McLaud Kwateng
Thursday, July 24, 2025.
Sunday lunch at Nana Agnes’ house was supposed to be peaceful. The smell of light soup drifted through the half-open windows. Outside, chickens clucked lazily in the dust while inside, the Osei family did what they did best and that was to pretend everything was fine.
Ama fussed over the table setting, lining up mismatched spoons and folding napkins into neat triangles. She had spent all morning scrubbing the living room so the relatives wouldn’t see the truth peeking out from under the furniture... that under the shine, everything was held together with tape and prayers.
Kofi, her older brother, was stretched out on the couch, scrolling through football scores, ignoring Ama’s dagger looks. He knew exactly when to be useless, and Sunday lunch was always his time to shine.
Nana Agnes, eighty years old and still sharper than any knife in the house, sat at the head of the table in her ancient cane chair. She watched Ama pace and sighed. Family gatherings were supposed to be warm... not staged.
In the corner, Serwaa giggled with her cousin Nii. They were the youngest at the table... old enough to keep secrets, young enough to think they were good at it.
Lunch was served. Bowls clattered. Conversation drifted in polite circles. The same old talk about who got promoted, who had travelled, and who was still unmarried.
Then, Uncle Jojo arrived late, smelling faintly of palm wine and mischief. He squeezed between Kofi and Ama, grinning widely, eyes bright with the thrill of being just sober enough to speak freely.
“Family!” he bellowed, lifting his glass of sobolo. “Let’s toast... to family secrets staying buried forever!”
The room went silent. Only Serwaa giggled, raising her phone to capture his dramatic toast for Instagram.
Nana Agnes stiffened. Ama shot Jojo a warning glance. But Jojo... oh, Jojo was a man who would sit on truth too long to care.
He leaned back, looked right at Nii, and said, “Or maybe it’s time we unburied some of them, eh?”
A spoon clattered onto the tiled floor. The ceiling fan creaked overhead, as if trying to spin the tension away.
“Uncle Jojo, please…” Ama hissed.
But Jojo only smiled. He had waited too many Sundays for this moment... one slip, one push, and the lies would crack wide open.
“Nii,” he said, gentle this time. “You know that man you call Dad? Good man. But… not your father.”
Serwaa’s phone stopped recording, but the damage was done. The words hung in the hot air like thick smoke.
Nii looked at his mother. Ama’s eyes fell to her half-empty bowl. Nana Agnes didn’t move, but everyone could see her knuckles white on the edge of the table.
“It’s true?” Nii asked, voice trembling.
No one spoke. Outside, the chickens clucked on, oblivious to the storm inside.
Finally, Nana Agnes lifted her chin, as if daring anyone to flinch.
“Yes,” she said. “Your father was my best friend’s husband. We kept it quiet to protect you and me. Your mother wanted you to have a name. So we gave you one. And you wore it well.”
Nii stared at her. His mother. His grandmother. His uncle Jojo, grinning like he’d just won the lottery of trouble.
“So… all my life…”
Ama reached out, but Nii pulled his hand away. For a second, the shame on her face looked almost like relief... no more pretending.
Serwaa put down her phone. Kofi chuckled dryly.
“Well,” he said. “This family never fails to make lunch interesting.”
Nana Agnes barked a short laugh... sharp and sad all at once. She reached for Nii’s chin, turned his face gently toward her.
“You’re still ours,” she said. “Same blood, same secrets. Maybe now you know, you’ll finally eat your fufu with both hands, eh?”
A tiny, helpless laugh escaped Nii’s lips, it surprised him more than anyone. He looked around the room. His mother, fighting tears. Uncle Jojo, smug but oddly satisfied. Kofi, sipping soup like it was tea. Serwaa, awkwardly recording the silence in her mind.
Nana Agnes, calm at last.
Outside, the sun slipped lower, the chickens scratching at the yard like they always did.
Inside, the family sat in a circle of broken truths... wounded, maybe, but freer than they would ever be.
Nii cleared his throat.
“So,” he said, lifting his glass of watery sobolo, “who’s ready for dessert?”
And the family laughed... because sometimes, that’s all they could do.
The End.
Wednesday, July 23, 2025.
Laugh Now, Cry Later
Nobody really knows when the Johnson family decided lying was easier than fighting. Maybe it was the year Grandpa ran away with the church treasurer. Maybe it was when Aunt Dora’s secret baby showed up at the high school reunion, fully grown and very confused. Or maybe it was just Tuesday.
This Saturday, though, all the secrets were supposed to stay buried... for exactly four hours ...so they could survive Grandma Elsie’s 80th birthday party.
At precisely 2:00 PM, the Johnsons' living room looked like a department store had exploded: helium balloons, fake flowers, soggy finger sandwiches, and a massive banner that read, “Cheers to 80 Years, Elsie!” Only Elsie hated surprises, crowds, and half the people on the guest list.
In the kitchen, Dora was reheating mini meat pies while whisper-fighting with her sister, June.
“I told you to order the vegetarian ones, June! Benny’s allergic to beef!”
“Benny’s allergic to responsibility, not beef. He’s 42 — he’ll live.”
Meanwhile, in the backyard, Cousin Marcus practised his speech in front of the garden gnome. Marcus had sworn this would be the year he told Grandma Elsie he was quitting law school to become a stand-up comedian. He’d practised all month. But now his throat felt like a desert and his palms were basically puddles.
Inside, Elsie sat like royalty on her plastic throne of flower garlands, eyes narrowed. She knew something was off. The cake was too big. Her daughters were too polite. And where was her grandson Jeremy?
At exactly 3:15, right when Marcus gathered enough courage to tap his glass and make his big speech, the front door banged open. Jeremy staggered in with his new fiancée. The problem? The fiancée was also his ex-girlfriend. The very same ex who broke his heart, moved away, and accidentally stayed best friends with his sister.
A gasp rippled through the room like bad perfume. Aunt Dora dropped a meat pie. Grandma Elsie’s eyebrows shot up so far they nearly joined her hairline.
“Surprise!” Jeremy said weakly.
Nobody clapped.
Then, like a single cough in church. Uncle Kenny laughed. He laughed so hard he spilt cider down his shirt. June tried to hush him but snorted instead. Marcus, relieved that the spotlight was off him, joined in. Soon half the room was crying with laughter while Elsie just sat there, queen of the chaos.
She looked at her messy family, wiped a crumb off her cheek, and cackled so loudly the cake knife rattled on the table.
“You idiots can’t hold a secret for two hours, let alone eighty years,” she said. “Pour me some punch. If I’m living this long, I might as well enjoy the show.”
So they laughed. And later, they would cry, but for now, laughter filled every corner of that creaky old house. Because in the Johnson family, truth always crashed the party. And somehow, love always stayed for cake.
Tuesday, July 22, 2025.
The Reflection
Amidst the quiet hum of the early morning, Ama sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of her grandmother’s old room. The sun, gentle and shy, slipped through the cracks in the shutters, landing softly on a worn-out mirror leaning against the wall.
Ama had found it while cleaning the house she had inherited. A house she hadn’t stepped into for nearly ten years. The mirror was tall, edged with carvings her grandmother had once traced with her wrinkled fingers as she told stories of her youth.
Ama wiped the dust from its surface, expecting to see only her own tired eyes and unbrushed hair. But as the haze cleared, she saw more than just her reflection... she saw her mother’s eyes in hers, her father’s stubborn chin, and her grandmother’s gentle smile resting on her lips.
She touched the mirror’s surface, half-expecting it to feel warm from all the memories it held. She saw herself as a little girl, hiding behind her grandmother’s skirts, peeking at visitors she was too shy to greet. She remembered how her grandmother would lift her chin, look into this same mirror, and whisper, “You are more than what you see.”
Ama had forgotten those words. She had spent years running from her past. From the small-town gossip, from the weight of expectations, from the grief that swallowed her whole when her parents died. She had run to the city, to noise, to busyness, hoping to drown out the silence that reminded her of who she was and who she feared she could never become.
Yet here she was, staring at herself, at the woman she had become. A woman who had loved and lost, laughed and wept, fought and fallen. A woman who, in all her striving, had never really looked herself in the eye.
Tears welled up, blurring the image until all she saw was a shimmer of light and shadow. She let them fall, for the years gone, the words left unsaid, the calls never made, the goodbyes never spoken properly. She wept until her shoulders shook, until her heart felt lighter.
When the sobs quieted, Ama looked again. This time, she didn’t just see her flaws or her failures. She saw the strength in her eyes, the softness in her smile. The echo of all the women who had come before her, standing with her still.
In the mirror’s reflection, she wasn’t alone. She had never been.
Ama rose, her knees stiff, her spirit steadier. She whispered to the empty room, to the memory of her grandmother, “Thank you for keeping this for me.”
She turned from the mirror, but not from herself. Outside, the morning had fully bloomed, and for the first time in years, Ama stepped forward. Not to run, but to come home.
Sometimes what we fear facing is exactly what saves us.- Stayung😎.
When I wasn't ready.
"Sometimes, the loudest battles are the ones we fight silently within."
I used to be the one they called "Potential". Bright, bold, always showing up and always shining.
But deep down...... I was tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep can fix, the kind that settles in your bones and makes you question your worth. People say you can only fail after you try. But I failed without even trying. I stopped dreaming. I stopped moving. I stopped believing.
Why?
Because I gave too much of myself to something I wasn't ready for.
"Love" is what I called it. But it was confusion, distraction.... a mirror I wasn't ready to look into.
And that's how I lost myself,
Piece by piece.
Smile by smile.
"The moment you realise you’re lost, is the first step toward finding yourself." — Stayung😎
This is my story.
Day one.
Tomorrow, I will tell you about the moment I truly broke 💔 .
Tuesday, July 08, 2024.
The fall.
"You can break a soul without ever raising your voice — just walk away at the wrong time." — Nikita Gill
It started with silence.
Not from her...... but within me.
My grades dropped. My confidence dropped.
I dropped out of my life.
Still living, but not breathing.
People noticed, but didn't say it out loud.
They probably thought I would bounce back like I always did. But this time, I didn't. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't.
I was investing love I hadn't even given to myself. Trying to build a future with someone, when I haven't even built myself.
She left. And I don't blame her.
But when she walked away.... She didn't just leave with my heart. She took my rhythm. My spark. My reason.
That's when I stopped everything. Poetry. School. Dreams. God.
I looked in the mirror and I saw a stranger.
The stranger... was me.
"Not all pain is punishment. Sometimes, it’s preparation." — Lisa Nichols
Wednesday, July 09, 2025.
"You owe yourself the love that you so freely give to others." — Alex Elle
I used to think that love was enough. That if you gave, you would get it back. But I learnt something much harder and that was..." You can't pour from an empty cup".
I kept chasing peace in people who were just as broken as I was. I thoughtconcerningt affection. I mistook presence for purpose and I confused connection for calling. But here's the truth... "Love isn't supposed to cost you"
So I started asking hard questions;
Who am I without performance?
Without applause?
Without validation?
Would I still matter if I weren't doing everything for everyone?
The answers came slowly but they came.
It wasn't broken. It was just... unfinished. And it was time to rebuild.
"You are not too much. You gave too much to the wrong things." — Stayung😎.
Thursday, July 10, 2024.
The Rebuilding.
"Healing isn’t becoming the old you. It’s becoming the you you were meant to be." — Thema Bryant
Healing isn't loud.
It's quiet... and it happens when nobody is watching. It is crying in silence and journaling things you will never post. It is saying no even when your heart still wants to say yes.
I started small. I picked up my pen again and wrote a poem... then two. Then I started breathing deeper and talking to God again.
I deleted some contacts, blocked some memories and unfollowed some feelings. I wasn't bit... just better. Each day I reclaimed a piece of me. Not the old me... the real me... the one I hadn't met yet.
And for the first time, I didn't want love to find me.
I wanted me... to find me.
"Every scar has a name... mine is called survival." — Stayung😎
Friday, July 11, 2025.
I’m still becoming.
"Fall in love with becoming the best version of yourself, but with patience, with compassion, and with respect to your own journey." — Sylvester McNutt.
I’m not fully healed. But I’m no longer broken.
But now I know... pain doesn’t mean the story ends, it means something new is about to begin. Today, I’m not chasing validation. I’m chasing value. I’m not looking for who will love me... I’m learning to love myself first.
So to anyone who’s felt this way:
You’re not weak.
You’re not crazy.
You’re not alone.
You were just unready… And that’s okay.
But now?
Now it’s time to rise.
My name is McLaud, also known as Stayung
And this is just the beginning.
"I’m not who I was. I’m not yet who I’ll be. But I’m proud of who I’m becoming." — Stayung😎
Monday, July 14, 2025.
🕊️The promise.
I woke up today with a strange calm in my chest, the kind that whispers, “Maybe you’re not behind. Maybe you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”
For so long, I thought healing had to look loud like big announcements and grand gestures. But healing is quiet. It’s soft. It’s hidden in ordinary moments: a warm cup of tea, an early morning prayer, a conversation with someone who listens instead of judging.
I’ve stopped waiting for someone to save me. I am my own rescue now.
I still fall back sometimes. I still replay the past and wish I’d done things differently. But each time, I remind myself: Regret is a teacher... not a prison.
Today I promised myself,
To pause when my heart is overwhelmed.
To protect my peace like it’s the last piece of me I own.
Never again give more than I have to someone who can’t hold it carefully.
This is my promise.
To me.
For me.
Tuesday, July 15, 2025.
🗝️The return.
There’s something beautiful about returning... not to wdifferentlyre, but to who you could be.
I found my old notebook today... the one filled with scribbled dreams and half-finished poems. I read through pages of a younger me who believed anything was possible. And I didn’t feel shame for losing him. I felt hope that I could find him again.
So I wrote a new page.
No edits. No overthinking. Just raw words. Just truth. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel lost writing it.
I felt found.
Wednesday, July 16, 2025.
🌟The reveal
I didn’t plan to share my story.
I thought, Who would care?
But then I remembered the nights I needed someone to talk to.
So here I am, saying it for someone else.
This isn’t just my healing.
It’s ours.
If my truth can help even one person feel less alone, then none of this pain was wasted.
So if you’re reading this:
I see you.
I hear you.
And your story matters too.
Thursday, July 17, 2025.
🌟The Reveal.
I used to think secrets were safer than truth.
If I kept it all inside... the shame, the heartbreak, the failures... no one could use them against me. No one could call me weak. No one could see me break.
So I built walls. Tall and wide ones. On the outside, I was “fine.” On the inside, I was one more “I’m okay” away from falling apart.
But heremyself what no one tells you... "Secrets don’t protect you, they poison you." They eat you from the inside out. They convince you that you’re the only one in the world feeling like this.
Alone. Broken. Unlovable.
So today, I chose different.
I chose truth. I chose to open the door I kept locked for so long.
I told my story.
Not because it’s pretty, but because it’s real.
Not because I want pity... but because I want freedom.
If even one person reads these words and whispers, “Me too,” then I’ve won.
Because connection is stronger than shame.
Light is stronger than secrets.
And healing is contagious when we tell the truth.
So this is me, standing here... open palms, raw heart.
This is who I am.
I’m not perfect.
I’m ndeeplyeaand led.
But I’m real.
And maybe… tapologisingh to start over.
Friday, July 18, 2025.
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