I only knew I was ugly because Kosi had told me. He answered me when I asked. He was blunt and comfortably honest. And in that honesty, I found some kind of peace, knowing what I could never fully know. Having an opinion of something I could never fully understand. Beauty. Ugliness, whichever one. And whose opinion could matter more than my only boyfriend’s? And he was a child anyway. And we all know children never lie.

Of course, the room went silent when my favourite nephew called me ugly. I could feel the growing tension in Kosi’s hand in mine. I’m sure they all cast him strong scolding stares. I wish I could give him a stare myself, to let him know that I didn’t mind his answer. They would all have lied to me anyway.

“I’m sorry, Aunty Uju,” I hear him say.

“Oh, Kosi, you don’t need to be sorry,” I said, pulling him into an embrace. “You told me the truth. You’re an honest boy. One of the reasons I love you.”

The tension leaves his body, and he hugs me back. I hear whispers from his parents telling him to say I was beautiful, but I know Kosi wouldn’t say it. I just called him honest. What child will choose to be dishonest after that? When we break away, he cups my face with his small hands.

“Aunty Uju, you are not fine, but your paintings are beautiful.”

My heart melted right there.

“Really?”

“Yes!”

It was at that moment that I knew I was a talented artist. Not talented because my family had told me, probably out of pity, but because my boyfriend had told me. My honest, brave Kosi.

No one would easily believe a blind person can paint. What are you painting when you can’t see? That was one of the reasons I loved to paint in my room, with the doors locked. I didn’t need anyone to mumble into my ears any disturbing concerns about how I could make my paintings better. One of my cousins actually tried to “see” for me, keeping on whispering whether I could see the green paint or whether I knew leaves were green.

To clarify, I wasn’t always blind. I went blind at nine years old. A quack nurse had given me the wrong injection, and I had been blind ever since.

The first time someone laughed at the idea of a blind painter, I was not in my room. I was at the dining table. And the laughter had come from my newly wedded brother-in-law. I heard my mum clear her throat as a warning, but he didn’t stop.

“Wait, are you all actually serious right now? I mean, she’s blind. What exactly is she painting?”

“Uju’s paintings are beautiful.”

I heard him adjust his seat. “Well, can I see them?”

My sister interjected.

“She doesn’t allow everyone to see them.”

Another cackling laugh erupted from him.

I knew my family cast protective glares again, but I did not need them. Because, with his laughter still hanging in the air, a realisation hit me.

I had been hiding.

For a long time. Behind the closed doors of my room. Behind those protective glares. I had never come to accept it. But now it was obvious, even to me. I took a breath.

“You can see them.”

The room fell silent, but it didn’t bother me. It didn’t make me feel small as it used to.

He stood up eagerly and followed me to my room, leaving the anxious faces of my family behind.

When we got to my room, I opened the door and stepped aside, letting him in first.

For a moment, there was nothing. No laughter. No questions.

Just silence.

“You painted these?” he asked, quieter this time.

I nodded.

He didn’t laugh again.

And somehow, that was enough.

I did not need him to call them beautiful. I did not need him to understand how I saw what I could not see.

The paintings were mine.

And for the first time, I was not hiding them.

Not from him.

Not from anyone. Ever again.