Her Body
breath
in her lungs. She
feels the warmth
Of
the water on her skin and
washes away the
insults
of yesterday.
She
unlocks the door and
steps outside.
A
security measure that sometimes
doesn’t even
feel
like much.
Because what’s
a lock compared
To
muscles and determination?
She
walks out onto
The
street, and looks both sides.
As
if about to cross the road
But,
she’s just checking the coast before
heading off.
She
takes the same route every day,
But
she still takes a moment to decide if
she should
walk in the middle of
the road or on the sidewalk.
The
sidewalk might conceal her but
it could already
be concealing somebody
else.
The
middle will expose her even more.
But
at least she’ll see anyone
coming
from any side.
With
every step, she utters a word to
God.
Trying to distract herself from the
fear
that is rising up inside of her.
She
thanks Him for always being with her,
and for the fact that His eyes are
always on her.
A
short distance she has to walk alone,
but
newspaper articles have told of
babes snatched
from their front yards.
But
she refuses to become a prisoner of
her own home.
There
is power in numbers, so
she picks her friend up,
so
they can journey together.
A
conscious decision she had
to make.
The
clouds were still hiding the
sun, so she could not
brave
the streets alone.
A
conscious decision she had to make.
As they walk they, approach a group of
construction workers.
Men that left their homes while their children were
still dreaming and their wives preparing
lunchboxes and uniforms.
In the years of her parents, she could have walked past
and greeted them as if she had come from them.
But this is a different age
And now she shutters to think of what words might
cross their lips.
Like a lasso used to bring her closer
“Sondela sthandwa!!”
Words that make her skin crawl like an army of ants.
She wants to respect them.
But even her peers couldn’t help but learn how to summon
women while standing on street corners, as if yelling
to buy an item at an auction.
An invisible price tag floated on the top of her head,
and depending on who was looking at her
the numbers would differ.
It never mattered what she wore.
Because every time their eyes would
move up and down her body,
she felt as if she was being stripped.
Not only of her clothes but of her dignity as well.
The winter air was not cold enough to compare to the
feeling in her heart.
Why did it have to be this way?
She recalls walking back home late at night,
about a week ago.
A young man offered to walk with her even though
he wasn’t going in the same direction.
An offer she desperately wanted to take,
but at the back of her mind she couldn’t help but wonder
what his motive was.
So she decided to let him go because the probability
of it being good was too low to take the risk.
Her body was a moving target in the streets.
Even in her dullest outfit,
the target was still bright enough to draw attention.
Her body.
Her body.
HER BODY.
The body that belonged to her
The body in which her soul resided
The body which was her home on earth
Her body…..that’s all they saw.
Not her.
But her body.