You can hear it now, the rain approaches, coming fiercely from the east. The downpour begins right before me, taking me involuntarily to the night before. I want to escape just like the birds did before the rain but his hands held me hostage.
I screamed like the rain but his hands struck like lightening. I wailed louder than the thunder but no one heard me.
The rain isn’t strong enough to wash my pain away, for my tears compete with the downpour. ‘Wash me clean!’ I begged as I stepped into the rain. ‘Wash his hands away from my soul, cut his prominence away from my altar.’ ‘Fix me’ I prayed.
The rain tried but she couldn’t, she couldn’t fix this atrocity for it’s not the natural course of life, this is man-made, a monstrous act. She tried to clean my body and soothe my agony, but she couldn’t put my soul back together. Maybe nothing can.
Perhaps this is an occurrence we heal from, but the eternal imprints from the agony inflicted on our souls remain beneath the thick pigmented stories our bodies tell. The only way to win is to always choose life.
For this is a ghost that either haunts you or you snatch the white garment off it. Take the calabash filled with dark, sour grains of misery, spin it around, purge it, chastise it, own it, break it, baptize it and make a servant off it.
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WRITTEN BY: MARIAM ALAYANDE
EDITED BY: HASSAN ALAYANDE
PHOTO BY: UNKNOWN