I looked at her eyes and I touched tears on my cheeks. She was lying on that bed looking so optimistic. The tone of her voice was healing, the look on her face so innocent. I had not seen such an enthusiastic child for long. I had longed to read through the lines of her story, I wanted to feel the pinch of suffering through my fingers.
Probably when you see this lady walking on the streets you could only imagine of perfection. Apparently the carcass have been polished enough to hide all the flaws. When you look straight to her eyes, you will learn that deep in those eyes are blood stains and painful times. The story of pain begins at an early age of 9. A girl born of two parents whom are not destined to have a forever together! At this tender age, she loses the one friend… a Father!
Her life was a few meters to the wall. All dreams were almost shuttered and what mattered was nothing more than living. Could it be that every single kid suffers a bruise in life? Or does it mean that some are exceptions? Well, she was left in the arms of a mother. A woman who taught her to make the right choices! The woman who sew her school sweaters and socks. I remember the criticism she received from everyone in school. She was a coward of being the abnorm. Probably, she was that kind of girl who could ulcer her own problems. From one school to another,when I count them, they are 6! I mean, she attended 6 schools before proceeding into the police cell after stealing over 50,000 Kenyan money! The experiences weren’t any sweet, The moments so sweet yet with the bittertude of bile.
Apparently no one could understand why such a young soul full of life could probably chose this kind of life. But did I mention that I had gone hungry for two days! With a sick mother at home and torn pockets! I need to unveil the survival tactics! My mother needed an inhaler! Just an inhaler! How could I have folded my hands and see another one go to a place of no return….
Being in cell didn’t make me feel a dolt of regret. I had achieved what no one else could. After my release, i joined another school. A boarding school. How could I forget my first day to a boarding to school? I had won my aunt’s black shoe that never fit my feet, I never had a cardigan…. what I wore are my old jumpers. My school dress was oversize and my shopping was the ordinary 280/= shopping. I learnt to survive demoralisation and discrimation. I grew rescillient. Through hard challenges, I chose to rewind school. This time, to mould the kind I am today… ~~`
This is the kind of story I listened to. It felt so strong and carried the weight of the exactitude of one of those of OW stories.’
Probably the world doesn’t always conspire for us. Probably the stories that are told are just fallacies. It could be that the worst nightmare is not a bad dream, its just a wrong fortune. Life could be the darest thing to hold on. It could be that thing that bruises your face and scratched the skin beneath your melanin and its just meant to. To a look of things, the younger self tends to suffer not just mistakes but the chained misfortunes of their strongholds.
Do you realise that the younger being inside you always remind you of the things you fought against? The times you gave up in life and assumed that its norm! Well, it could be that you didn’t have to fight the certain pangs of life, but…. how could you forget being the child, being the decision maker… to being the bigger person!
When they drive in and out, remember they once walked! When they wear high heels be guaranteed the once had some love for sneakers! When you look at success have in mind it’s not a thought its a verb! When you think they are smart, smile and realise they were once thrown into mad dump! When you think of imperfections, look at the edges and flaws… don’t try to fight them, be proud because your authenticity is dancing with you!