My Speech Disorder

 I can truly say I had a happy childhood, most of the time—but I had a speech disorder. I stuttered. It was really bad. As a child, I was teased and jeered at. The sound a goat makes is as though it is stuttering, so I was called “stammer goat.” Children can be cruel.

There were moments when I would try to speak in conversations with my playmates, only to grow frustrated when the words refused to come out. People around me would grow impatient because I wasn't speaking fast enough. Seeing the looks on their faces, I would feel embarrassed and stop talking altogether. Other times, I would rush my words in an attempt to match the pace of my friends. But in doing so, my speech would get tangled—jumbled to the point that I was asked to repeat myself. Imagine that. Here I was struggling to get the words out, only to be asked to do it again. The frustration was overwhelming, and worse still, people rarely understood how difficult it was.

Many offered remedies for my stuttering. Someone once suggested drinking water from a calabash, claiming it would cure me. I never tried it—I didn't believe it would work anyway.

Among those who teased me was my youngest brother. For the most part, I endured it. But one day, he went too far. We were on the veranda talking when I started to stutter, and he began jeering at me. I tried to walk away, but he followed, continuing his mockery. Anger surged within me. I picked up a stone and aimed it at his head. He ducked just in time, avoiding what could have been a painful lesson. He never teased me again. That moment taught me that teasing a person who stutters can be dangerous—pain cuts deep, and frustration can lead to unintended consequences.

My dear mother noticed my struggle one day and gave me advice I carry with me to this day: take deep breaths and speak slowly. She meant well, though at the time, I couldn't help but think, *Why do I have to do this when everyone else speaks effortlessly?* But as a child, accepting that truth was difficult.

A defining moment in my journey came at church, when I was asked to recite a poem. I was determined to do it, despite my disorder. I started speaking, but immediately, children in the front began giggling. I felt their stares, their amusement at my struggle—but I refused to give up. In my mind, I encouraged myself, *I don't care what you all think—I will say this poem.* I remembered my mother’s words, took a deep breath, and spoke slowly. I got through it. I was proud. That day, I began truly believing that stuttering wouldn’t hold me back.

To this day, there are moments when nerves creep in, and old habits return. But I always recall my mother’s advice. And interestingly, I never stutter when I sing! Perhaps it’s because singing naturally requires deep breaths. 

As an adult, I do not stutter as much—thanks be to God. Occasionally, I am called to speak before my church congregation or other groups, and I always write at the top of my notes: **Speak slowly.** It works for me, because life is like that—we must learn, adapt, and move forward. 

For anyone struggling with stuttering, I encourage you: do not be discouraged. If I can overcome it, you can too. Every journey is different, but who knows? Maybe slowing down and taking deep breaths will be the first step toward finding your own path to fluency.