My name is Aminata. I’m 32 years old. I live in Lagos, Nigeria, in a small house I share with my mother and niece. I help coordinate community projects in my neighborhood. You won’t find my name in the newspapers. I don’t speak at international conferences. Yet every day, I fight a silent battle against a world that looks at me as if I don’t belong.

I was born with a leg malformation. It never stopped me from walking, but always with pain, and always with stares. Over the years, the pain worsened. By age 20, I began using a cane. At 26, I needed a wheelchair. That’s when the world changed  not because of the wheelchair itself, but because of what it meant to others: weakness, dependence, limitation.

What’s exhausting is not being disabled. It’s having to apologize for existing in a world that never planned for someone like me.

Everything is designed to keep me invisible. The sidewalks, the buildings, the opportunities. People often say to me: “You’re strong.” But it’s not strength. It’s survival. Trying to catch a taxi when none will stop. Bearing pitying or uncomfortable looks when I arrive somewhere. Enduring awkward silences when I speak about projects, as if my ideas carried less weight because I’m seated.

For a long time, I thought I had to adapt. I pretended everything was fine. I put on makeup, smiled a lot. I said “I’m fine” when asked how I was holding up. I said “yes” to everything just to prove I was capable.

But the more I said yes, the more I erased myself.

One day, I attended a meeting with a group of women from my neighborhood. We were talking about violence against women, solidarity, reclaiming power over our bodies. Suddenly, I raised my hand and said, “What about us, disabled women? Where is our place in this struggle?” Silence fell. Then a woman said, “You’re right, we don’t think about you.” That “you” hit me hard. It was true. Even in activist spaces, I had to demand inclusion. That day, something lit up inside me.

Since then, I stopped apologizing.

I no longer hide my wheelchair. I don’t try to be discreet or disturb as little as possible. I show up to meetings stating clearly that if the space isn’t accessible, I will leave. I speak loudly. I tell my story, even if it makes people uncomfortable. Because my existence is political. Because simply being here, in a body society has marginalized, and saying: “I will not hide,” is a form of resistance.

I don’t want to be an example. I don’t want people to say “If she can do it, anyone can.” That’s not true. Not everyone lives the same reality. But I want other disabled women to know they are not alone. That their anger is legitimate. That their exhaustion is understandable. That they don’t have to be “strong” all the time to deserve love, to be heard, to be respected.

Today, I continue doing what I can with the resources I have. I co-facilitate a small support group for disabled women. We meet once a month in a community center. We talk about our bodies, our dreams, our loneliness too. We laugh a lot. Sometimes we cry. But mostly, we stop pretending. And that alone is huge.
I don’t know what tomorrow holds. But I know I will no longer back down. It took me too long to understand that my dignity is non-negotiable. Today, I’m no longer afraid to take up space. And if that space disturbs, it means it was necessary.