How it feels To be wanted….

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…