Monthly Archives: May 2014

HALIMAH: A WIDOW AT 15

I grew up into a different world. When other girls go to school in the morning, I either go to the farm with papa or stay at home with mama. When others do their assignment, I laugh and mock them, because papa said that, “Education is of no value to women”. I had always been papa’s favourite child, because I will fetch him lots of money when I become of age for marriage. But after last month, papa and mama now have a different view about me; they say, I’m a curse of Allah.

When I became thirteen years, I knew everything was going to change soon. I was been betrothed to Mallam Musa, untill last two years when I legally became his wife. Nobody consulted me when this husband was choosen. I wasn’t asked if i liked him or not. He is my husband, so was I told and so it became.

Mallam Musa is a truck driver and ten years older than my papa; papa is forty five years old now. He is married to a woman who had three issues for him. All his three sons are older than me, and like my brothers they on the streets begging.

Since I got married, I lost the freedom I had as a child. The freedom to play, run, jump and dance at will. Mallam musa is now in everything I do; I cook for him; I wash his dirty clothes; I sweep his house and satisfy his sexual desires – even when I’m sick. If I say no, he takes it by force. Isn’t this slavery?

Last year, I lost my first pregnancy. Mama and papa said it’s the will of Allah, but Amina – my neighbour, said I was too young to get pregnant. Amina is twenty years old, her uncle took her from her father when he wanted to marry her out at the age of ten. She told me that she has written the final year exams for secondary students and planning to further her education, so as to become an engineer. Above all, she will be the one to choose her husband – when she is ready for marriage.

Mallam musa died few days after my fifteenth birthday. He died in an accident while driving to sokoto from kano. Maybe it’s the will of Allah, because I’ve been silently praying for freedom. I got my freedom the day he died. He has no brother to inherit me, so I’m free, but mama and papa won’t let me be.

Now it is Kabiru from Nasarawa. Papa wants me to get maaried to him. Please I need a saviour. Someone should come and rescue me.

Is anyone out there? please come save me. I want a world that is mine alone. How can I be a widow at the age of fifteen, when my mates are in the making proccess of being great?

please come save me.
Child marriage is a societal crime against childhood that must stop.

#EndChildMarriage
join the train at @OurGirlsAU

A LETTER FROM SAMBISA: HELL ON EARTH

Dad, I would have love to start this letter with some compliments, as my teacher had thought me – it burdens me to do so, but my shivering hands won’t concede. With my head stuck between my dirty aching kneels, I’m helplessly writing you this letter using the feather of a bird and the blood of a fellow human, while taking refuge under a green shrub – splattered with blood; fresh blood.

Dad, is hell really somewhere faraway? I’m not questioning our faith, but i think hell is on earth. Yes! I have seen it, this place is hell. If I’m still on earth – which is the hope with which I’m writing this letter, then this place is hell on earth, and if it’s were I imagine it to be, sambisa forest, then I boldly say that sambisa is hell on earth; better still, it is the definition of hell on earth.

I write you this letter, not as the girl I use to be, the girl you knew me to be – the girl you made – but as a girl that have the memory of who i used to be. Disaster has befallen me, the unimaginable has happened to your princess, and terror has devoured this innocent face – that you say, reminds you of mum. I’m now a new person, a direct opposite of the girl I was. It wasn’t easy, but I did endured, pretended and smiled; even when whips come heavily on my tiny soft skin,  repeatedly; even when these blood sucking demons, defiled god’s temple – my body.

I’m still alive because I miss you – I want to see you again. Not only you: I miss your whips of correction: I miss those early morning hugs and kisses: I miss everything. I miss myself – this isn’t me. Dad, please stretch your hands and dry these tears from my eyes.

How many days have I spent here? 22 or 23? I’ve lost count. I lost count the day God’s temple was invaded, beaten, stripped of it’s linen, helplessly pinned to the ground and defiled. Daddy, will God here my prayers? Am I still his daughter? I’m no longer holy. Please, can you tell him that it wasn’t my fault? I’m sure he’ll listen to you, just like he did in the past. Don’t forget to tell him that I need a saviour – the other girls also need a saviour: the ones that jumped off the truck: the ones that went towards the other direction and those that were driven out of here, in a truck.

Someone dies here everyday. It’s either someone is slaughtered – like our chistmas chicken; an escaping hostage is shot – like in american movies, the ones you said i should stop watching, or someone is beaten to death.

Did i say, this place is hell on earth? Oh! I did. I’m sure, our captors are not human. Sometimes I wonder if they are cold hearted, but now I believe that they are the ones we bind in prayers – demons. But how did they get to me? didn’t we pray enough or was our fasting not enough? was it a secret sin? I’m sure God will forgive us. Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the LORD will deliver us from them all.

I better stop here. I’ve stayed too long. I miss you dad. I pray the government rescue us soon. Bye daddy.

               JANE

 

#BRINGBACKOURGIRLS

 

warning: this is an impersonation of the abducted innocent female students from chibok, and should not be treated as a written letter from any of them – even though i strongly desire to here from any of them.