I thought it was a genius idea—a combination of two things. My writing was improving from scribbling postcards to my grandmother, and at school they made us pray daily. I didn’t know all the words to the Lord’s Prayer, so I’d ad lib awkwardly in assembly. 

My mum was a Buddhist-leaning atheist; my dad, a semi-lapsed Christian who prayed in Tigrinya, Amharic, or Italian—never English.

So I started writing letters to God. It seemed more effective than mumbling with the rest of St. Winifred’s in Bridgetown, Barbados.

School had sold God as someone important, worthy of a personal connection, often through felt cut-outs of robed, brooding white men and docile lambs. My first letters were simple: Hey God, how are you? Love, Desta. I addressed the envelopes intuitively:

GOD

7th Cloud

Paradise

Starry Sky

Amen

I’d leave them on my windowsill. In the morning? Gone. Every time.

Encouraged, I started making requests. Could I be the best dancer in the world? Or maybe…could Josh from class like me back? That one flopped—Josh declared love for some girl named Emma or Emily. Devastated, I pivoted.

Dear God,

My dad’s back hurted him a lot. Can you fix it, please?

Love, Desta

The next morning, my dad bounded down the stairs beaming—pain-free. “My back feels amazing!” he said. My eyes widened. Proof!

Next, I asked for flying skills. Days later, my mum burst into my room: “You won’t believe it! I found airplane tickets—we’re flying to see your grandma!” Not quite what I meant, but still—respect.

Soon, I was evangelising my divine penpal method at school. The teacher shut me down, but whatever. Teachers weren’t to be trusted anyway. They banned girls from woodwork, made us study disappointingly blah-looking lovebirds at the zoo, and some were even violent.

Then came the tragedy: during the Christmas play rehearsal, a student—Olayaku—fell from the rafters. Three days later, she died. No prayer could fix that. My letter-writing stopped.

The last one I remember writing was for Madonna’s “Holiday” outfit. I even included a sketchand my size. No response. Eventually, I realized I could speak to God anywhere—in the sea, the garden, or my sister’s arms. Years later, I found a stash of those letters in my mum’s desk.

So my mother was God all along.

Amen?

A-woman.

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