See, you’re living in an extended family. You’re the only one who is educated, graduated from a renowned public university with a diploma certificate. Your parents had no idea of the existence of family planning methods, or maybe they chose to ignore it, or they still thought children were still a source of wealth.
Out of the 8 kids, you’re the 5th, you’re the only one who successfully completed the secondary education. Where you come from, is chaotic. Sewerage flows everywhere. Poor hygienic conditions, kids everywhere with mucous spilling off their noses, sliding through their mouths. They drink it. Thats breakfast. Here, kids know of only 2 meals a day. Sometimes one. Other times none at all.
The mates you grew up with, dropped out of school, now they are either drug addicts, sex whores, doing petty jobs, I mean thugging, hawking. Here, with education that you got, everyone is expecting you to give back to the society. The society that had no idea how you managed your fees. In your family, sugar and milk is a luxury. Breakfast and lunch is only heard of from far. It disgusts you.
You did some computer packages after form 4. So you know a lil thing about IT, majorly surfing the Internet. You do your search, and come through opportunities of decent jobs abroad. Because somehow you’re in Africa, land of exploitation. Plenty of opportunities yet still no job for the graduates. They’ll tell you to create one, you’ll ask them “Where’s the capital?”. They’ll tell you to apply for youth funds , and whence you have, they’ll ask you, “whom do you know in these offices?” Funds declined!!! In the next couple of weeks, you take out all of your life savings and get a passport and a visa. Soon you go abroad. On a plane, it excites you, but the thought of being abroad, making decent money, excites you the more.
So you land in Saudi, or whatever the country you chose. You’re welcomed warmly by the agency which aided through your application process. They take you to stay in a mansion, with a family as you’ll be briefed about the job. While in there, you’re treated well, at least for the first one week, or the first 3 days. At the same time, they’ll be telling you that, the bureaucratic procedures in getting you your new job, are delaying. Some government polices, they’ll say. Truth is, you have no idea what job you came for. They took your suitcase and placed it somewhere safe, with your documents stuffed in it, you didn’t ask why, you were over excited. Right?
Till one night, in my room, when half asleep, a man walks in. He has that Arabic ascent. In this mansion I barely speak to anyone. They don’t speak more of English. None speak swahili. So he slids in my bed. He says something, I ignore. I think he was trying to find out if I was asleep or not. He slids his hand neath my blanket, and takes his muscular hairy hand to my groin. “Shhhhhhhh. ..” He shrugs in a husky voice. I jut forward. And kick him behind. He falls off the bed. I stand, staring at him, he’s disappointed. Madly, he rises up, cursing, takes my phone and my laptop, and leaves the room, no, he closes the door from outside. He locks it.
It’s been 3 days now. The door is still locked. I haven’t eaten any food since then. Haven’t Showered. Somehow, I think I’m being punished, for not doing what I’m supposed to do. Somehow, I think about it, and it occurs to me that this is my new reality. Somehow, I’m subdued. Somehow I’m thinking of home, and how long it has been, barely a month, and lots has changed without me noticing. I ain’t human anymore.
Back at home, my girl is sending me text via whatsapp. My last seen is 3 days ago. My girl is inboxing me on Facebook. I was active 3 days ago. My girl thinks I’ve already begun my job, that I’m busy not to use the phone, might get easily distracted. But my girl stays cool, she know I promised her a better life. She loves it when I’m out there doing something for her. Soon, I know she’ll be applying for a visa and a passport, she’ll want to be with me. My family doesn’t worry much. This is one of those long months I’ll be away at school perhaps. To them life is the same. They hoping that when I get back, I’ll be driving that huge car, and I’ll get them out of their situation and take them to the big city.
It’s been 4 days now. The door is still locked. I haven’t eaten anything since then. I’m highly dehydrated. I know I should be a man, and kick the door wide opened, but this ain’t no movie. No fiction. I’m alone in this place. Feeling weak. I know by the 5th day, the hairy man will come back to my room, and find me hopelessly lying on bed, he’ll carry plate of food and a jug of water. He’ll put them aside, and slid in my bed, beside me first.
I’m thinking about my girl now. That’s the only way I fall asleep. The only way fear of hunger averts me. Her friends be asking her, “Where’s your guy? Why doesn’t he call you anymore? Did he find a white girl?” And my girl will smile through her pain of missing me, and consoling herself that I’m working for a better future. She’ll tell them, “my guy is amazing, he’s laying foundations for our kids”.
See my girl is pretty. She’s the most beautiful and sassy woman I know. Her smiles are like corns in a filed. She always had this huge laughter. So amazing. My baby girl, has huge tits. Sometimes she could flung open her blouse, and I could unhook her bra, to let her breast roll over my face. Just like that. She’d turn me on. I’ll kiss her lips. Suck her breasts like a baby. Damn it, that woman. My baby girl, knew how to treat me, she’d spread open her legs and let her heat flow into me. She’ll go down with her tiny lips, and let her tongue curl on my shaft. My baby girl is amazing, I’d be kissing her navel, and my mouth would find its way to her clit. She’d jut forth and back squeezing on my head neath her thighs. To let all her molten fluids inside me. My baby girl gave me electricity, I miss that woman.
On the 5th day, the door shall be unlocked. And sometimes I feel like letting the man have his fun. The door shall be unlocked and sometimes I think I should give him what he want how he wants it, so I should be free. And I’m afraid that she’s losing me. That the next, my lips will be on another man’s lips. That my mouth will be on another man’s shaft. That the nights she’d be hoping for my to lay her down, and give her my thrust, that I’d be in another world, being laid by another man. Just to get food for survival. I’ll tell him that I’m a virgin, he’ll say that he loves it. I’ll ask him to use a lubricant, if something like that even exist, he’ll say that he likes it raw. And whence he’ll be done, he’ll tell his friends, and they all be coming over to have a taste, why?
Because somehow my skin is a lot darker that it should actually be. Because somehow, I’m an inferior. Because somehow, they can’t treat their own like this, but do it to those of a different race. Because somehow I’m from Africa, I know any better. A slave is what I’ve become.
And after sometimes. Years maybe, of being chained like a dog, treated like a bitch. They’ll notice that I’m too weak. They’ll notice that they’ve infected me. So they’ll dress me up, and send me back home. I wouldn’t be the same any more. My girl will come through at the airport to take me home. She’ll be happy, that her patience finally will pay off. She’ll notice something different in me. She’ll look into my eyes, and see a void. Like I’m not there. She’ll cry at first before she say a word. She’ll feel the grumbling in her stomach, it will pain her. She’ll ask me, I won’t talk, cause over time I’ve lost my speech. I’m only used to barking, whining and mourning. I’m used to bending, I hate standing. I hate lying down. This is what happens. She’ll put her hands on mouth to block her screams. Her world will tear apart.
She’ll curse why I left for abroad. While I could have been happy with her at home, starting small but growing big. She’ll take me to therapy after therapy, she’ll not give up, till I succumb. Only then, I’ll see how much she loved me, how much I gave her hope, how much I lost myself, how much I got broken. But who’s to be blamed? Everyone always looking to go abroad, right? I heard they selling black people. Is it true?
Home and abroad, I will always love home. Call me a cynic, I won’t blink in my vision.
*******
As written by Phill Ibsen
( Master Of Descriptions )
A Heart_Art_Poetics productions
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