THE SOILED DOVE

THE SOILED DOVE:

A few heads turn, 3 or 4 men let out whistles as I pass and a dozen or so women cast acidic looks my way. I7 years old, of a bubbly nature and my hobbies are akin to those of every other teenager in the vicinity. I like to belong. So naturally I have a boyfriend.

He is responsible for this- the bulge in my stomach, growing slowly and surely. He walked away, being allergic to such responsibilities.

I am a source of shame to my dad-the poor old clergyman. Mum acts normal and cries when she needs to. Those who know me laugh and murmur as I pass.

Is it so bad that I decided to keep the baby? Would you rather I killed it in some dark back alley clinic to save face, so that my dad could at least smile at me again?

Bear your burden, I hear you say- and I will. All 6 kilos on the outside and a ton or so more in my heart, because the doc says I have twins growing in me. But as I do, my heart bleeds and pleads for all soiled doves in my world and my continent of Africa, whether they dived in the mud or were forced to swim in it.

I wish, for once, someone would stand and look at us differently. Like the she-roes we are; bent lilies about to bud again, for choosing the dreaded path too many-yet deep down our souls the right path, for keeping our babies.