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Welcome to MissKorang. I’m thrilled you’re here—because I have so much I want to share with you. I’m here to make a life out of what I love, and what I love is blogging. My writings are anything from fiction to real experiences to opinion.

If you catch me musing about my childhood more often than not, please indulge me; it is my Achilles’ heel.

I am passionate about what i write so i will try to take you    “there”. I truly believe that my passion is relayed back to my readers through the innovative and exciting content that I post. Explore my site, and all that I have to offer; perhaps MissKorang will ignite your own passions too.


Tears of a crocodile and laughter of a hyena- a tale of greed and hypocrisy (Part II)

The crocodile does not shed tears because it is sad, neither does the hyena laugh because it is happy.

Read the first part of the story here


Whispers of a humongous well being dug upstream began to circulate among the birds of the air. Rosah, a canary, notorious for exaggerating the most ordinary news into extraordinary bulletins was the first to bring the news to Utanko. She gathered her flying friends and said to them, “humans are digging a big well upstream, in the middle of Ghawa, close to the village of Barbag, the town of the fisher folk. They are using strange animals on four legs that move the earth with their movement and make loud, strange humming sounds. The well is so big that by the time they finish, Ghawa will stop flowing to our part; they are building a rock wall to stop Ghawa from flowing to Utanko, we are all going to die of thirst and hunger in the coming year!”.

But very few believed her, Ahq, the young melodious red factor canary rolled her eyes and resumed singing. Soli the young raven cheekily asked, “how much pepper did you eat today Rosah, your head must be spinning, given the way you are concocting stories”. Most of the birds present at the little gathering agreed this was a rather long tale; farfetched and ridiculous. To them Ghawa was too mighty a river whose flow even humans could not block. Ghawa was impregnable. Ey, the mother Raven was however slow to dismiss Rosah, the story rang a bell and when she noticed the fear and concern etched in Rosah’s brows, she reasoned there had to be some sort of truth behind her story.

Ey arranged for Soli, the beautiful, youthful and kind hearted raven to babysit her chicks. She and Rosah flew north towards the village of Barbag, she wanted to ascertain the truth for herself. It was a beautiful harmattan morning, the sun shone bright and yellow from its abode; flying over the forest, Ey couldn’t help but notice the beauty and splendor of Utanko, the place she had called home for so many years. The leaves on the trees were browning in response to the harmattan season, and occasionally, the trees would dance in unison to the winds. Vapor arose from the forest and formed a fog around the surrounding mountains, making visibility poor, the air humid and the flight dangerous. The two birds were however not deterred, each for their own reasons. Rosah wanted to prove a point but Ey had another reason, she wanted to see if this was the making of another man-made catastrophe, where humans tinker with nature for their selfish gain and leave animals to pay the price. Over mountains and forests and along the banks of mighty Ghawa they flew. Rosah chirped and chatted excitedly but Ey was quiet; she couldn’t shake the feeling of trepidation; she silently prayed in her heart, ‘God of the air please let not this thing Rosah speaks of be the making of a dam’.

With Babone gone, the hyenas ruled Utanko. They tried to keep everybody in check and ensured Utanko worked just as it had when Babone was there. Among the rulers however, there was neither unity nor peace. Three eldest hyenas each fancied themselves worthy of being the overall ruler, the ultimate, the king, to be worshipped and served, to be given the best part of a catch and to do nothing but rule. Pem, a matriarch with many children and grandchildren considered herself the best option by virtue of being a direct offspring of one of the original females brought to the island by Babone, royal blood flowed through her veins – a queen by birth. Cabuk , a patriarch, virile and proud thought himself suitable, after all he was male, testosterone flowed in his veins, he was father of many young hyenas, he was the rightful king. Cjon was a much younger, strong female. The hyena community loved her; she was a fearless, no nonsense personality, she had the young hyenas behind her. Cjon felt the leadership of Utanko should be hers, she had the energy and love for the job.

And thus the hyenas struggled for power among themselves. One fine evening, Pem and Cabuk got into an argument over a piece of buffalo carcass, before long, it escalated into a full blown physical fight and Cabuk took the beating of his life. He slid into his den to lick his bite wounds and nurse his sore balls – his precious balls had taken a deadly blow from Pem’s fore legs. The biggest wound though was the blow to his ego, Pem had embarrassed him to no end. As he nursed his wounds and balls, he cursed under his breath, “how dare that bitch! I will teach her an unforgettable lesson. I will declare my support for Cjon and together we will push her out”. He laughed ‘heeeeheeeheeehee’ not because he found the situation amusing, it was a warning to the younger hyenas in the den to leave him alone. And alone he was, hatching his plan and waiting for the crack of dawn to make his move.

Elsewhere, Pem called her sons Sidfe, Moa and Edan to a secret meeting and together hatched a deadly plan intended to drive Cjon from the cackle and ultimately kill her. Mother and sons unanimously agreed it was good plan, one that will benefit the peace of the entire Utanko, and so they spent the entire night going over the fine details of their plot.

On the far east side of Ghawa lay Udemma, a massive grassland, home to varied animals including the notorious pride of lions named The Kuntis led by King Kunti. Udemma had been hard hit by the harmattan and wildfires, causing many animals to die of thirst and others to migrate elsewhere. It was time for The Kuntis to migrate too, food had become scarce. King Kunti sat on his hind legs, raised his head, closed his eyes and sniffed the air for a good one minute. When he opened his eyes, he said, “I caught a whiff of male buffaloes, we go West”.

The notorious Kuntis headed westward, towards Ghawa, destined for Utanko.

To be continued.

©MissKorang. All rights reserved.

Tears of a Crocodile and Laughter of a Hyena- A tale of greed and hypocrisy (Part I)


Once upon a time, long, long ago, when animals and humans understood each other’s language, somewhere far, far away lay the beautiful Island of Utanko. The Island was surrounded by the mighty Ghawa river which flowed thousands and thousands of miles through ancient lands, serving varied and important purposes to all. To the inhabitants of these lands, Ghawa was a mother, some even said she was a goddess. Ghawa was adored and beloved by everyone she touched, she was a lot of things to a lot of lives. To the people of Barbag, she was the giver of fish; all kinds of fish. To the inhabitants of Ekoba she was irrigation and the giver of bumper harvests. To the warmongers of Sban, Ghawa was easy transportation and a safe hideout.

As the Ghawa flowed, she formed binding allegiances with other rivers, big and small. As she journeyed on, Ghawa became bigger, mightier and exceedingly powerful. Along her journey, she came across a beautiful, vast plateau and as she flowed around it, she nourished this plateau, now an island with her moisture and nutrients, she gave it a little bit of her spirit; to welcome, to love, to nurture and grow everyone who came by. She also left a few crocodiles at the base of the island to guard the land.

One day a gallant soldier from the warmongering tribe of Sban was found guilty of an attempted mutiny and banished from the tribe, his name was Babone. The lone soldier travelled many days and nights on a raft until he came upon the plateau left fertile by Ghawa, there he decided to settle. For many moons he planted trees on the land, Ghawa nourished the land even more; the trees grew big and tall and together formed a formidable forest. Next, Babone set traps on the banks of the river and caught animals of all kinds who came there to quench their thirst. He caught antelopes, deer, squirrels, buffaloes, hyenas and many more. But try as he did he could never catch a lion or a tiger, so he made do with the hyenas as the top predators. In the absence of a lion, the hyenas reigned supreme. The animals grew and multiplied. Soon the forest teemed with animals of all kinds. Birds of the air needed no invitation, they flew in by themselves. Babone called the island Utanko, one word with varied meanings in the Sban language. Utanko, exceptional. Utanko, unique. Utanko, success. Utanko, hospitable. Utanko, unbeatable.

Utanko, the island of a lone soldier and many animals flourished for many, many years. Ghawa was proud, she gave the island her best. Rain fell in due season, causing Ghawa to swell and sweep bare lands, but she never overflowed her banks where Utanko her beloved Island was. In due season, the sun smiled from its abode, high up in the skies.

Nature balanced out perfectly. Life was ordered, the ants and termites swept the forest floors, squirrels ate nuts and left their seeds on the ground to germinate, grow and bear more fruits. Even subconscious agriculture flourished. And the hyenas, they ruled; fresh meat was in ever constant supply. When they made a catch, nature became red in tooth and claw. As they ate in groups, they laughed amongst themselves; high pitched rapid series of monosyllabic “hee-heee-heee” sounds. Who wouldn’t laugh when there is abundance of fresh meat and tasty blood?

The lone soldier, Babone, became old and frail. When time came for him to join his ancestors, he bid the Island farewell; all the animals on the Island were sad to see him go, to them, he was the grandfather of their beautiful home. Babone got on a boat; he hoped to float on Ghawa and gaze at nature’s wonder and splendor and die peacefully. His wish was never to come true. Just as he begun rowing away from the river banks, the crocodiles ganged up and overturned his boat, then they drowned him and tore him into pieces. It was a feeding frenzy! Everyone wanted in on the action; who knew soldier flesh was so palatable? As they swallowed chunks of Babone’s flesh, tears fell from their eyes. The crocodiles wept.

Somewhere near the banks of Ghawa, a mother raven and her chicks perched atop a chestnut oak and watched the crocodiles. The mother raven cawed, she croaked, she screeched and she cried. She knew she had just witnessed an abomination. She was sad and felt trapped; trapped because her chicks were not old enough to fly away with her. She thought to herself, “alas Ghawa has cursed Utanko”.

To be continued.
©MissKorang. All rights reserved.

I am my Mama’s Daughter, I am not my Mama



I have a vivid picture of my mother in my mind, maybe even in my heart; a steely black woman going about her daily chores, a slight frown on her face that leaves a permanent furrow between her eyebrows. She has on a long, worn floral dress that reaches her ankles; this dress tells a story of its own, stories told by numerous stains and patches. She has on black flip flops, also patched. Her short brown hair is in a messy ponytail, held together by a purple scrunchy. Her nails are cut short and kept tidy, mom has not time for pedicures and what-have-yous. As she works she sings cheerfully, it’s her favorite song that goes like “make good choices and be honest, you’ll reap the benefits on life’s road ahead”. I love to hear her sing, not on account of her voice or even the song, it keeps her in a good mood which is good for everybody.

You see, when mom isn’t singing she’s most likely to talk to herself, and these monologues are usually an argument of some sort that leaves her agitated for whatever reason. That agitation also implies physical and verbal abuse for any child who dares cross her and that child is very much likely to be me, so yes, mom please keep singing.

Mom is cooking beans and fried plantain for breakfast; yes, breakfast on Saturday better be heavy because we have work to do. I am summoned to fan the coal pot which I obediently oblige. My elder sister fries the plantain. Soon breakfast is served and all five children are called to pick our plates, laden with beans, palm oil and plantain.

With full tummies we follow her to the farm. Each in an oversize wellington boot dad brought mom from his work – the mining company. Yes, mama is a subsistence farmer and daddy is a hotshot in a reputable mining company.

We grow most of what we eat and buy only what we can’t grow. The rains have failed us this season so the girls fetch water from a nearby stream to water the vegetables, okra, garden eggs and pepper. The boys pull out weeds growing amongst our precious vegetables. Mama hurriedly clears a weedy area and makes mounds in readiness to plant yam as soon as the rains fall. Then she harvests plantain and cassava, cuts and binds five bundles of dead wood – one for each child. We need firewood to supplement charcoal. Charcoal is expensive, we cannot afford to depend on it solely.

By sundown we march on home. Mom has a large basin filled with plantain, cassava and other assortments on her head. We follow with our burdens of firewood.

Back home we set our load down and my stiff necks lets me know it doesn’t appreciate overload, so I complain: “mom my load was too heavy, my neck is stiff”. The response: “shut your big mouth and get your fat cheeks and ugly face the hell out of my sight”. Need I tell you she isn’t singing anymore?

We eat a hearty supper of boiled yam and left over palm nut soup. It is delicious, i love it. Well I’ll be honest, I love food, period.

Before she bathes, she feeds and waters the sheep – sheep my daddy keeps as a hobby, then cleans their pen. She takes delivery of a barrel of palm oil and painstakingly measures it into gallons and returns the barrel to its owner. Tomorrow, she will call her customers to come get the gallons of oil.

We all bath and my siblings and I retire indoors. I can still hear mom’s footsteps in the corridor, she’s probably setting things in motion for tomorrow. Finally, the lantern on the lamp post dims and I hear mom’s door shut and the click of her lock. She is finally going to get some sleep, hopefully.

As I lay on my mat, my twelve-year-old mind began to wonder, why does she work so damn hard? Why can’t daddy be here? Why did she accept to move into this house and neighborhood with no electricity? Why does she talk to herself? Why is she always so angry? Could she just speak up and not be so afraid of daddy?

Thence my resolve; I will never be like you mom. I will use my voice. I will be strong. I will cower before no man. The one who marries me better be present or forget it.

And yet two decades and some later, here I am. Married and single parenting three children for a myriad of reasons.

Did I become my mom after all?

A Snake, a Tree and a Daughter of Eve


It is mother’s day today and as we do every Sunday, my children and I went to Church. Service was amazing, the sermon was electrifying and uplifting, and, of course dedicated to all women in the church. Despite the ban on noise making, we still managed to sing and dance heartily. The men prayed all sorts of prayer for us. I had a good time at church today. The fact that my younger sister was on hand to help with the kids is not lost on me. Happy mother’s day to me.

Back home I call my Mama. “Happy mother’s day Mama. I pray you live long and enjoy the fruits of your labor”.  “Thank you my daughter, I also pray you and your siblings live long and prosper beyond my wildest dreams. I want you all to be happy which is why I was always so determined to beat the odds and give you a good start”. I ask about my daddy, we talk a little more and say our goodbyes.

 Later in the day I get a couple hours of solitude as my children nap and I find myself reflecting on my phone conversation with Mama. I know all about that “determination to beat the odds”, oh yes I do. I have so many memories of Mama bending over backwards for her children; some of them stick out like a sore thumb.

 Let me take you on a journey to Soldier Line, a suburb of  Nkawkaw in the early nineties. The small community is situated close to the base of the Kwahu mountain.  It is evident this area was a rich forest in the not  so distant past. The trees are huge, the plants and grasses are tall and teems with all kinds of wildlife; my favorite are the birds, they are so colorful and sing so beautifully at the break of dawn. The yellow canary is the champion of them all; it has a loud distinct sound, and like clockwork, it starts singing at exactly 6a.m. Who needs an alarm clock when you have a cockerel and a canary.Houses are few and far in-between. Everybody knew everybody; we looked out for each other. The community has neither electricity nor running water. We make do with kerosene lamps and a nearby stream.

 My home, a three bedroom house, is situated on a large plot of land. Ever the farmer, mom has planted plantain, cassava and pawpaw all around us. In the middle is a large tree with many branches that I love climbing. It provides us shade from the scorching sun and many a family lunch and supper has been had under my beloved tree. Sadly, mom will end the poor tree’s life one sunny Saturday without a second thought.

 It was a Friday afternoon, i had just returned from school and Mama was getting ready to go to the market when a fish monger waltzed into our compound. Before Mama could tell her she didn’t need fish, the woman exclaimed “Hey Yesu!” to which Mama asked, “Sister, what is it?”. “A big black snake lives in the burrow under your tree, it just attempted to come out”. On hearing this dialogue i quickly change out of my uniform and go out, ensuring to stand a good distance away from the tree. I am here to take it in, because i knew good and well  that it will be a cold day in hell before Mama will let this snake live another day in such close proximity to her home, to her children.

In no time mum puts on her beloved wellington boots and hands a pair to the fishmonger who has graciously volunteered to help in this snake assassination. Then she brings out two long sturdy sticks from an oak tree felled in the community recently and hands one to the fishmonger. This isn’t Mama’s first snake assassination, she came prepared. Before proceeding, she shouts at me to go inside the house, but of course I refuse. Mama shoves her stick into the burrow with such brutal force, one, two, three, four then steps back. Nothing happens. She repeats it, this time with much more force. I begin to feel sorry for the poor snake.

Dear snake hiding under my favorite tree, I hope your burrow has another opening, else you are a dead snake slithering. If you really have no other opening, i hope your last meal was a fat rat or maybe even a quail, because Mama is going to murder you.

Mama’s third attempt produces result. The snake comes out hissing furiously. My oh my! I did not need anyone to tell me to go inside the house this time.  I went inside in reverse. I did not even have the nerve to turn my back to that beast. I run in reverse and shut the door firmly behind me. I swear that snake was over eleven feet long and it looked angry. It could have wrapped itself around both women and still have some length to spare. It must have been shedding its skin because it had dead skin hanging off its grayish black body. I no longer felt sorry for it, I was afraid for my Mama.

I stood on a chair and watched through an open window. Mr. Snake had coiled itself, raised its head and formed a hood. It kept making circular motions with its coiled body, probably to distract the two legged beings standing ready with sticks. It kept hissing while turning its hooded head from one woman to another. Then it opened its mouth, hissed and lunged at the fishmonger, that’s when Mama struck, hard. It turned toward mum, and the fishmonger struck. It kept thrusting at the two women who in turn kept pounding at it.

From its body language i could sense the snake saying: just make one mistake, one mistake, dear daughter of Eve, and let me get you with just one fang, and see how long you will live to kill another snake.

Today is not your day dear snake. You are not getting any sort of bite out of these two-legged daughters of Eve. Adam has beaten you to the game this time. He has hardened them with all sorts of life lessons. You are going down.

And so Mama and the fishmonger pounded the big black snake to death. They doused it in kerosene and as it burned Mama found her voice and gave the dead snake a message:”Go and tell whoever sent you that me and my children’s flesh are inedible, in fact it is bitter”. Who knew Mama was so superstitious?

The ashes of cold blooded big black snake were buried in the bushes somewhere. The very next day the big old tree was felled and burnt. It didn’t surprise me, I mean if you’re going to harbor snakes, then you deserve to die too. 

It will take almost two decades before I will learn it was the infamous black mamba that Mama and her counterpart killed. They basically danced with death on me and my siblings’ account and lived to tell the tale.

Daddy and his ugly duckling

That memory is fresh in my mind, fresh like it was just yesterday; one of my brothers telling my mum how he denied I was his sibling because my ugly face embarrassed him so. He said: “mum, some of my school friends asked me why Adwinpa is so ugly and I said she’s not my sister, she’s our maid. We call her The Ugly Duckling”. Mum laughed. Heartily. She thought it was funny.

 I wept. Bitterly. I didn’t think it was funny. It hurt, and somewhere inside, my self-esteem took one of the many deadly blows that will send her into a deep, deep coma so many years to come.

 I waited patiently for Daddy to come home. I wanted to complain to him, let him know it hurt. As evening dawned I begun to dread Daddy’s return and my resolve began to shake. What if he also thinks it’s funny? That will give my brother all the ammunition he needs to taunt and bully me. Maybe I should let it go. Maybe I really am that ugly. If only my cheeks weren’t so big and only if my lips were smaller and eyes slightly bigger, no one would call me ugly. Maybe it’s all God’s fault. Maybe He was tired when I was due for creation, so He delegated to very inexperienced cherubs who did the best they could. A best that has turned out to be my worst nightmare.

Ugly duckling, ugly duckling, ugly duckling. Big lips, ugly. Kinky hair, ugly. Fat cheeks, ugly. Sunken eyes, ugly. Small ears ugly. My ugly self sat outside in a cold December evening, waiting for Daddy to return and lend a listening ear. Before long he appears in the driveway and I am bathed in the harsh glow of headlights. I cover my face, the lights hurt my eyes and bring unwanted attention to the ugliness.

Soon as he’s out of his car, I ran to him and with tears streaming down my face, I tell him my new name, Ugly Duckling. He smiled and said: “don’t cry. Why are you crying? Do you know the story of The Ugly Duckling?” I respond in the affirmative. Of course I know the story. But Daddy disagrees, he says: “if you knew the story, you wouldn’t be bothered by your brother calling you Ugly Duckling”. Let me finish eating and tell you the story of the Ugly Duckling”.

This wasn’t the response I was hoping for. I expected my brother to get a good talking to and a stern warning, maybe even a few slaps here and there. But I am intrigued, is there a different Ugly Duckling story I don’t know? Well hurry up and eat Daddy, you are going to tell me today!

 He takes his sweet time to savor the meal of groundnut soup and rice balls. I linger in the dining area waiting for him to not only finish and tell me his version of the story but also hoping to be the one to clear his plates, Daddy’s leftovers are very popular. As he washes his hands I quickly dash for his plate, I am not disappointed, he left a piece of fish in there. I stuff the fish in my mouth before any of my siblings get close, then I clear the table and carry the plates to Mama in the kitchen.

 Daddy is seated in the family area watching TV when I return from the kitchen. He has a chewing stick in his mouth. He asks me to recount the Ugly Duckling story I know.

 “Once upon a time, a mother duck sat its eggs awaiting their hatching. Alas all but one hatched and out came beautiful yellow ducklings. Mother duck was tired but she sat on the one unhatched egg still. The egg was much bigger, harder and looked different. Mother duck’s friends advised her to abandon the egg, they said it might be a turkey and turkeys don’t swim! But she persisted until the egg hatched.

 To her dismay this duck was big and ugly, looking nothing at all like its sibling or mother. She began to believe it was turkey’s stray egg that had rolled into her nest. Mother duck was disappointed but she loved her duckling just the same. Nonetheless, she couldn’t help but wonder; why is this duckling so different, so ugly, so big, so tall?

 To her relief, when he took her brood to the water, her ugly duckling swam happily alongside her siblings. Yes. Relief. A small piece of victory. It is not a turkey after all, just a very ugly duckling.

 Before long everybody saw this very different looking duckling and they couldn’t help but notice how ugly and awkward he was. They didn’t hide their opinions, they let the duckling know he was weird and ugly.

 The poor duckling suffered cruelty and abuse from all corners; the farmer’s wife refused to feed him, the farm hands threw stones at him, neighboring ducks were mean to him, dogs barked at him, his sibling made fun of him, Mama ignored him and the turkeys called him every horrid, insulting name they could think of.

 Finally, the Ugly Duckling ran away, in hopes of finding acceptance elsewhere. But every farm he settled in, the story was no different. He was scorned, disrespected and abused.

 With time, the lonely, tired and depressed duckling begun to accept the belief that he was worthless and deserved all the abuse and wickedness meted out to him. He just wanted to die. He kept to himself and shunned all company for a long while. Time worked its wonders, the Duckling grew stronger and his wings became more powerful by the day. He could now fly higher and for longer. He spent a lot of time flying, up in the air, no one bothered him.

 One lovely summer day, as the Duckling flew over a garden he saw a pair of magnificent birds swimming in a pool. They were long necked and had the most beautiful snow-white plumes the Duckling ever saw, they swam so gracefully, they held their heads high on those long graceful necks. To the Duckling, these were regal birds; the most beautiful he ever saw. They were swans. The sight of such beautiful birds further saddened the Duckling, he thought to herself: “if only I were this graceful, this beautiful, the world would be kinder”.

 Defeated and dejected, the Duckling decided to fly to the majestic birds and plead for them to kill him. So fly to the water he did. As he swam towards the swans, they outstretched their wings in welcome, but the Duckling, so accustomed to abuse assumed they were readying to attack him, so he bent his head and cried out, “kill me, because I am ugly; better be killed by swans than pecked by the ducks, beaten by the hens, pushed about by the maiden who feeds the poultry, or starved with hunger in the winter”.

 But in that moment he caught a reflection of himself in the clear water and no longer was he a grey, dark bird, offensive to look at, but a graceful, regal swan. So he joined his new friends and enjoyed acceptance and love for the first time in his life. And when children came to play by the pool they exclaimed, “look another swan has joined the two, and he is the most beautiful of them all.” They threw bread and cake to him in the water and the two older swans bowed their heads to him.”

 Daddy: “so what did you learn from the story?”

Me: “he was not a duck; he was a swan all along. When he grew, he became beautiful and the people who threw stones at him then, threw bread and cake at him.”

 Daddy: “what else did you learn?”

Me: “he was no longer lonely or sad. He didn’t want to die anymore. He had friends who loved him.”

Daddy: “and what again?”

Me: “well that’s all. Nothing else happened. The ugly duckling is a happy swan now. Period.”

 Daddy: “No that is not all. There is more. Everything you have said is true but you missed the most important lessons.

 First lesson: being born in a duck’s nest on a small farmyard is of no consequence to a bird, if that bird is hatched from a swan’s egg. Being born in a duck’s nest does not make a cygnet a duckling. And if the ducks couldn’t or didn’t accept the cygnet, that’s ok because, acceptance would have crippled the cygnet and kept it from soaring. If the ducks had accepted it, the Swan would have remained in the small farmland, comfortable, never to realize its great potential, never to venture out and see the world. The swan would have remained a “duck”.

Second lesson: People are ignorant and yet opinionated. Do not let random opinions define you. Because the ducks and everyone else had no idea the Duckling was actually a cygnet, they called it ugly and abused it. Had they known, their attitudes would have been different, they would have been nice to it so they could later boast to friends and say “look, I am friends with one of the most beautiful birds on earth.” So define who you are for yourself, knowing you will grow into a beautiful, graceful woman.”

 Well I wish my young mind could have wrapped itself around such profound wisdom and insight but nope, I walked away disappointed. I was looking for revenge not advice. Just slap the stupid boy already. He insulted me for God’s sake and there you are, speaking in parables and what nots. I wish I could run away too, just like the Ugly Duckling; but I can’t; I have school tomorrow.

 And that is how I allowed my self-esteem, self-worth and self-respect take blow after blow, abuse after abuse till like the Ugly Duckling, I began to believe the random opinions of others as my reality, and began to behave as such. If only I had understood Daddy’s lessons, I could have avoided tons and tons of heartache.

 But I get it now. It took me two decades and some to get there, but I am there. Like the Ugly Duckling, I feel glad at having suffered sorrow and trouble, because it enables me to enjoy so much better all the pleasures and happiness around me.

 Like the Ugly Duckling, I can finally say, “I never dreamed of such happiness as this, while I was an ugly duckling.”

 Thank you Daddy.

 ©MissKorang. All rights reserved.