Description
There are cries so quiet they never echo. Pain so deep even language won’t reach it. Unheard is not just a portrait — it is a wound made visible. A boy stands frozen in the moment between voicing and silence. His mouth open his eyes pleading a single tear surrendering to gravity. But no one comes. No one turns. Because no one ever really saw him. He was called slow. Dirty. Lost. But what he carried was brilliance unspoken. Dyslexic. Misread. Misjudged. Growing up in the hard noise of Lagos he learned quickly that being different meant being alone. In Yoruba we say: “Ẹni tí wọ̀pọ̀ kò mọ iye ìfarapa ẹni tó yàtọ̀.” “The one who blends in can never know the wounds of the one who stands apart.” This piece is not asking for sympathy — it is demanding memory. For every child who sat in the back of the class. For every boy who learned to hold in his questions. For every human being who was punished for being wired differently. Unheard is a monument to the inner scream. The sacred grief of not being known — not because you didn’t try but because the world never asked.
