The elders are wise with their words.
They say that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I agree.
After years of mental planning, the test of time arrives.

I like small rooms.
The intimacy of 4 walls so close to one another reminds me to be still. In this 5 to 6 foot space I surrender and subject myself in the same way a blank canvas does to an artist yearning to express.

I’m here to consolidate all that my 21-year-old head and heart have endured. I’m here to recall the struggles, reclaim my strength and resolve for future traumas to come.

Thabo is here with me.
He is gracious and gentle like the man I’d hoped he would be. Grunge art hangs on his walls. That is neither surprising.

Symbols and signs of art he single-handedly stenciled onto brown skin.

As my eyes float along the walls the corners crease, and my face lightens up. The sudden stench of ink grazes my nostrils.
Neither strange nor strong enough to shake my undivided attention.
Suddenly, a drilling buzz at the tap of Thabo’s foot snaps me out of the fallacies that will soon be my reality. I flip my head over as though my name were abruptly called, and it dawns on me. The time is now.

The process is slow.
I tell him my wish and like a genie, he obliges with the click of his pen. He begins to depict all my weaknesses and all my strengths with the conciseness of 7 stylised syllables:
“Let it be beautiful.”
He asks “Are you ready?” and like a young Zulu maiden at the start of a rite of passage, I surrender to his artistry.

Silver needles glisten before my eyes as they move with caution between hands covered in fresh transparent latex. He is transparent with nothing but the honor of doing the work that he does so beautifully.

He taps his foot on the paddle.
The needle screams with contained excitement.
So do the voices in my head:
“You’re the strongest girl I know.”
I hear those words over the sizzling on the skin of my wrist. It’s resounding as every word is permanently marked on my skin.
“Let it be beautiful.”

Every pinch of the needle heals the hurt inflicted upon my head and heart.
With this self-inflicted pain, though, I reclaim my story and restore my strength. With the healed scars of ink deeply settled on my skin, today, I am reminded of all that hasn’t killed me but made me stronger.