FROM MY SICK BED

Mum, I thought of what to tell you; and when I had decided on what to tell you, my problem was how I would tell you, whether I should call you on the phone or whether I should write instead; but since I’m not sure I want to hear your voice again, I’ve decided to let a nurse help me write this letter while I dictate, since I’m to frail to hold a pen.

I can’t say I won’t forgive you, because whether I do or not, it no longer makes any difference. I have less than 10 days to live, the doctor told me so this morning.

The short skirts and hot gowns you bought for me, this is where it has led me Mum, at the dying patients ward. I know you wanted me to be like other girls, I know you wanted your daughter to be presentable like other girls, and so you bought me my first make up kit, you encouraged me to have a boyfriend, provided I showed him to you. I know how many times Dad nearly beat the daylights out of me because of my naughtiness and how wayward I had become, but I also remembered how you would leap to my defense no matter how wrong I was. You never objected each time I came home with gifts, you never asked who I got them from and what I did to get them; the expensive necklaces, shoes and wrappers I brought home for you, you never asked which man gave me them; you never bothered to care how many times I had to spread my legs so as to get you those gifts. Mum, I remember when I was 21, and Dad had just banned me from leaving the house if it was 5pm; I remember how you threatened to pack and leave Dad and take me along if he didn’t let me go out as I pleased.

I remember the day I came to you in tears, telling you that I had just missed my period, and the urine test confirmed that I was pregnant; I remember how you slapped my hands and asked me how did I get so careless, but promised to do something about it, which you did by introducing me to that doctor friend of yours. I’ve visited him 4 times again after that day, and four times I have had to lie on his surgery table while he performed his magic on me. I don’t know if I still have a womb, but that doesn’t bother me any longer because I wouldn’t live long enough to know the answer. The cigarettes and weeds I have had to smoke just to keep up with my extravagant lifestyle; the hard drugs that came with the wild parties that had become a part of my life till I was brought into the hospital in a stretcher, the strong drinks I’ve had to use to wash them all down, yeahhhh, I was a big girl, and that was how I thought big girls behaved.

The phones, clothes, bags, shoes and even that picanto car, I’m leaving it all behind, after all, they don’t disappear when death finally comes knocking; I realise now that they weren’t worth it, they weren’t worth me dying for them, they weren’t worth the AIDS virus I have running in my blood.

I wish I had listened to my roommate in school instead of moving out to go live with that boy because I thought she was always giving me a tough time. I blame no one for where I am today except for myself and you Mum. You didn’t spread my legs, neither did you give me those weeds to smoke, neither did you introduce me to those men; but you never stopped me, you never called me to order, you never sat me down as a mother should and make me realise I would be a mother too in the nearest future, and whatever I do today, my kids would copy after me tomorrow. Anyways, no need for such advise now; I wouldn’t even live long enough to put that advice into practise. Infact why I think God will never forgive you Mummy is because you introduced me into this lifestyle, you bought those ‘sexy clothes’ for me when I was younger, and so those boys and men started running after me. You knew they would, you knew they would never stop disturbing me till I said yes, and so you taught me how to handle them. Well, I’ve done all you’ve taught me, Infact, I’ve become a professional at it, I’m your best student, only that the reward I’ve gotten so far at being good at this is the illness inscribed in my medical report. The only thing I have to show for it is the virus running in my blood steam, killing me as the clock ticks by, eliminating my white blood cells such that I can’t fight back.

Well, it’s over for me, but I hope your conscience will let you live in peace for how you ruined me, mum.

And if by chance this letter gets to fall into the hands of the public, please I beg you who is reading this to watch over your sisters, your daughters, your nieces, your friends, protect them from this lifestyle, protect them from friends like me, that way, they won’t end up like me.

I have to save my energy, I’ve talked too much, and I can see the face of the nurse who’s writing my words down, I can see the pity written all over her face. I don’t need that pity, I got what I deserved. Please Dad I’m sorry I ended up the way you predicted I would. If I had known, I would have listened better, now I know better.

From your wayward daughter

From my sick bed….

#Gen. Sam

Letter to the Fathers

To the fathers who would come back home drunk and abuse their children with words and blows. To the fathers who would come back home and beat up their wives just because they dared to say the truth. To the fathers who would insult and disgrace the mother of their children in public just because He wants to show that He is the man. To the fathers who have never been there for their sons and daughters, who would prefer to spend more time with his friends outside in the bar, than come home to his wife and kids. To the fathers who never even knew when their daughters became women, and their sons, men. To the fathers who after they have lost their jobs would come home drunk and beat up everybody at home. To the fathers who were strangers to their kids until they grew up and left home. To the fathers who are never home to answer their kids call them ‘daddy’ and ‘papa’. To the fathers who never did their homework and so let their sons and daughters pay the price in brothels and prisons. To the fathers who were never able to say I’m sorry to their kids. To the fathers who became enemies to their kids even after they left home. To the fathers who their wives were the so-called witches that denied them of their much-wanted progress. To the fathers who left home and never turned back, leaving the kids to be catered for by their mother. To the fathers who denied and walked out on their kids because of their mothers, even when they needed them most. To all fathers, this is a letter from your sons and daughters:
“We want to be the best we can be in the future, but we need a guide if we will make it. We don’t want our faces to end up on the ‘Crime Fighter’ scenes, so we beg you to groom us well. We are tired of the names they call the girls hanging by roadsides, the disgusting name they call the boys in the hood, so we plead that you teach us well. We know the economy is bad, but it should not stop you from loving us and respecting our mothers. Don’t beat us up in your frustration, lest we grow up to be like you. We might be naughty today, but if you will spoil the rod and spare the child, we promise to make you proud tomorrow. So please, don’t let us down today”.