Life is generally angry at me, like stable sunlight on a toiler with no solace of either twilight or moonlight.
When would this basking trouble of unfruitfulness become a non-fictional story to tell?
When would I celebrate in acrobatics joyfulness over the birth of my own child?
The laments of a barren widow – It’s heart-rending if not breaking, seeing myself married for years without the fruit of the womb.
Not just for the course that comes afterward, but for troubles that would encumber near future. Like a stone at the bottom of a lake, I feel abandoned.
Have I wrong-done the culture of our land? could it be my parents wrong- did before I was born? Maybe my husband is the cause. But he has a child with his concubine, how come, how come I’ve not conceived?
Life is bittersweet and can be sweet-bitter, sometimes. The pain of barrenness is exacerbated when you’re reminded of it derisively. Thronged- in is mockery which is normal, like when a needle Pierce one’s flesh.
My eyes are dimmed with accumulated tears of inhumanity – we are ostracized, stigmatized, and non-gregarious as if we’re positive to viral infection.
We are human, denied of the salt of life!
Humans whose days are lonely!
We wept sore all night, with none to comfort!
We are human whose joy is engraved!
Written by Azieze Augustine