Image from chatgpt
My name is Sànyà.
If you hear my name in the market, it doesn’t come with laughter. It comes in whispers.
“Stay away from that man.”
“His eyes are not normal.”
“He looks like trouble.”
I have learned not to turn when I hear those words. If I turn, they fall silent. If I keep walking, they feel safe to speak. So I let them speak. It is easier that way.
But what they see is not who I am.
The first time I noticed fear in someone’s eyes because of my face, I was just a boy. I had run home excited after helping an old woman carry her load. I expected praise. Instead, my mother looked at me for a long moment and sighed.
“Sànyà,” she said softly, touching my cheek, “your face… people may not understand it. But promise me your heart will always be kind.”
“I promise, Mama,” I replied, not fully understanding.
Now I do.
Every morning before the sun stretches fully across the sky, I go to the roadside where Mama Kemi fries akara. The oil sizzles like it is telling its own story, and the smell pulls people in.
The first day I offered to help her, she didn’t hesitate.
“You,” I said, pointing to the heavy bowl she was struggling with, “let me carry that.”
She looked up at me—really looked—and smiled. Not the forced kind. A real one.
“Ah, ọmọ mi,” she said, “so this face can also come with helping hands?”
I almost laughed, but I am not used to laughing in public.
Since then, it has been our routine.
“Good morning, Mama,” I say.
“Good morning, Sànyà. Did the world fear you again yesterday?” she teases.
“Like always.”
She shakes her head. “One day, they will be tired of being wrong.”
Children… they are the most honest. They don’t hide their fear.
When I stand by the road in the afternoons to help them cross, they freeze when they see me.
“Come,” I say gently, stretching out my hand.
They hesitate.
“I will not hurt you.”
Still, they whisper among themselves.
“That is the man…”
“The one with the scary face…”
I withdraw my hand slowly. “It’s okay. Just wait. When the road is clear, you can go.”
But sometimes, one brave child will step forward.
One day, a little girl named Bisola held my finger—just the tip, like she was testing danger.
“Are you… are you a bad man?” she asked, her voice shaking.
I swallowed hard. “No.”
“Then why do you look like that?”
I paused. How do you explain a face shaped by pain to a child?
“I think,” I said quietly, “my face forgot how to smile.”
She looked at me for a long time, then said something I will never forget.
“Maybe it didn’t forget. Maybe nobody taught it.”
That night, I sat alone in my room and tried to smile in the mirror.
It looked… strange.
So I stopped.
The day everything changed began like any other.
The sun was harsh. The road was busy. Horns fought for attention like angry voices.
I stood at my usual spot when I saw him—Tunde.
He was small, restless, chasing after a rolling tyre. Laughing. Carefree.
“Stop!” I shouted.
But children don’t always hear warnings.
A keke was speeding toward him.
In that moment, the world slowed.
My heart pounded. My legs moved before my thoughts could catch up.
I ran.
I grabbed him.
Pulled him hard against me.
The keke screeched past us, the wind brushing against my back like a near-miss from death itself.
Tunde burst into tears in my arms.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “You’re safe.”
But safety did not last long.
The crowd came.
And with it—judgment.
“What happened?”
“Why is he holding the child like that?”
“I’ve been saying this man is dangerous!”
Their words hit harder than stones.
I wanted to speak, but my voice felt trapped.
Then a woman pushed through the crowd—Tunde’s mother.
Her eyes were wild with fear.
She saw her son in my arms and froze.
For a moment, the world held its breath.
“What… what did you do?” she asked, her voice breaking.
That question… it cut deep.
Before I could answer, Tunde clung to her wrapper.
“Mama!” he cried. “He saved me! The keke… it almost hit me… but he carried me!”
Silence fell.
Heavy. Complete.
The woman looked at me again—really looked this time. Not at my face, but into my eyes.
And something changed.
Her shoulders softened.
“Ẹ ṣeun…” she whispered.
Thank you.
Two simple words.
But they broke something inside me.
I nodded quickly and stepped back. “It’s nothing.”
But it was not nothing.
Because for the first time… someone saw me.
That evening, as I passed through the market, something unusual happened.
A man greeted me.
“Good evening, Sànyà.”
I stopped.
He had never greeted me before.
“Good evening,” I replied, unsure.
A woman added, “Thank you for what you did today.”
I didn’t know what to say. So I just nodded.
Then I heard a small voice.
“Sànyà!”
I turned.
It was Bisola, waving both hands.
And then, slowly… other children began to wave too.
Not all of them. But enough.
Enough to warm a place in my heart that had been cold for a long time.
I still look the same.
The face they feared is still the face I wear.
The eyes, the voice, the silence—none of it has changed.
But now, when people look at me, some of them see more.
And sometimes, when I pass by a mirror, I don’t try to smile anymore.
Because I have realized something:
Not every face is meant to be understood at first glance.
Not every story is written on the surface.
Some hearts—like mine—are quiet rivers.
You may fear their depth…
until you finally learn how gentle they flow.
