You are helping everyone escape their graves while you are digging your own.
The spirits don’t use calendars.
They don’t know what “Annual Leave” means.
When a destiny is hanging by a thread at 2 AM, you are the one they call. You are the bridge. The shield. The voice for the voiceless.
The world thinks you are made of iron. But iron eventually rusts if left in the rain.
You spend your days cleansing others, but your own soul is heavy with the debris of a thousand battles. You fix broken marriages while your own sits in the cold.
You pray for the health of strangers while you ignore the fire burning in your own chest.
The spirits are eternal. You are biological.
The ancestors have been here for eons. They aren’t in a hurry. But your children are growing up in the shadow of your absence. Your spouse is lonely in a house full of charms.
The “Dibịa” title is a crown, but it must not become a noose.
If you drop dead today, the rituals will still go on.
The market days will keep turning. Another mouth will be chosen to speak for the unseen. The spirits will find a new vessel within the hour.
But in your home, the sun will simply go out.
Your body is the only tool you were given to do this work. If the tool breaks, the work stops. You are not a sacrifice; you are a practitioner.
Take the break. Shut the door to the shrine. Eat. Sleep. Laugh until your ribs ache.
The spirits will not be offended by your humanity. They chose you because you were alive, not because you were a ghost.
Balance is the highest form of medicine.
A dead Dibịa heals no one.
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