The Price of Freedom
Author: Agbansi
June 14th 2025
It was a cold winter night, the air crisp and cutting through the layers of cashmere and wool I wore, a stark contrast to the balmy Southern evenings I usually embraced. I stood outside my sprawling, white-columned home, the meticulously manicured lawn a vivid emerald even in the dormant season, yet it felt like a stark, silent witness to the tumultuous landscape of my heart. Tonight was the night. The day of my escape. A visceral knot of dread and exhilaration tightened in my stomach, a cold, hard stone of premonition that after this day, my life would never again be the perfectly curated image I presented to the world.
I had prayed for this moment a million times, each desperate plea echoing in the quiet, gilded chambers of my soul. For the last four months, I had meticulously, intensely, and secretly crafted my exit strategy. I wished on every falling star, devoured every self-help book, manifested with an almost feverish intensity, and consulted with my ancestors until their gentle voices became a familiar comfort. My ancestral altar, a sacred space in my private study adorned with offerings of sweets and photographs of my grandmothers with their knowing eyes, had become my sanctuary. For those four months, I was glued to my knees, the rich scent of frankincense hanging heavy in the air, praying, meditating, pouring out my heart, offering libations, and lighting candles whose flickering flames mirrored the fragile hope within me. And somehow, miraculously, the ancestors heard me. I felt their unseen hands, warm and guiding, pushing and pruning away my fears and doubts, preparing me to finally answer my true calling, a calling that felt like a song sung deep in my bones.
My life, despite its outward appearance of opulent success and unwavering stability, had become a gilded cage, its bars fashioned from my own expectations and the expectations of others. I believe my misery stemmed from the agonizing delay in answering the undeniable call on my life. Ancestors, in their infinite wisdom, have a profound way of making their presence known, their whispers growing louder until they become an insistent roar, urging you towards your destiny. I had been held captive, not by physical chains, but by the insidious bonds of my limiting beliefs, those tiny, venomous doubts that whispered in my ear. I was suffocated by the relentless demands of my high-performing, high-stress corporate job, a corner office with panoramic city views that felt more like a prison cell. And then there was the crushing weight of my husband’s jealousy, a possessive shadow that clung to me, and his subtle, yet deeply damaging, emotional and physical abuse that chipped away at my spirit, piece by painful piece. I felt a terrifying certainty that all the carefully woven strings I had used to conceal the imperfections of my life—the designer clothes, the luxury vacations, the perfect family photos—from my discerning parents, my innocent son, my wide circle of family and friends, would quickly unravel, exposing the raw, painful truth for all to see.
But I had reached the do-or-die point, that perilous precipice where one chooses to truly live, to breathe, to soar, or to succumb to a slow, agonizing death of the spirit. The damage was done; the emotional wounds were deep, festering beneath the surface of my polished exterior. I was at the point where a mother has to make the agonizing decision: to become the mother her child is ashamed of, a figure of silent resignation, or to become the mother from whom he draws strength, finding inspiration in her courageous struggles, her defiant stand. I was at the point where I could either sit idly by, allowing the knife of despair to dig deeper and pierce bone, or summon the courage to pull it out and begin the arduous, yet ultimately liberating, healing process. I had to run. Not run away in cowardice, but run towards my destiny, with unwavering resolve, my eyes fixed on a distant, brighter horizon. So, I prayed and begged the divine to make a way for me to escape, to transcend my current reality. With calculated precision, I creatively gathered the funds for the plane tickets, a clandestine operation that felt like a spy novel, requiring ingenuity and endless patience. I submitted my PTO request for a full month, a bold move that raised no eyebrows given my impeccable work ethic and demanding schedule. My plan was set, intricate and fragile, and I believed I had paid it forward, honoring the sacrifices I had made and the blessings I desperately hoped to receive.
As the sleek black car, a discreet luxury sedan, pulled up to the curb, the first fat drops of rain began to fall, pattering softly against the perfectly manicured hedges and the gleaming hood of the car. I was relieved I wouldn't have to stand in the unexpected downpour for long, but a fresh wave of anxiety washed over me about being late to the airport. Traffic, even at this late hour, was starting to build, a shimmering snake of red taillights stretching into the distance, and my driver, bless his meticulously cautious heart, was navigating the slick streets with maddening slowness. My mind, ever analytical, began to wander to the intricate, invisible forces at play in the universe. There were so many people, I knew, who would prefer I maintain the status quo, who benefited from my trapped existence, my carefully constructed life. Yet, as I moved forward, inch by painful inch, I felt an undeniable, powerful momentum pushing me onward, creating a cosmic vacuum, a large sucking sound in the universe, even as opposing forces desperately tried to pull me back into the familiar, stifling orbit I was leaving. It was akin to the painful, yet ultimately transformative, push of childbirth, a primal struggle for new life. I was making a seismic shift, a change that would not only reshape my own life but would reverberate through generations to come, a ripple effect of freedom and courage. I knew there would be countless obstacles, unforeseen challenges lurking in the shadows, and moments of profound doubt that would test my resolve, but I had to remain calm, positive, and utterly resolute. As we finally reached the airport, its vast, glowing interior a beacon of promise, and I completed the check-in process, my heart hammered with a raw, unbridled excitement. I made it. I was finally, truly, embarking on this journey. I was traveling across the world, to lands I had only dreamed of, following the insistent whispers of my heart, to forge a new path and create a lasting legacy for my son, a legacy of courage, authenticity, and the profound beauty of choosing your own destiny. What I didn't fully comprehend then was the immense, seemingly unbearable at times, but worth it, price I was ultimately going to have to pay for that precious freedom.
“Blessed are those who struggle. Oppression is worse than the grave. Better to die for a noble cause, than to live and die a slave." The Last Poets
