment, Sadé nervously entered Praise’s studio. The air was thick with the scent of ink and the soft hum of machines. Praise, who was covered with tattoos as far as Sadé could see, greeted Sadé with a warm smile, immediately putting her at ease. As Sadé exposed her scars to Praise, she felt vulnerable yet hopeful. Praise listened attentively as Sadé haltingly shared her story, her voice filled with a mixture of pain and determination. Praise understood the importance of this journey and assured Sadé she was in capable hands.
When Sadé felt the first press of the needle against her skin, she wasn’t surprised to feel pain. That was expected from everything she had read online about getting a tattoo. However, she did not expect her heart to start beating faster and her breathing to suddenly accelerate.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Could we stop? Please?” She asked urgently.
Praise immediately pulled away from Sadé’s body and turned off the machine. “Of course. Do you need to take a break?” Praise asked gently. Sadé nodded gratefully. “I understand. That’s no problem with me. I’m going to give you a few minutes and also grab you a bottle of water. Does that sound okay?” Sadé could only nod again, afraid of what may come out if she opened her mouth. Praise patted Sadé’s leg in understanding before leaving her alone with her thoughts.
There were no similarities between the tattoo parlor and the back room of the church where her 11-year-old self would have her life irrevocably changed forever. She was sitting reclined in a black chair surrounded by drawings and photos that would make the elders of her church faint. Her arms and hands were free to hug herself, to touch her legs, to count backward from ten like her therapist had instructed her to do whenever she felt her anxiety spike. Most importantly, she was nowhere near her father. In fact, she had not spoken to him in years. He had no way to contact her, and she steered clear of churches and anything, really, that had to do with Christianity. She reminded herself that she had survived this far because she loved herself, and that loving herself brought her to Praise and this very tattoo shop so that she could rewrite her story in her own way.
This will hurt, she thought to herself, but pain had intertwined its arms with hers too early on in her life to ever completely let go.
Sadé called Praise back into the room, who handed her a bottle of water that she sipped from hurriedly. “I’m ready to continue.” She informed Praise, who nodded. Sadé settled back into her chair and made room for the pain—the consistent stinging—to settle on top of her, knowing that from it would emerge a different retelling of her tragedy.
Over the course of several sessions, Praise continued to cover Sadé’s scars with intricate designs that told a new story—one of strength, healing, and self-acceptance. Each stroke of the needle brought forth a mix of physical pain and emotional release, as if the scars themselves were being transformed. There were moments during those sessions when Sadé could not hold back her tears. Not because of the needle, but to grieve her younger self, who had suffered alone, suffered silently, suffered endlessly.
As the final session approached, Sadé stood before the mirror in her apartment, marveling at the remarkable transformation. She had always felt that her body had no choice but to bear the physical manifestation of the trauma she had accumulated in her short life. These scars were no longer symbols of pain but had become vibrant tattoos—a testament to her resilience and the beauty she found within herself.
On the day of the last session, Sadé entered Praise’s studio with a sense of gratitude and excitement. As Praise put the finishing touches on the artwork that now adorned Sadé’s legs, they both knew that a chapter of healing was coming to a close. When the tattoo gun fell silent, Sadé’s eyes welled up with tears. She looked down at her legs, now graced with the masterpiece she had become. The phoenix, with its fiery plumage, stretched its wings across her skin, embracing her scars with its majesty. The phoenix’s wings were a canvas of vibrant hues—vermilion reds danced with tangerine oranges, illuminating the once-hidden shadows of Sadé’s past. In the midst of the phoenix's grandeur, delicate patterns of lotus flowers, symbols of purity and rebirth, weaved their way along the edges of the design. Each petal, a brushstroke of hope, seemed to whisper stories of growth and renewal into Sadé’s soul. Praise smiled softly, sharing in Sadé’s moment of catharsis.
Walking out of the studio, Sadé felt a newfound lightness in her step. She knew that her journey of healing was far from over, but now she had a visible reminder of the strength she possessed to get her to this point. She was no longer defined by her past; she was a survivor, a warrior, and a living testament of the power of self-acceptance and the art of healing.
