Tag Archive | women

I am Single Because…

The man who is according to my very long and detailed fantasy list suppose to be cuddling with me at night went down the isle whilst I was busy grieving after being cheated on by a man who was not only all kinds of pathetic but still maintains his highly regarded occupation of being a skillful and discreet serial womaniser.

Another thing is the man who’s meant to be with me is sceptical about the whole of me. He has professionally friend-zoned me by insisting that the five year gap between us makes him too old to have anything intimate to do with me. He keeps referring to an ex of mine everytime things start to get cosy and an inch too magical between us. He asks irrelevant questions like how many guys I’ve gone down with, as if undermining or maybe weighing my womanhood and my ability to receive and give love.

I’m also single because the not so gentle man who wants to be with me is undoubtedly not my type. Type in this particular case implies his very dry and sexually centred sense of humour that gives me cringes and annoyance in equal measure. His dominating demeanour leaves me listening to stories of his success and achievements hundred percent of the time when the only thing I need is to be held and caressed in calming silent. He is undoubtedly not my type because a conversation only makes sense to him if after his acclaimed capabilities to explore the female body (body being an undertone in this instance) ends in nakedness and an orgasm.

In all honesty, I’m single because giving and receiving love has been reduced to dirty talk, nude pics and shagging the living life out of each other’s physicality. In all of this, the heart is sidelined, its attention desired but its whole affection unattended to. Getting a sex partner seems more important than getting to know a person. And here I stand, single because all I really want are little things that grow a person in remarkable ways. Like a pair of ears, that will have interest on the occurrences of my journey and shed light unto my challenges. A mouth and a tongue that will not just be happy to lock with my lips and tongue. But lips and tongue that will create words that will mould not only me but that which we’re trying to build.

So yes I know, I’m single because amongst many other things, I’m asking for far too much from a world of individuals who pride themselves about giving zero fucks and I’m very aware that this can’t be the world I signed up to. I’m unable to adapt and I could very well be slowly dying. Perhaps they are right, I should just get a highly educated psychologist and a good motivational read because times have changed and no one saw it fit to email me the newsletter.

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Father’s Day and South Africa

Children are angry, women are heartbroken and fathers are still on the run. This is the grievous reality of many South Africans. Nevertheless, it does not take away from the order of the day.

Its Father’s day in South Africa today, so a very happy and blessed father’s day to all fathers even those outside South Africa.

South Africa is going through change and many will wonder why things have changed for the worst but the answer will not be of public knowledge but rather an introspection for every citizen to look at what their role has been.

One thing I know for a fact is that a sour attitude towards each other and continuous acts of encroachment is what will always stand against our unity and fruition.

#endfathersday

#endfathersday trends

Be it a hoax or the truth for some, I still don’t get why wrath of this magnitude can have an effect so great it tops our ‘trends map’ a day before father’s day. Maybe I’ve drastically failed to understand the pain but I do however feel the rage and I’ve also seen the harm it can do.

Whatever is begun in anger ends in shame, Benjamin Franklin once said.

And the question I’m asking is, how long will we allow wrath and anguish to shame our future?

Allow me to be completely honest; if this was two years ago, I would have seen nothing wrong with the hashtag and the reason for this post would have been unnecessary because then, my father was according to my perception nothing worthy of honour, appreciation or celebration.

He was just a man who met my beloved mother and decided to give her a baby while he went on with his daily adventures and pretending to like the idea of my existence. Before my eyes, the only person he gave special attention to was none but himself.

However, this is a new year and this year is a special year. I want to for the first time with honour, compassion and appreciation wish my father a blissful and blessed father’s day filled with lots of food, jokes and maskandi music – some of the things my father would rather be caught dead than live without besides his family of course.

Daddy…
With wishing you a grand father’s day, I also want to tell you that I’ve forgiven all those years you spent working instead of being with me; reading me a bedtime story, teaching me how to escape washing the dishes, defending me against mom’s scoulding or maybe telling me my awfully crayon coloured drawings are pretty.

Today is about you and your role in my life which you took upon even though you were not 100 percent ready but took part and did what you could. I will not crucify you for things you were not able to do but I will always remember the things you managed to do.

Happy father’s day daddy dearest and I really do think you’re a great dad and an exceptional father even though there is room for improvement like there is room for me to be a better daughter.

🙂
DevynStella

In My Forefathers House

Before a verse in one of the kwaito songs which became fairly popular, they were widely known as the ‘peaches’. The smooth, soft-yellowish, immensely likable peaches. These African darlings were the preference to a number of African gentlemen. And by the sight of interweb mentions, it seems the yellow-boned are also a majority’s favourite.

When the popularity of the word yellow-bone (don’t worry my English conscious beings, I’ll dissect this frog for you’ll…later) landed on our black streets, we expressed our delights, as per usual, on social media platforms and once again Twitter took the texter’s choice award.

You see, long before we labeled our own blackness, there was only one kind of black…Black. As you can obviously understand, this was neither sufficient nor satisfactory to my fellow countrymen/women. Out of that almost negligible yet invariable lack, existed the bonds which intertwine curiosity and inquisitiveness, the perfect ingredient to a thrilling series of adventure.

As a result, today I’m glad to notify you that we have different shades of black and they all have different categories. So next time you find yourself in Africa, or for precision’s sake let me say in South Africa, you need to know a few very minor but highly important things.

South Africa, at the moment, is home to five specific shades of black. We have the two previously pure black but now Indian and Coloured blacks. Then we have the black-African blacks, this is divided into three categories. The dark-skinned blacks (also known as the black baby-jellies). Secondly, we have the vanilla-blacks (these would be known to white folks as the Albinos) and lastly, I really wish I had a drum-roll and a Johann Sebastian Bach prelude playing in the background for this one, the yellow-bones (these would be the subject of discussion here and everywhere).

The yellow-bone’s are at the peak of their existence. As it is with one who is at the peak of their career, they are the talk of the
twittersphere. And to no surprise, their fashionableness has kicked the ‘dark beauty’ and the ‘black is beautiful’ phrases right where is appropriate to render them irrelevant.

However, this whole phenomenon has only been true for ladies of this skin tone. Gentlemen on the other hand, if they by any chance happen to be in possession of this yellow-bone(ness), are most likely to be referred by the derogatory ‘f’ word often expressed towards gay people. On Twitter they are captioned with the hashtag ‘keeps losing’ text code.

I need to mention that long ago, before I learnt how not to shut my mouth, they said ‘black is beautiful’ and I’m not yet certain as to whether my native South Africans have decoded the underlying vision that moulded and brought forth this cultural notion.

Anyway, to accommodate our progression, we have a new, more relevant expression; I’m yellow and it gives me pride. This yellow denotes, in particular the lighter shaded kids of Africa, those whose skin colour resembles the shining sun at exactly midday in the African skies. It is a very favourable yellow even amongst the ladies whose skin tone screams ‘I am an African’ from afar. Hence the havoc in my forefathers house.

The longing for the soft, smooth yellow-bone skin tone has been in existence long before we could discover that nursing, teaching and social work are not the only disciplines available post standard ten. Our fore-mothers had their homemade traditional skin lightening mixtures which till this day continue to serve their purpose at utmost best in some parts of my land.

‘Yellowness’ is proving to be grade A prestige in my land for it is associated with the desirable amount of beauty; beauty which grants a lady adequate attention needed to make her feel lovely inside. That is why African women, for the longest time, have wanted (and still desire) a skin tone of this sort.

This is where the adventures of ‘chasing’ come into our black lives. ‘Chasing’, mind you it is not English but could be thought of as a simile to skin bleaching, except this method is likely to be the works of some cheap chemicals that guarantee the user a damaged skin, in the long run.

Chasing is also an exhausting process, it requires you to never for a moment neglect it, otherwise, darker days shall be all over you like an annoying mosquito in the summer nights of the moist KZN land. And to make it worse, you’ll be more darker than when you first started the process ‘yok-chaser’

Now the thing is, I’m dark and as if that is not enough, I battled the fight against resistant skin acne. So everywhere I went, as a teenager, I would find a stranger prescribing me some form of medication or ritual I needed to perform to overcome a seemingly endless war. As a result, I’ve swallowed pills which refused to go down the esophagus and tried ninety percent of the skin products on the market.

I really thought the prescription process was over, to my despair, I’ve recently been prescribed a skin lightening cream mixture which is to brighten my skin’s tone and make me look ‘beautiful’. I was flummoxed. I wasn’t sure whether to chuckle or burst out in tears. I was however very concerned.

My people are overly obsessed with running after the fair skin tone, in a world where the colour of your skin is ought not to define your beauty nor your altitude. I mean it could be, to a certain degree, understandable that my foremothers envied a skin colour of this sort. However, we are not bounded by those laws anymore.

Henceforth, why do we invest so much time in depreciating the things we have through processes which endanger our lives? Why do we constantly seek contentedness on catalysts that can completely rearrange (usually for the worst) our normal living conditions?

I’m well aware of the black stereotype that if your skin tone is darker, by default, you’re ugly. I learnt that as a kid. My own black people told me so through the nursery rhymes they sang as they delicately held me in their warm loving hands. It is deteriorating that when you’re a kid and dark skinned, ‘umubi’ [you’re ugly] is amongst the first words you learn to utter.

As a toddler, I knew black wasn’t beautiful or adequate. Somehow I feel as though I’m still stuck in the era where your skin tone is questioned by your own people. Your own people oppress you for the way you were created. They inflict words in your vocabulary that make you question the purpose of your appearance.

Moving forward, as you stare unto a mirror which presents to you your yellow-bone(ness) that is globally worthy of embrace, remember that really dark skin toned child who sits besides you, longing for you to instill in them confidence that will not be penetrated by the spiteful phrases of societal beliefs. It is a plea, make them feel as beautiful as you do.

No Empathy for Culprits

Any nation’s status quo should involve anything but the detriment of its people. Each nation is obliged, regardless of its financial or political state, to encompass constituents which favour the development and growth of its people. However, this is untrue for many nations as abuse, a human deteriorating aspect, is predominant in societies.

Stat Courtesy of the Rape Foundation. First published @rapefoundation1 via Twitter

Stat Courtesy of the Rape Foundation. First published @rapefoundation1 via Twitter

Looking at the exponentially growing rate at which abuse cases, notably rape cases are pressed and withdrawn in South Africa, a country perceived as a pacemaker and a refuge for a number of it’s African counterparts, one’s mind is propelled into fore-seeing a disorientated female brain and a disconsolate future in the fight against women and child abuse.

This year alone, I have witnessed more than three rape cases that were pressed and withdrawn at the drop of a hat without elucidation, leaving my concerned self in an inanimate and convoluted state.

Stat by the Rape Foundation (@rapefoundation1 on Twitter)

Stat by the Rape Foundation (@rapefoundation1 on Twitter)

Rape is an extremely disturbing form of abuse that any human being can ever encounter, it results in enormous psychological disturbances. Rape utterly discombobulates the livelihood of the victim to an extent of severe depression.

I therefore fail dismally in understanding a case of a negotiation or agreement between the victim and the offender of this traumatic, agonising act. I truthfully believe that no amount of settlement can brainwash the mental wounds mounted through this vicious act in the victims mind. Neither is there any form of consensus capable to diminish the physical trauma encountered.

According to me, pressing charges only to withdraw them before the proceeding of the case is a humorless laughter to victims of rape whose offenders walk on unbounded. It is anguish to their tainted souls which cry out for mercy each day.

I wholeheartedly understand that there is no prison with the capabilities to bring back the pieces the offender unknowingly took away, however, justice brings fourth hope of a better future to a victim’s fractured soul. This is the kind of hope which can assist a victim in rebuilding a life that has been villainously wrenched.

Henceforth, being easily amenable is not wise when you want justice to be served. Rape victim I urge you to stand firm in combating further and or the repetition of molestation. Rape offenders belong in a prison cell and it is our civil duty as a nation to certify that no assaulter loiters freely amongst us.

Twerking – Could it be a Dance Revolution?

Twerking in practice. courtesy of Google images.

Twerking in practice. courtesy of Google images.

You Tube is fair proof that twerking is here and causing more havoc than a mob justice.

When this dance phenomenon hit South African shores for the first time, it literally left many jaws dangling on the floor. The nation tore into two, with a good half indisbelief whilst the other fifty percent’s eyes indulged the sexy bum shaking motion with appreciation.   

South Africa is an African country where dance is fully appreciated, women with ‘assets’ are loved, the value of tradition and traditional values is not forgotten and it’s where media and modernity is still trying to find its place.

A considerable number of South Africans who value the integrity, respect and traditional upbringing they were brought up in find themselves electrified with shock, that a dance movement of such kinky element has publicly found a home in this country.

As if that shock isn’t paralyzing enough, South Africa is now home to the self acclaimed professional twerkers; the ‘Pro Twerkers‘. These ladies are blessed with a behind that will see you uttering in languages you don’t understand just by looking at it. I also heard that if you’re lucky to see them on stage, the amount of heat you’ll be releasing is enough to leave those around you thinking you’ve just stepped out of the roasting fire in ‘hell’. And apparently for your sake it is wise to have a leash handy just in case (which is likely to be more often than not) your imagination attempts running faster than a cheetah.  

These ladies bounce their above average butts high and low, with an enough sensual vigour to leave you wondering if their mama is where they really got it from. As for that dripping sweat on your face, well, you’ll need ten tons of empty gallons for it.

The Pro Twerkers give Mrs Carter’s booty hop a run for its money.

As you can imagine, these ladies have received both love and hate mail. Those who show them love are not only fond of their bodies but also appreciate the sight of the work these ladies do.

I’m not sure (as they never replied to my email) whether they’ve taken to twerking as a career or it’s just another one of those piece jobs one does on the side for an extra buck. One thing I’m certain of is that the ‘Pro Twerkers’ have traveled extensively and opened up for the controversial, multi-award winning now Yeezus (that’s Kanye West to you) when he performed in Johannesburg earlier this year.

It is absurd but I wish upon indulging on a listening class whereby an almost visually impaired, friendless, ugly glass wearing computer programming geek turned into boring lecturer explains to me the popularity of this sensual movement which is at the peak of its global widespread, making it the most popular move on the dance floors and one of the most talked about subjects on social media platforms.

I would gulp mostly the tiny extracts of this choreography’s origins as I still wonder whether it originated in Southern American clubs, Africa or New Orleans. I would prefer the longer theoretical version which I plan to do absolutely nothing about until the age of sixty where I will look intelligent and turn ‘cool’ in a split second to my grand-kids.

I will mention to my grand children who will sit, surrounding me as if enjoying a thrilling tale around a fire, that before I got introduced to twerking a seemingly non negligible amount of me desired to see what twerking was, for it hammered my twitter timeline in every update and made me feel under-informed.

At my convenience, or maybe belwiderness, my television set gladly introduced to me the mystery behind twerking.

To my jaw dropping surprise, twerking was a phenomenon which required the participator to bounce the butt and hips up and down in erotic motions, extremely suggestive manner causing jiggles and or a shake.

I stood motionless in front of a television set I looked into with eyes which seem to lose their sight. My throat immediately felt like a freshly poured glass of tap water. I knew that if I had asthma, I’d be suffocating.

Since that day I couldn’t help but notice the flooding of twerking home made videos on the internet. Ladies putting their twerking capabilities into practice almost daily like it’s a world competition entry requirement.   

I would explain to these kids, which I pray do not drive me to tears with insanity, that life is the mother of changefulness and its main characteristic is unpredictability, hence, one needs to be strategic in all aspects. More importantly, you can be able to live fruitfully as an individual if you have the guts to choose specifically what influences you as much as you should be able to categorically know what does not influence you.

Many say, like any other dance type, twerking is a certain form of expression for not only hip hop influenced individuals and those with a behind enough to send Nicki Minaj for an extra implant on her bum, but it’s an expression that can be freely explored by your average girl next door, even though the big butt acknowledging advised that when you have a big booty the experience is more appealing for their pleasure, of course.

As for me, with an average bum, and many other silenced reasons, I wouldn’t be caught even on a twerking inducing hip hop track trying to pull a twerk.  

With all that said and little done, I still wonder, could we be sitting arms folded in a freezing windy weather, sipping our hot chocolate whilst a dance phenomenon that we’re not fond of is being brewed? Can it mature its way into a fully accredited choreography or worse still a credit bearing subject at dance schools?  The thought of it drives away my desire to raise kids.

Do not misinterpret me, for my withheld perspectives; I do not like twerking, specifically for my generation. However, anyone else who chooses to engage in it is still my blood from the other father (God that is).

Men are Beautiful – An Appreciation of Majestic Creatures

A man is a supernatural crafted creation whose purpose is to conquest a clandestine doctrine that is to disclose itself through daily sufferings. He is a God given machine which in its capabilities lies astounding augustly worth. A man is a creation brought forth to represent the importance and existence of the celestial God on the planet.

The hurt carried by women, would disagree, however this is not a matter of debate, rather a declaration; men are beautiful. And their roots spring from greater envisions.

Usually in my country, men get very little if any good publicity. This animadversion has incredible deteriorated men value. The exact side-lining of men makes us forget the creed God purposefully created men for.

So permit me to tell you about the exorbitant artistry of men. I grant you the permission to indulge on this heavenly creation through its physical features, which hail from the well kept head to the fittingly maintained physique, down the brawny outer calf muscles.

I prefer to look into this exquisite creation through the base of its modeling; making a slow zoom into his perfectly distilled constituents. Like the projection of his preferred articulation, the refined eloquentness of his words. The delicate quality in choosing conversations worthy of his eminent value. The amour-propre he has for who he is. The dignity which reflects in the way he walks. The enamor that blossoms through his creativity. The delight which resounds through his voice. His cultivating hand that is ever so willing to extend for the curing of his nation. This kind of man is not a dime in the dozen rather a one in a million.

I’m talking about a man whose imperfections grant him the capacity to acknowledge his misfortunes and mistakes. He possesses a vocabulary ability inclusive of sentences such as; “thank you”, “I’m sorry”, “I made a mistake”, “I appreciate you” and of course “I love you”.

To my advantage, I’ve been fortunate to realise that men are the astrally God created beings which with love are to secure our ambiance and nurture our beautifullness. More importantly, I’ve grasped the knowledge; God deemed men the head for they are meant to love, secure, lead and protect.

Dear men, as I take this seat, I do none but adore your eyes which tell stories of envisions that our generations will find everlasting joy in. It gives me a purpose to strengthen, through a smile, your bones which have with time grown weary.

Lying helplessly in your arms, introduces to me a heart which is pounding with blood that through its predurelence many smiles will glow with happiness. Your heart beats in correlation with mine as assurance that the next day needs our unison presence and passion.

I sleep at night with you in mind, and you lie awake in the midnight hour as solutions for our decaying world knock into your mind for recognition.

You are a God given nature to oversee the unforeseen misfortunes of our daily struggles. Struggles which nourish the muscles we (women) tenderly fall for. These struggles are witnessed in your hands which have held and shed heavy loads of pain.

In you I delegate the duty to love, respect, honor and appreciate. In your arms I find hope and strength to sees the dreams that despair almost deprived me off.

Great is the love you will pass down to our offsprings which I imagine will look into you with love and lie in your arms hopelessly knowing that you are their shield.

If mountains, rivers and sands could give thanks, they would chant songs of appreciation to you for you have helped bring unto their presence purpose for their creation; you have given them the duty to flourish for our well-being.

It is without a doubt that your presence is my present.

Men, you are beautiful, not for your features, although they cannot be missed, you are beautiful for you have known the powerful yet secretive strength that my Lord invested in you.

You are a leader, not by choice, but through respecting the basis of your artfulness. Honoring the purpose the sovereign God saw in you as he perfectly molded you with his blessing hands.

The power that a forlorn, desponded nation needs is the strength in you which can drive through impossibilities like they never existed.

Today I thank you for you are a vessel of honor, a man worthy of love and deserving of respect.

I promise to speak to the Almighty on my knees every night asking him to restore perseverance and store hope in you. I will ask him to give an extra day every day, for you are deserving of a long life.

Men, whatever happens, never forget that you are beautiful.

With Love
DevynStella

Agony of Choice – A Story of Men and Women

I put other people before me, and it hurts. I worry about people who don’t even think of me, and its tear dropping. I give without expecting to be acknowledged, and it’s not fulfilling. People are important to me, but I’m nothing to them. They walk over me the same way they do on tarred road – carefree and with pride. I consider people’s feelings, but they never do the same for me. I’m not playing victim, I’m just being honest with you. When does selfishness draw the line? Don’t people ever get enough of agonising other individuals? It’s not that I can’t say “NO!”, I just want a degree of fairness amongst the human race.

She was a victim of social networks, so it seemed. Emptiness intimidated her territory. With its enormous and immortal gait; it loitered in her space with no intentions of departing. She was lonely, even though people constantly surrounded her. She had a longing, a yearning to fulfill the void she relentlessly battled with. She was in need of things people close to her never understood, they called her strange. All she wanted was to touch, embrace and feel someone. She needed someone that will be sensual but real, someone friendly but emotional. She vitally looked-for the kind of love which surpasses money and materials. She searched, and maybe that was a wrong move too for she never found. The Love she needed was the kind we all require.

As you know things of this wondrous 21st century begin with a human being in contact with a cell-phone, so as Naledi. She had her first slim, slick, silver device during the last few days of her sweet sixteen age. It was not only her face that blossomed with a smile but her arteries were releasing joy too. It was a happy moment. Her cell-phone did the rounds to all her friends, with each of them touching and pressing just to see the greatness of its performance. They took endless photos, mind you wallpapers and screen savers were the in thing then. This was a sign of appreciation with bits of envy as a catalyst. In spite of that, they were all glad – she was now available “online”.

Naledi now had a cell-phone, the device needed to do what it was purposely made for – receive and release calls. The distribution of the cell-phone number process began. That was not as fun as the instant chatting which being “online” provided. That is where you found her most of the time, regarding the fact that she was now losing interest in school and its homework. She was online – the world of possibilities. Strangers were asking for “asrl” then her “id” and her cellphone became her best friend. Chat rooms granted her the meeting with the attention she craved for. Her cellphone was soon the victim of the vicious battery flat, battery charged, battery full, battery on charger again cycle. It was not long, her senses were rendered numb. That is another problem with these technological devices – food burns while the chef giggles endlessly into his/her device.

Technology advances, so does the chatting platforms. Naledi cultivated rapidly, she was ahead – the social network world might as well have been tailored for her intelligence quotient. Photos were not the only material she exchanged. Videos were her favourite as she overly indulged on them under her blankets with earphones deep inside her ears. Naledi – the star, engaged, she mastered the game along with its “lets shorten every word” language. Her pleasures jumped to cloud two, a slightly higher step for her age. The exchange of XXX files arouses lust and “no strings attached” was her newly found statement. She desired, she craved, she wanted – to feel, touch and connect with someone who would apprehend her emptiness. She hankered for effects, emotions, depth – she longed to be moved.

Social networks are brilliant, they sweep off boredom, induce insomnia and attach smiles on people’s face. They have the power to ignite you with money and dreams. The capability of befriending you with complete strangers. This superpower possesses might over restrictions, people cross countries and boundaries – they expand, express and fulfill their needs and more often than not everything that shouldn’t happen, happens. Naledi knew and practiced this supremacy at its utmost peak, she was omnipotence. If credits and mastering a subject were anything to go by, she was a doctor of this philosophy. Men were in abundance and she had more in mind than to get away with just a boyfriend. She was discreet, the number one qualification of this engagement. She was a freak on her phone and a lady in reality. Was her desire met? Had she found what she looked for? Of course not! The desire she wanted was meant to be tangible, it was suppose to live and be mutually shared. Hers did not. Men came, ejaculated and went, leaving the emptiness with double the intensity. The emptiness grew to hate, hate into anger and soon she had gone for the World Wide Web. Still searching, desiring but men still came and went, some came back for more but never stayed.

She had her whole life ahead of her, this occupation had the power to tarnish and destroy some of her dreams. Consciousness grew out of laziness, it began to work in her favour. It was time to face the monster she had grown, fed and nourished. Realisation came – this could not be her identity no more. Her future cannot be traced back to this being of deplorable encounters. She longed to turn back time but it moved forward as always. What was the next step? What can she do? Who can she disclose to without the fear of being judged? No one! The answer bluntly stared into her oval, clear, glowing pretty face which she wished to change. The warm, friendly, loving smile of assurance had grown to shield the spirals of anger in her. It was sad, it was true, it was part of who she was – a statistic of untold stories. Her desire was to speak, to find somebody who would assure her that it was not her fault. Somebody who would cleanse the pain; remove the memories out of her mind completely. She longed more for somebody who would wash away the anger she felt for the brother who took her happiness away. How can an occurrence in her childhood possess so much might over her maturity and future?

She was not a quiet child by choice, memories of woe frolicked in her head – flooding remembrances of a happy childhood she never had. The day she lost her happiness was an overlong movie; it reran, repeated and replayed. A representation of agony, a motion picture yielding anger, pain and tears. It brought fourth past days. The brother didn’t know, he will never know that it was not her virginity he went with but he deprived her the entirety of her life. She lives this day with repugnance and fear of any brother of her nation. The ruthless, life depriving individuals. If her childhood agony could like history repeats itself, she would indeed be rendered a murderer of both that brother and herself. The agony she feels is not of choice, it was brought to her by a man who saw pleasure in her purity. The emptiness and hate fuel turmoil with relentless thoughts of wretchedness.

I’m not playing victim. I am a case of obliteration. Its just another story on side effects of rape. A story of a woman on the struggle to survive. A story of a woman in agony. This is what I did not choose. I was not meant to endure such a secret. This agony is not my choice. People choose what they want to be, I did not get a taste of that luxury for what choice can a 5year old make about a molester? This is a story of many women, a story they carry everyday, a story shielded with a smile. A story told to pillows through tears. A story that is replayed everyday, a story with great might. A story which is a burden. She is not strong, she has learned to endure the pain. The world we live in is full of pain. People walk with giants of anger. Smiling is not always joy, laughing is sometimes the way to halt tears from falling, it is a way to surpass the agony. And you tell me to always choose happiness. That is exactly what I do – smile, and you fail to see the fractured soul that carries me. I endure the agony of choice because no one cares to know my scar.