Inspired by http://kutostarehe.wordpress.com/2014/10/02/disappearing-women/
A few years ago, I saw Phanie kiss Brad behind the huge mango tree. She had developed way earlier than all of us, her breasts full and ripe
I wanted to have such breasts. I wanted to have full hips that could swing effortlessly and sway my skirt as i walked.
In class 8 girls would rush to the Head-teacher’s office to report the boys who were writing for them love letters. I never had such cases. No boy dared look my way.
In high school I watched as girls talked about their bras. I kept mum. Mine had refused to grow. But why?
Campus came. Found a boyfriend. Told me he loved women with a bit of meat on their bones. So I ate and ate. Stuffed myself till I was 70kgs. He later dumps me for being fat. “I’m not trying to date a hippo” he says. I cry my tears dry.
I hit the gym. Starve myself till I’m back to 50kgs. Find another boyfriend. He says he likes light-skin women. So i go to Industrial area and buy Caro-light. My skin turns lighter but I’m still as dark as furnace inside. It hurts me that I am so. But I want him to want me.
Again he leaves. He says he is not trying to date a ghost. I cry and cry. But my melanin wouldn’t come back.
I spend all my money on skin healing and restoration tonics. They seem to work.Just a little bit. Dermatologist says i need a little patience. Patience is my middle name. I shall wait.
I finish school, get a job. Meet a man, says he loves me the way I am. I find it hard to believe. Why would he? He asks for my hand in marriage. I say yes.
I am now someone’s wife. Mother says I should submit to my husband.He asks for my salary. He needs to make the family budget he says.I never see a shilling. Not a tangible investment. He comes home reeking of alcohol. Ever single night.
Then the abuses start. He calls me a whore. he tells me I should be thankful he married me, a hopeless whore. The words burn deeper than the physical pain. He slaps me.I am dazed.
The other night he throws a stool at my head. I wake up in a hospital bed. the nurse beams at me. “You’re lucky Miss. That concussion could’ve killed you”.
I go to the bathroom. The pain is killing me. I look at myself in the mirror. All the bad memories come rushing in. I cry and cry. I am so ugly. I wish I was dead.
My face is a hideous mass of uneven skin. My head is still bandaged. I look at my arms. Scars all over. I look like some rejected burnt offering. But why? Is this how it feels to be wanted
I wish…I wish…I wish i was dead…
I no longer want to be wanted…
Keep it up..
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Good work canduh…
to be wanted…nice flow and prose. very evocative imagery.makes one feel…
just started following your blog,very nice I must say,it’s like diary of a female campus student in Kenya. very earnest and sincere.don’t know which is fiction and which isn’t but you manage to communicate the fears and insecurities I imagine are within females our age.keep up the good work.I’ve found something new to look forward to.my one request is to post regularly,don’t keep us waiting too long.
there should be a part two to this , with a happy ending . sad