The doctor called it a deformity.
My mother called it a burden.
I call it my compass.
My spine curves like a question mark, tilting me permanently toward the earth, as if I am always listening for something beneath the surface. Growing up, I learned to move carefully—stairs like negotiations, chairs like uncertain alliances. Children whispered. Adults stared and then pretended not to.
They thought I walked slowly because I was weak.
They didn’t know I was studying everything.
When your body refuses to rush, you notice things: the tremor in someone’s voice before they cry, the pause before a lie, the way sunlight pools in the cracks of a pavement no one else sees. Pain tuned me like an instrument. Every flare-up sharpened my hearing, my patience, my defiance.
I have measured my life in X-rays and hospital bracelets. I have memorized the language of waiting rooms. I have swallowed pills the size of apologies. These are my battle scars.
But here is what they don’t tell you about a crooked spine: it builds crooked strength.
I learned early that survival is creative work. I built muscle where there was none. I built confidence where there was doubt. I built a voice in rooms that wished I would sit quietly in the corner.
My back bends.
I don’t.
Khayelihle Benghu (she/her) is an emerging author, poet, and dedicated nurse based in Johannesburg, South Africa. Her work blends care and creativity, weaving together poetry, fiction, and hybrid forms that explore memory, resilience, and communal love. Khayelihle’s writing has appeared in Person of Interest and Ake Review.
Instagram: @khayelihlebenghu