By Waceke Kiratu (21STARS)
She exuded elegance,
Confidence radiating with every step,
Her heels whispering softly,
Her turban meticulously arranged on her head,
Her office, mahogany, could afford me a Champions League ticket to Paris, all expenses included.
Her eyes lacked sparkle,
Her hands fidgety,
Her mind preoccupied,
She looked at me, smiling,
Silently conveying, “I wish I weren’t married.”
Taken aback by this revelation, I was left speechless,
“Don’t misunderstand, Star; he rescued me,
But I can’t fulfil his desires due to societal expectations.”
She smiled amidst the pain,
“Do you care, Lizzie?” I whispered,
“Yes, it torments me every day,
I see the whispers and stares from the elders.”
Her innocence was stolen by her uncle,
A gift that women pray for in church,
Only for this gift to scorch her heart and condemn her to hell.
Her hands bore permanent scars, evidence of the cruelty she endured,
Her youth betrayed by the wrinkles on her face,
Her husband, a calm tech guy, entered, planting a kiss on Lizzie’s cheek,
He saved her from the malicious tongues of the community.
With little to boast about,
Uninvited to certain gatherings,
With no one to inherit from,
In an empty home, they found solace.
They survived on peace and love,
Clutching each other on the couch, singing love songs,
Trying to mend and heal their broken hearts,
Hoping that their dreams reach God’s ears,
Yearning for the possibility that they might be the Abraham of our generation,
Praying for an Isaac to silence the judgmental whispers of the elders.
