After I came home from the hospital, my mother and father took turns sitting on my bed every night to make sure I was still breathing.
My mother would rest her head on my chest and say a prayer. My father would whisper, “I love you,” and touch my cheek. I noticed it all.
They thought I was asleep as they did this, but I was awake, unable to sleep. I hadn’t been able to sleep well for months but didn’t want to take drugs to help with that because I enjoy staying awake in the darkness, my mind running wild, even if my mother tells me not to think so much.
This was nearly two years ago, when I was 17, in Cotonou, Benin, West Africa, where I grew up and was in my second year in the university.