WOMB FOR HIRE
She never wanted that life. She did not choose that life. Had she been granted the chance to, she could have told God to send her into the womb of some wealthy woman in one of the vast ranches of Texas from where she could have been raised like a normal kid, with all the lush of life she could ever think of.
Bad thing she was not given one. All she could do was wish; as if wishing would change the contemporary. On the contrary, it made the situation at hand more tormentous; for it added unto her the yoke of envy. She envied every woman she saw. She thought that life had given them a wider grin than it had to her. As a matter of fact, she thought that with each sunset, the sun retired to connive all sorts of hardships there could possibly be so that as it rose from the East, each and every dawn, it cast them all unto her; like she was the world's bin for tribulations.
And with the envy, there came an acrid loathe that prompted her to hate with passion. She hated everyone: Her parents for not being rich, the government too, for not salvaging her from plight, and the public, for giving her a wide berth when she needed redemption the most.
Our meet was purely coincidental. I didn't wake up that day with apt intents to do a story on Monique; neither did she have the slightest of ideas that she would meet this pestering highschool kid to whom she would divulge even the deepest and darkest secrets she had locked in the abyss of her heart.
It was the Last Friday; that day when I came to learn about Monique. Last Friday in the sense that it was the last day of my highschool holidays. I was chilling out in the gamezone; that's where dudes with no chics hang all day long with tiny earphones tucked into their ears thinking they're aloof the world.
As the day grew older with the ticking clock, I became hungry. I had to grab a snack. [Damnit, the way I say 'grab a snack' portrays me like some spoilt rich kid. Hell no, I'm not.] All I intended to take was chipo mwitu. I don't know how better to describe that. If you know, the better.
Whether by chance or by fate, which I really cannot place, I moved to this kibanda for chipo mwitu. The proprietor and attendant was a woman, probably less than thirty. Her drooped face was a reflection of intense misery. Well, yeah, I have seen a fair share of misery in my life; the kind I saw manifested in the eyes of this woman though was on a way top league. I later came to know her name was Monique.
As she was working on my order, a sudden curiosity aroused in me; the kind that beats a gong in my head telling me "Bro, you've got to do a story on her." I had to write something.
"Why does my intuition tell me you're sad?"
"What do you care kid? People like you never care!"
As she said that, handing over my package at the same time, I saw her eyes get teary. She was struggling to keep them abay.
She's a tough one. Not many of our feminine friends can do that.
"It had to be done. Not that I had an array of niceties to choose from. My life was a shamble. I had no parents to look up to. No education to give me a good job. Totally nothing! An empty life, a void, a shell. I had to eat though. I didn't want to succumb to hunger."
It has often been said that opportunity does not knock twice at a man's door. And so as she narrated her story, I knew she did what had to be done.
"Mr X's wife was barren. She couldn't bear him children. When he approached me and asked that I sure him a child, I didn't have the guts nor the will to object. My susceptibility compelled me to venture into depths my morals had sworn to keep off. The reward would be hefty;at least he promised. I gave in to his wants; in body, not in soul. I came to hate myself later on. I hated my parents. I blamed fate. For nine months, I carried and laboured for a child I know nothing about; up until now. Mr X vanished like an apparition, leaving not an iota of gratitude to mollify me at least. The hefty reward too, I heard nothing of it afterwards. I rented out my womb, my dignity, all for nothing."
As she said those last words, a bitter grin, the one that people put on to conceal their pain, plastered across her countenance. I felt sorry for Monique, and I wanted to tell her so, but I didn't. I knew the weight of consolation; how it breaks even the mighty of mighties, and I didn't want to take risks.
When I paid for her service, I didn't bother to take back the change. It was all I could do then,or so I thought. But upon further reflection, I decided to write;To tell the world how brute life could be. And this story that you read today, is perhaps the only big favour I could do for Monique and the many others if her ilk. Maybe she gets to read this, or maybe she doesn't. All in all though, it is justice that we seek. Justice for our mothers and sisters; for their wombs are NOT FOR HIRE!
©oiraqaleb esq
Bad thing she was not given one. All she could do was wish; as if wishing would change the contemporary. On the contrary, it made the situation at hand more tormentous; for it added unto her the yoke of envy. She envied every woman she saw. She thought that life had given them a wider grin than it had to her. As a matter of fact, she thought that with each sunset, the sun retired to connive all sorts of hardships there could possibly be so that as it rose from the East, each and every dawn, it cast them all unto her; like she was the world's bin for tribulations.
And with the envy, there came an acrid loathe that prompted her to hate with passion. She hated everyone: Her parents for not being rich, the government too, for not salvaging her from plight, and the public, for giving her a wide berth when she needed redemption the most.
Our meet was purely coincidental. I didn't wake up that day with apt intents to do a story on Monique; neither did she have the slightest of ideas that she would meet this pestering highschool kid to whom she would divulge even the deepest and darkest secrets she had locked in the abyss of her heart.
It was the Last Friday; that day when I came to learn about Monique. Last Friday in the sense that it was the last day of my highschool holidays. I was chilling out in the gamezone; that's where dudes with no chics hang all day long with tiny earphones tucked into their ears thinking they're aloof the world.
As the day grew older with the ticking clock, I became hungry. I had to grab a snack. [Damnit, the way I say 'grab a snack' portrays me like some spoilt rich kid. Hell no, I'm not.] All I intended to take was chipo mwitu. I don't know how better to describe that. If you know, the better.
Whether by chance or by fate, which I really cannot place, I moved to this kibanda for chipo mwitu. The proprietor and attendant was a woman, probably less than thirty. Her drooped face was a reflection of intense misery. Well, yeah, I have seen a fair share of misery in my life; the kind I saw manifested in the eyes of this woman though was on a way top league. I later came to know her name was Monique.
As she was working on my order, a sudden curiosity aroused in me; the kind that beats a gong in my head telling me "Bro, you've got to do a story on her." I had to write something.
"Why does my intuition tell me you're sad?"
"What do you care kid? People like you never care!"
As she said that, handing over my package at the same time, I saw her eyes get teary. She was struggling to keep them abay.
She's a tough one. Not many of our feminine friends can do that.
"It had to be done. Not that I had an array of niceties to choose from. My life was a shamble. I had no parents to look up to. No education to give me a good job. Totally nothing! An empty life, a void, a shell. I had to eat though. I didn't want to succumb to hunger."
It has often been said that opportunity does not knock twice at a man's door. And so as she narrated her story, I knew she did what had to be done.
"Mr X's wife was barren. She couldn't bear him children. When he approached me and asked that I sure him a child, I didn't have the guts nor the will to object. My susceptibility compelled me to venture into depths my morals had sworn to keep off. The reward would be hefty;at least he promised. I gave in to his wants; in body, not in soul. I came to hate myself later on. I hated my parents. I blamed fate. For nine months, I carried and laboured for a child I know nothing about; up until now. Mr X vanished like an apparition, leaving not an iota of gratitude to mollify me at least. The hefty reward too, I heard nothing of it afterwards. I rented out my womb, my dignity, all for nothing."
As she said those last words, a bitter grin, the one that people put on to conceal their pain, plastered across her countenance. I felt sorry for Monique, and I wanted to tell her so, but I didn't. I knew the weight of consolation; how it breaks even the mighty of mighties, and I didn't want to take risks.
When I paid for her service, I didn't bother to take back the change. It was all I could do then,or so I thought. But upon further reflection, I decided to write;To tell the world how brute life could be. And this story that you read today, is perhaps the only big favour I could do for Monique and the many others if her ilk. Maybe she gets to read this, or maybe she doesn't. All in all though, it is justice that we seek. Justice for our mothers and sisters; for their wombs are NOT FOR HIRE!
©oiraqaleb esq
Great message and work on this article. And keep on passing similar messages.
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