For every girl told to sit down, shut up, and wait her turn—this is the part where she doesn’t.
I don’t know exactly what this will become.
But I know what it won’t be:
Quiet. Caged. Convenient.
Her Honor is the space I built from everything I wasn’t supposed to say.
Not a blog. A breach of silence.
A fire disguised as a journal.
The proof that even if the world isn’t listening—I still get to speak.
You can call me Angel.
Ghanaian by blood.
Law in my bones.
I write like I’ve already been cross-examined by life—and I’m not afraid to testify.
Romance lines my bookshelves. But justice carves its initials in my spine.
I write.
Because I’ve lived long enough in silence to know it was never peace.
Just pain… dressed up as obedience.
So I don’t write to be praised.
Or pitied.
I write to build the girl I plan to become.