I decided to journal yesterday. I was venting about men who come to my direct messages and talk about marriage like it’s the ultimate prize. They dangle it like a big juicy carrot infront of a donkey. Only. I am not a donkey. And I do not like carrots. And I do not view marriage as juicy. Sorrows. Sorrows. Prayers. Dear future lover. If you’re reading this. I closed off with that I just want to be loved. Insert Ella Mai’s chorus on the song naked here. Leave the theatrics at the basement. Or. Go and be spiderman at a kiddies party. I then thought damn! I haven’t written in a moment. Might as well continue venting in my next piece like I have gained the right to. Fight me. I wrote this…
Do not look at me. Do not stare at me. Do not give me the side eye. Do not whisper around ne. Do not point at me. Do not try to act deep around me. Talking about biology and time running out. Do not play confident around me and ask me when I’m having children. I’m asking nicely. For now.
You did not walk the dusty streets of the township in hand me down shoes that were a little too tight. If my toes could speak hunnay?! You did not have your uniform replaced only because you could no longer bend over without bearing it all. Patch a patch hunnay?! You did not sit across Sima in grade three. She had a pencil case that actually had stationery in it. Crayons too hunnay?! You did not have your siblings raise you. Apparently, they can be too parents hunnay?! You did not.
I wrote a couple of more sentences and deleted. I typed. I deleted. I couldn’t bring myself to finish it. I sat on my bed. I wept. I cried for the little girl who went through all that pain. I cried for the woman she grew into and has to deal with all that pain. I cried for the people who will experience watered down versions of her as she tries to deal with that pain. I cried for the people who would come and dig their fingers into her deepest wounds. I cried for what was. I cried for what is. I cried for what could have been.
To Moses. Who the smell of slime and pitch. The sound of waves. Reminds you of being alone in the water. To Ishmael. Sent away to grow without a father for the sake of indlalifa. To Miriam. Watching your sibling being raised in a palace as you slave away. Afflicted with burdens. To Esther. The orphan tasked with saving a nation for such a time as this. To Mahlon and Chilion. Uprooted from your home country. Your friends. Because of hunger. Literally. And a hunger for a better lifestyle. To David. Overlooked to being a shepherd for the nation. Overlooked for the anointing. Overlooked for the throne.
To you. Dear reader. Whose childhood traumas I do not know. Whose battles I do not know. Whose giants I do not know. Whose weaknesses I do not know. Whose experiences I do not know. Whose name I probably do not know. Whose maker I do know. Whose God I do know. I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us. I know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose. I believe in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us.
The hour is dark and it’s hard to see what You are doing here in the ruins and where this will lead. But I know that down through the years I’ll look on this moment and see Your hand on it and know You were here. I’ll testify of the battles You’ve won. How You were my portion when there wasn’t enough. I’ll testify of the seas that we’ve crossed. The waters You parted, the waves that I’ve walked.
Maverick City
I know stories are supposed to have conclusions. I’m not sure how to wrap this one up. I hope you are brave enough to talk to God about your experiences. Your feelings. Your hopes. Your traumas. I hope you’re open enough to hug Him back and feel safe in His arms. I hope He heals the broken parts of you. I hope you trust Him with your heart. Your life. I hope you know in all this. He is for you. He loves you. Always.