Memoirs of a modern day slave

“It’s a complex relationship I have with my memories; overprotective of them yet at the same time, scared of what they make me feel.

“It’s a complex relationship I have with my memories; overprotective of them yet at the same time, scared of what they make me feel.

Luckily, it’s only on those rare occasions that anyone bothers to ask about such things, so it is a fairly safe zone.

Until the memories start blurring on their own.

So, I resorted to repeating the same lines all the time to the girls who call me their ‘family’,

Telling these stories more for myself than for them,

Tales of how “we used to sit around the feet of the elderly and pretend to enjoy caressing their feet; the sole excuse we had to miss doing our chores”,

For I don’t remember much of those days except for the badly sang rhymes that never ceased appearing from our kitchen and the vague memory of the dirty children I used to chase around the cow sheds.

Yet as I recounted the little bits of information, it was a feeling like no other. The earthy and completely stagnant pace of my past lifestyle engulfing me again. I belonged.

For in my mind, the faces were the same and the footpaths intricately etched, never changed.

The so-called ‘family’ do not really believe what I say; lying to each other an accepted lifestyle,

But they let me in to their own share of humorous stories about pond-diving and stealing escapades,

All of us finding relief in those miniscule details,

Gripping at any chance to remind ourselves that we did have homes at one point,

That at one point we were daughters of someone. We were sisters and bestfriends. We actually did mean something to the world.

On some of those low nights when I feel overwhelmed, I comfort myself with those rhymes; the smooth syllables soothing my soul, speaking to the girl inside about hope and dreams no matter how bleak things look.

My mind always wandering to the only place I know as home; wondering about their well-being. Does ‘gran’ still smell the young ones’ breath every time they come for their goodnight kiss? Does the rain still flood the house and leave everyone in a dangerous mood?

I guess I could say its ironic how much I missed that life that I literally felt that I could give anything just to go back. Until I realized that it was my downfall.

The bait I sadly bit into.

Today, here I sit; surrounded by these girls who share my secret; my competition yet my only friends,

Day after day, realizing how sealed in we are in this fateful secret,

Our faces melt into this large pot of shame and disgrace; everything we were born to be, somehow erased from the Maker’s palm.

Mistake not a tone laced with self-pity for I long passed that stage,

It is more a need to tell the tale that is my existance; a self-reminder of the simple things like ‘expression’. A self-given voice I realize I have been robbed of.

And my existance; a dark maze filled with filthy alleys and raw exploitation is a story just like so many others.

No drums and trumpets, just the simple melody of a beating heart day in, day out.

I remain a faceless statistic that has simply downgraded life to the simplest things.

Who am I?

I could say I am a self-built fortress that hides the fact that it can still love; that it prays for the world each night.

I am a woman of no past but a human being, nonetheless.

Years have come and gone, with a choice to reminisce on how I got here, every night.

 I solemnly refuse to do so.

For its been almost a decade since I was sent off to get an ‘education’ and an education in life, I did obtain.

With words like ‘brothels’ that were advanced for the young mind, I was. Today I could write on end about them.

Funny,isn’t it? Well,maybe not.

However, I choose the path of silence. A day is a day and a year will be a year. The sole aim to slide into bed without swellings and bruises,

The language only a prisoner could understand.

If you befall onto this, it means my day has arrived; my tale has been told, at least just a little bit.

I wonder if it will be a feeling of relief or horror and if I will be around to know which one it will be,

But till that day, I will push back my shoulders and live on the motto not to ever give up.

And on that day when the truth will set me free, I beg of you not to judge the person I lived to be,

That my name will not ring alongside scorn and be the burden of the children I hope to have.

That my experience may not have been for nothing, but an eye-opener for someone; anyone out there.

Lastly, I beg of you to embrace any goodness you have around you; far or near

For my sake, live life to its teeth.”

 

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