Memoirs of the Damaged
Imagine a small frail girl,
Sitting in the darkest corner of a poorly lit room,
Only lit by the cautious sunlight that rebelliously shines through the crack in the curtain – if she dares
And thank God for that brave beam of light,
That ray of hope that reminds her,
That though the sorrow may last for the night, the Lord’s joy comes in the morning – for He cares
But please remember this little girl,
Before she discovered the very existence of hopefuless, faith and grace,
She had marks all over her body, memories, each one with a story, begging to be shared– if she dared
In the sinfulness of the night menfolk would come and entice her mother,
Tempt her mother into practicing the secrets of the night,
Time and time again she would watch as mummy would repeatedly,
Repeatedly give herself to such ungently men, who lustfully enjoyed her company.
Our little girl always hid when these hankering knights of the night came to,
‘play and pay’,
she just wanted to stay hidden away,
until one day
when the hem of her nightgown,
was visible beside the chair, her cover was blown.
She would never forget the words he uttered, “how much for her?”
She still cries nocturnally,
Remembering his perspiration and dampness all over her tiny frame,
With every roll and satisfied movement,
she felt her soul crush gradually into powder,
only to be bullied and chased away by the wind.
And the next morning,
After being left like an abused and neglected puppy,
She would wake up with the bruises round her waist and between her thighs,
She would have the sour taste of his manly solutions,
that had been drowned and gargled down her pint-sized throat,
And she would cry, as she saw her mother counting the money,
The money her little girl had made,
And that damaged petite mademoiselle,
Would return to her corner, she’d sit and tremble,
Knowing there was going to be another visitor that night, and the night after and the night after that,
For God knows how long
At a young age I learnt the power that a man takes from a woman,
I saw my mum morph into a slave for those sinful sons,
I saw how she gave of herself, dusk to dusk
and let them take any bit of sanity she had left within her
this insane mindset that she remains in her till today as I write,
has been the root cause of my scars,
but has always fuelled my motivation, to one day reach the stars.
Men took a woman and brought back a monster,
Men took a woman and somehow transformed her,
From a trouble soul to a ruthless imposter,
This is the end of part one,
I was that little girl,
I’m the narrator.
Copyright © Regina Oladipo | Year Posted 2013
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