by angel patricks amegbe
Fate chose to happen. It visited on a Tuesday evening, after serving her what she could have called a good day. A day even her boss had chosen to be happy at work. He closed earlier than he should, after paying the acceptable wage for her monthly labor. Her salary never looked so good. It would settle debts; some would be set aside for rent, food and for transportation to work every day. Even Sundays were included as workdays.
Swinging her curvy hips side-by-side, she rushed to get a taxi home before nightfall. It was the last thing she remembered before the crude stranger carefully took her safely guarded ‘pride’.
It had been destined to be a day of the alteration of her fate, even though that morning didn’t come with clouds above her head. It had been a bright day except for the black lacy dress she had selected to wear. Perhaps her spirit had not been ignorant of the future. Perhaps it was why she had unconsciously chosen the color of darkness. It must have seen the gathering storm before fate happened.
She did remember the ungodly place it happened. It was in a deserted bush nearby, few kilometers away from a shopping mall. Yet no one had heard her screams. It was on a dark evening that it happened, when there were no stars in the sky, when he didn’t obey her tears; and God didn’t hear her pleas. Perhaps He did.
She closed her eyes, shutting the world out, sailing far away, while awaiting sleep with sweet dreams. Only that what was happening wasn’t a dream, it was really happening. His voice had brought her back to her reality, as he asked her if she was enjoying it. His hand covered her mouth, yet he was demanding an answer.
Left alone in ripped clothes, she gathered the remains of her belonging and managed to escape home. Why did he not take her life afterwards instead of offering her a scar of humiliation, carving and marking her forever?
After what seemed like years in the shower, she laid all wrapped up in her sheets, ready to drift away to nothingness. Hoping there would be no point of return. But even sleep too failed her.
“I have gained new scars” were the words that replayed in her head. A new scar that is, worthy of a lasting pain. A new one I could never bring myself to speak of, for shame forbids me to say “I was shamed on the sand of the earth”.
Sarah could not erase the ugly face of this stranger from the memory of her mind. The same face, whom she had trusted to drive her home safely. She could remember his scruffiness and the smell of alcohol in his breath as his lankiness weighs pinned her down. Cursed be this day!
It had been her turn for misfortune, a day set aside for the unfortunate. She had often heard about these things happened happening to women, but fate didn’t leave a reminder in her schedule when it selected her.
At sixteen, with a flair for skimpy halter-necks and open belly-buttoned clothes, even more vulnerable then, yet no stranger dared to snatch her “dignity” from her. The same one she had protected and caged all her life, saving it for the one whom she would call “worthy”.
Finally, I lost it to a scum.
I say ‘I’ because it is I who has hidden these scars well under the beautiful bag of flesh I wear. I say ‘I’ because those same scars have led my vulnerable heart to the one that holds it firm. Not grasping it, but believing in its sensibility/delicateness and its power to forgive the violation of my sacredness.
I say “I” because I forbid it, yet begging to forget. That power I still lack.
*** *** ***
It took ten years to find the path of healing. A decade of finding and redefining self, of trusting happiness and chasing dreams, of building and believing in the one thing that fear had held my heart bound for long: Love.
The memory remains fresh. I still smell it. In my moments of fear, I still smell him. I still puke from the nausea it raises in my stomach. And each time, I wish that I had thrown it all up, all of it – all of the shame that resides deep within like an ulcer. It pain remains fresh. It feels like using a stick to peel a wound that has just gotten its first skin as cover.
At dawn, I was reminded of it, again, through my dream. As the sun rose, I stood watching my bare reflection in the bathroom. “What is there not to love about this day?” I said to myself. “In a few hours, as I walk down the aisle, the world will envy what purity has lent me.”
This white dress… at least will cover up the traces of the scars I bear. The ones no one sees but me. Even though fear thinks it might only last for a day. Soul knows this one is for real. This very one that loves me, the one that traces beauty in all my feigning.
In a few hours, I’ll hold his hands and kiss him in front of the world. I’ll proudly say ‘I love you’ into his ears because he has watched me walk the path of my healing. In patience, he had let time itself become a healing balm. Not pushing not rushing not demanding. For this I am grateful. Who ever knew love could be learned? I thank the bent road that has led my soul to its mate.
Today I wear those scars not to define whom I dare to be or am. But to accept the lined up scenes I will and have to live in to complete my story.
Finally, she can hear what I constantly say to ‘her’: “Let it go”. She can and has resolved to let it go, because she chose love.
Fate chose to happen. It visited on a Tuesday evening, after serving her what she could have called a good day. A day even her boss had chosen to be happy at work. He closed earlier than he should, after paying the acceptable wage for her monthly labor. Her salary never looked so good. It would settle debts; some would be set aside for rent, food and for transportation to work every day. Even Sundays were included as workdays.
Swinging her curvy hips side-by-side, she rushed to get a taxi home before nightfall. It was the last thing she remembered before the crude stranger carefully took her safely guarded ‘pride’.
It had been destined to be a day of the alteration of her fate, even though that morning didn’t come with clouds above her head. It had been a bright day except for the black lacy dress she had selected to wear. Perhaps her spirit had not been ignorant of the future. Perhaps it was why she had unconsciously chosen the color of darkness. It must have seen the gathering storm before fate happened.
She did remember the ungodly place it happened. It was in a deserted bush nearby, few kilometers away from a shopping mall. Yet no one had heard her screams. It was on a dark evening that it happened, when there were no stars in the sky, when he didn’t obey her tears; and God didn’t hear her pleas. Perhaps He did.
She closed her eyes, shutting the world out, sailing far away, while awaiting sleep with sweet dreams. Only that what was happening wasn’t a dream, it was really happening. His voice had brought her back to her reality, as he asked her if she was enjoying it. His hand covered her mouth, yet he was demanding an answer.
Left alone in ripped clothes, she gathered the remains of her belonging and managed to escape home. Why did he not take her life afterwards instead of offering her a scar of humiliation, carving and marking her forever?
After what seemed like years in the shower, she laid all wrapped up in her sheets, ready to drift away to nothingness. Hoping there would be no point of return. But even sleep too failed her.
“I have gained new scars” were the words that replayed in her head. A new scar that is, worthy of a lasting pain. A new one I could never bring myself to speak of, for shame forbids me to say “I was shamed on the sand of the earth”.
Sarah could not erase the ugly face of this stranger from the memory of her mind. The same face, whom she had trusted to drive her home safely. She could remember his scruffiness and the smell of alcohol in his breath as his lankiness weighs pinned her down. Cursed be this day!
It had been her turn for misfortune, a day set aside for the unfortunate. She had often heard about these things happened happening to women, but fate didn’t leave a reminder in her schedule when it selected her.
At sixteen, with a flair for skimpy halter-necks and open belly-buttoned clothes, even more vulnerable then, yet no stranger dared to snatch her “dignity” from her. The same one she had protected and caged all her life, saving it for the one whom she would call “worthy”.
Finally, I lost it to a scum.
I say ‘I’ because it is I who has hidden these scars well under the beautiful bag of flesh I wear. I say ‘I’ because those same scars have led my vulnerable heart to the one that holds it firm. Not grasping it, but believing in its sensibility/delicateness and its power to forgive the violation of my sacredness.
I say “I” because I forbid it, yet begging to forget. That power I still lack.
*** *** ***
It took ten years to find the path of healing. A decade of finding and redefining self, of trusting happiness and chasing dreams, of building and believing in the one thing that fear had held my heart bound for long: Love.
The memory remains fresh. I still smell it. In my moments of fear, I still smell him. I still puke from the nausea it raises in my stomach. And each time, I wish that I had thrown it all up, all of it – all of the shame that resides deep within like an ulcer. It pain remains fresh. It feels like using a stick to peel a wound that has just gotten its first skin as cover.
At dawn, I was reminded of it, again, through my dream. As the sun rose, I stood watching my bare reflection in the bathroom. “What is there not to love about this day?” I said to myself. “In a few hours, as I walk down the aisle, the world will envy what purity has lent me.”
This white dress… at least will cover up the traces of the scars I bear. The ones no one sees but me. Even though fear thinks it might only last for a day. Soul knows this one is for real. This very one that loves me, the one that traces beauty in all my feigning.
In a few hours, I’ll hold his hands and kiss him in front of the world. I’ll proudly say ‘I love you’ into his ears because he has watched me walk the path of my healing. In patience, he had let time itself become a healing balm. Not pushing not rushing not demanding. For this I am grateful. Who ever knew love could be learned? I thank the bent road that has led my soul to its mate.
Today I wear those scars not to define whom I dare to be or am. But to accept the lined up scenes I will and have to live in to complete my story.
Finally, she can hear what I constantly say to ‘her’: “Let it go”. She can and has resolved to let it go, because she chose love.
Fate chose to happen. It visited on a Tuesday evening, after serving her what she could have called a good day. A day even her boss had chosen to be happy at work. He closed earlier than he should, after paying the acceptable wage for her monthly labor. Her salary never looked so good. It would settle debts; some would be set aside for rent, food and for transportation to work every day. Even Sundays were included as workdays.
Swinging her curvy hips side-by-side, she rushed to get a taxi home before nightfall. It was the last thing she remembered before the crude stranger carefully took her safely guarded ‘pride’.
It had been destined to be a day of the alteration of her fate, even though that morning didn’t come with clouds above her head. It had been a bright day except for the black lacy dress she had selected to wear. Perhaps her spirit had not been ignorant of the future. Perhaps it was why she had unconsciously chosen the color of darkness. It must have seen the gathering storm before fate happened.
She did remember the ungodly place it happened. It was in a deserted bush nearby, few kilometers away from a shopping mall. Yet no one had heard her screams. It was on a dark evening that it happened, when there were no stars in the sky, when he didn’t obey her tears; and God didn’t hear her pleas. Perhaps He did.
She closed her eyes, shutting the world out, sailing far away, while awaiting sleep with sweet dreams. Only that what was happening wasn’t a dream, it was really happening. His voice had brought her back to her reality, as he asked her if she was enjoying it. His hand covered her mouth, yet he was demanding an answer.
Left alone in ripped clothes, she gathered the remains of her belonging and managed to escape home. Why did he not take her life afterwards instead of offering her a scar of humiliation, carving and marking her forever?
After what seemed like years in the shower, she laid all wrapped up in her sheets, ready to drift away to nothingness. Hoping there would be no point of return. But even sleep too failed her.
“I have gained new scars” were the words that replayed in her head. A new scar that is, worthy of a lasting pain. A new one I could never bring myself to speak of, for shame forbids me to say “I was shamed on the sand of the earth”.
Sarah could not erase the ugly face of this stranger from the memory of her mind. The same face, whom she had trusted to drive her home safely. She could remember his scruffiness and the smell of alcohol in his breath as his lankiness weighs pinned her down. Cursed be this day!
It had been her turn for misfortune, a day set aside for the unfortunate. She had often heard about these things happened happening to women, but fate didn’t leave a reminder in her schedule when it selected her.
At sixteen, with a flair for skimpy halter-necks and open belly-buttoned clothes, even more vulnerable then, yet no stranger dared to snatch her “dignity” from her. The same one she had protected and caged all her life, saving it for the one whom she would call “worthy”.
Finally, I lost it to a scum.
I say ‘I’ because it is I who has hidden these scars well under the beautiful bag of flesh I wear. I say ‘I’ because those same scars have led my vulnerable heart to the one that holds it firm. Not grasping it, but believing in its sensibility/delicateness and its power to forgive the violation of my sacredness.
I say “I” because I forbid it, yet begging to forget. That power I still lack.
*** *** ***
It took ten years to find the path of healing. A decade of finding and redefining self, of trusting happiness and chasing dreams, of building and believing in the one thing that fear had held my heart bound for long: Love.
The memory remains fresh. I still smell it. In my moments of fear, I still smell him. I still puke from the nausea it raises in my stomach. And each time, I wish that I had thrown it all up, all of it – all of the shame that resides deep within like an ulcer. It pain remains fresh. It feels like using a stick to peel a wound that has just gotten its first skin as cover.
At dawn, I was reminded of it, again, through my dream. As the sun rose, I stood watching my bare reflection in the bathroom. “What is there not to love about this day?” I said to myself. “In a few hours, as I walk down the aisle, the world will envy what purity has lent me.”
This white dress… at least will cover up the traces of the scars I bear. The ones no one sees but me. Even though fear thinks it might only last for a day. Soul knows this one is for real. This very one that loves me, the one that traces beauty in all my feigning.
In a few hours, I’ll hold his hands and kiss him in front of the world. I’ll proudly say ‘I love you’ into his ears because he has watched me walk the path of my healing. In patience, he had let time itself become a healing balm. Not pushing not rushing not demanding. For this I am grateful. Who ever knew love could be learned? I thank the bent road that has led my soul to its mate.
Today I wear those scars not to define whom I dare to be or am. But to accept the lined up scenes I will and have to live in to complete my story.
Finally, she can hear what I constantly say to ‘her’: “Let it go”. She can and has resolved to let it go, because she chose love.
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