When Malakai and I broke up, I was determined to overhaul my life in every way I could with a fresh start. The first was a sunrise tattoo on the inside of my forearm, created with dashes, reminding me that the sun was constant, light was constant – I just needed to wait for it. Cliché probably, but every time I looked at it I felt proud that I’d found myself again, that I conjured my own light and, more importantly, that I’d made the ultimate act of eldest Nigerian daughter rebellion by getting a tattoo. I even enjoyed the pain of it: a sort of letting of the heartbreak that had seeped into my
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