26/01/2026
My name is Zainab. I’m 27 years old. I am SS—I live with sickle cell disease.
My parents are both AS.
They knew.
They were warned.
They still married.
They said God approved it. They believed love would be enough. They trusted faith to cover the consequences.
I am that consequence.
I was diagnosed before I turned two. My childhood memories aren’t playgrounds or cartoons—they’re hospitals, needles, and adults whispering when they thought I couldn’t hear.
In primary school, I missed classes so often teachers stopped asking questions. Some classmates thought I was pretending. Others thought I was cursed. I learned early how to smile while feeling different.
By secondary school, the pain crises became more frequent. I’d wake up excited for school and end the day on a hospital bed. Life became a cycle: school, hospital, recovery—repeat.
At 15, I lost my younger brother to sickle cell.
We were both SS.
That day changed everything.
My parents broke down—crying, apologizing, saying, “We followed faith. We didn’t think.”
But the damage had already been done.
Some days, I forgive them.
Other days, I resent them deeply.
Both emotions live in me.
At university, I tried to live normally. I joined sickle cell advocacy groups, volunteered with awareness organizations, spoke at events, and encouraged parents to test their genotype. People call me strong. They call me a warrior.
What they don’t see are the nights I cry alone after silent pain episodes.
They don’t see the fear of planning a future in a body that doesn’t always cooperate.
And relationships?
That’s another wound.
I’ve been loved—briefly.
When talks turn serious about marriage and children, they leave. Some are honest. Some disappear without a word.
One man promised me everything—care, safety, a future without fear. I believed him. For the first time, my heart rested.
Then one day, he stopped calling.
That heartbreak triggered one of the worst crises of my adult life—not from physical stress, but because hope collapsed.
Now I’m older. The pain is different—less dramatic, but more exhausting. Recovery is slower. The fears are heavier. I ask myself questions my parents never asked each other.
I am strong, yes.
But I am tired.
If you are AS and the person you love is AS, please love your unborn children enough to pause and think. Faith is not a license to ignore knowledge.
I didn’t ask to be a lesson.
But if my story can prevent another child from being born into avoidable pain—then my voice matters.