All you ever wanted was to be seen. For someone to read your writing, give remarks, identify you, respond, criticize, and recognize your work. Although it never happens, you share your writing: hoping it will resonate, hoping they will love it, hoping someone will notice your tone, hoping that life will be better after all.

No retweets, no reshares, not even a casual, “This was nice.”

And every time, there’s a distinctive level to the pitch following the uncountable rejections you have received: from the magazines you admire, from people who claim to “support upcoming writers.” And every time you send work to them, there’s a beauty in how they bounce back to you with an “unfortunately”.

The sadness wells up, pushing at the back of your eyes, threatening to tumble and rain down. Your mind floats to everything you’ve tried. Every thought that has rained in your mind. You just want to be heard, to have someone see you, for people to read and cherish the gift/curse you’ve always had.

***

You’d written what you thought was your best. You spent hours reading and rereading, trying to get it just right. And still, they didn’t see you. And when someone finally did, they didn’t listen. They didn’t understand the fight in your words, the way you were writing for more than yourself, for your family, for your future, and for the dreams you thought were simply living in your head.

Every story you wrote was a piece of your life. You’d disguised it in other characters and other settings, but it was always you in there: your struggles, your hopes, your truths, dancing with reality within the lines.

***

That night, as you walk into Valco Hall, the heavens open into you, and you look for a sign to sort your problems. You think about what you’ll say to Fatau, your roommate. You’ll ask him for help for the first time. You don’t want to; nonetheless, you’re running out of options. You don’t want to bother your mother. She’s done too much already, always standing by you, always encouraging you even when things were hard. You know she doesn’t have the money.

Today feels like your last chance. You know Fatau will say yes if you ask. He’s kind, always thoughtful, and has shown you how good he can be. However, you’re not close to him. You’ve never been close to anyone.

Most of the time in the room, it’s just you. Talking to yourself, laughing at your own jokes, planning stories in your head, and speaking out loud to yourself. You’ve read your drafts alone and clapped for yourself because no one else ever did. Fatau never noticed. He probably thought you were mad. Or he never heard you probably.

When you step into the room, his friend is there. The one with the braids, the one from your mother’s home country. You’ve never told him that. He might ask too many questions, and you don’t feel the urge to answer him. You are never fond of sharing too much about yourself.

You greet them, but they don’t even look up. They’re busy, playing on the PS5, their faces lit up by the movements on the screen and their mouths shouting out words to people who only live in such realities. You move around the room, from your bed to the balcony, hoping both will notice you, say something. Recognize your agitation. They don’t.

That’s how it’s always been.

***

You think about the time you tweeted, tagging all those advertising agencies, hoping someone would see it. No one did. You remember scrolling through LinkedIn, sending messages to HR managers, and pouring out your heart into every word. One of them read your message. You saw the “seen” tick, but he never replied.

In your emails, you even said, “If you’re not interested, just send me a rejection. I’ll understand.” They didn’t bother. You followed up, again and again, sending more messages into the same nothingness.

You think back to the time you waited for a response from Ogilvy, your dream company. The delay dragged on until you gave up, deciding to move on and start school again. Then, out of nowhere, they called you for an interview. You sat across from them, explaining that you were now back in school. They nodded politely, and you knew in that second, the job was gone before it even began.

You remember that day. The day you received a call from Insel Communications, the rush of adrenaline as you checked your balance. Twenty-five Ghana cedis. Just enough for an Uber to East Legon. You booked the ride anyway, stomach tight with worry, but excitement overflowing in your soul the way a caged bird sings of freedom. You had been waiting for this.

The boss was accommodating. He was short and made sure his words carried the room, making him taller than his frame. He was in a meeting. You knew it had to be the Gong Gong Awards. You had spent nights combing through industry articles, memorizing jury members’ names like a desperate student before an exam. Your life, at that point, revolved around these professionals, their movements, their triumphs. You followed them the way the tide follows the moon — pulled, fidgety, unable to resist, and determined to play its part.

Then you saw him.

A glance. No! It was a frozen second suspended on the screen, appearing with every wish that you had once made to be near him.

 Andrew Ackah. The man whose career you had studied the way Christians study the scripture. His words had guided your dreams, his achievements, a map to places you wanted to go. You had stalked his life online, knew the places he worked, the books he recommended, the speeches he gave, and even where he stayed with his family. And now, here he was, a few feet away, discussing something with the director of Insel online. You needed the job more than anything just so you could… be so close to your industry idol, just so your dreams could sprout from the ground.

While still in the meeting, the director turned to you and asked about your favorite book.

“Gone Girl” you said without thinking. A lie. A reflex. You couldn’t have told him the truth. You couldn’t have said your favorite book was by Akwaeke Emezi, a writer whose words were home to you but whose identity you feared would betray you before you even had a chance.

Then came the test. The page in front of you looked surprising. The creativity you carried as a second skin abandoned you. This is copywriting? You knew, even before handing the horrible handwriting back to them, that you weren’t going to get the job. The Uber fare had been a gamble you lost. So, you walked.

From East Legon to Bawaleshie to Legon. The rain came down in sheets, filling your shoes, soaking into every piece of your trousers and the white boxer shorts you bought before the Kantamanto fires. You prayed. Not for another job, not even for a sign. It should just be for something, anything, to remind you that you were still headed in the right direction.

Four days later, hunger was eating itself around your stomach. You lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling when your phone rang. Regina, an administrator from another company. A meeting on Monday.

This time, you borrowed from MTN Quick Loan.

The journey was long. A crawl through traffic, through neighborhoods that screamed wealth and places you had never been. The estate was lovely, your first time in one. You wanted to work there. To belong there, to smell like them. And you crossed your hands to do your best in the interview.

Thomas, the boss, liked you or so you thought. You could tell from the way his eyes shone when you spoke, the way he nodded, delighted and impressed with your background.

“Great diction,” he said. “You’re eloquent. You have quite a presence.”

And for a moment, just a moment, you believed you had finally found a place where you fit.

Then you walked out, the door clicking shut behind you. But something kept your feet planted just outside, your breath moving in rhythm to your curiosity. You listened to him and the other board members.

Laughter. Its sound had cruelty in its throat. The one that stung more than mosquito bites.

“He’s too effeminate. Probably gay. Sounds too much like a girl.”

The words cut like glass lodged in the gums, impossible to ignore. And your mouth opened in shock to the words. Your breath faster, heartbeat swifter, the promise of belonging disappearing behind the door as you bid bye to the estate.

They never called back.

And despite your follow-ups, your emails, and your polite check-ins, the silence was its own kind of answer.

***

It wasn’t the first time life had teased you with possibilities only to snatch them away. After your bachelor’s degree, you struggled just to start National Service. When you finally got a placement, you worked hard, but no one noticed. You felt invisible. It’s almost as if you didn’t exist in the same world as everyone else. You were a ghost people spoke to when needed and ignored when you desired them to see you.

You dreamed of studying abroad, of leaving everything behind to start fresh. But when you asked for help, no one came through and it was a battle too big for you to even start. After National Service, you sat at home, endlessly applying for jobs. Every email you sent felt more personal than the last, and the rejection came like rain in June.

You thought going back to school would fix everything. Another degree?! Surely that would open doors you reassured yourself. You gathered what little savings you had left to buy the university forms, not even sure where the money to pay the fees would come from.

Your mother, who always stood by you and supported you, scraped together what she could. She used the last of her savings to help pay half the fees after you got admission. That left you to figure out how to survive.

Feeding yourself? You didn’t know how you’d manage, so you left it in God’s hands and hoped for the best.

***

The first day you walked into Legon Interdenominational Church, you hoped to find something more than sermons and praises. Perhaps someone there would see you, connect with you, and perhaps help you. Instead, you got leftover food and free meals from the events you attended. You were grateful and ashamed, feeling smaller with every bite that you took.

And then there was love. Or at least, what you thought was love. It arrived like a promise and left you the way a bad memory is never forgotten. Your honesty became a joke; your confession was something to laugh about, and the betrayal following it stung so painfully in your heart that it left you questioning if anything in your life was real.

***

You think about the day you wanted to end it all. You were tired. Too tired of fighting, exhausted from trying, bushed out of feeling as though nothing you did would ever be enough. That was the day someone finally noticed you. He reached out to help, but even then, he didn’t listen. He didn’t hear the way you were saying you couldn’t take it anymore. He should have just let you be without interfering with your journey to the next life.

And you’re still here. Somehow, you kept going on.

It’s hope that keeps you moving, stubborn, and persistent in the way a weed grows out through a crack in the pavement. Or maybe it’s just the voice inside you that refuses to give up.

Now, you stand on the balcony with the cool metal rail under your fingers as you stare out at the night. You feel invisible; you always do. A part of you wants to scream, to force the world to turn and look at you. The words fail you. Your mouth is buried inside.

Sometimes, you wonder if it’s because you’re a man — the reason no one sees you and makes your struggles easy to ignore. You think about the female celebrities whose beauty seems to do all the talking, opening doors and winning attention in ways you can’t.

You blame something bigger. It’s not you at all. Possibly, it’s the country: the way it feels like it’s designed to work against you and the way your soles crack from running around. You keep trying, putting in the effort. Trying, and yielding to a lack of results. It’s as if the system is broken. As if no matter how hard you try, the soil just won’t give back your results.

It feels like God has forgotten you. He doesn’t see you. You’ve prayed so many times, poured out your heart, fasted, and still nothing changes. No answer, no sign, no rain. Just nothing. The faith you once held onto so tightly now feels shaky, and it could slip away at any point in time.

You climb into bed, your roommate and his friend still glued to their video game, still not paying you any attention. You pull the sheet over your head, trying to block out the world and let everything disappear. The sadness feels enormous. It’s pulling you under, and you let it. You let your thoughts carry you away, far from the noise, far from everything. Far into somewhere else.