Little miss perfect

I always watched her from a distance, the little miss perfect.

Her smile; it lit up a room, it took the prowess of a stalker to realize the frown lines that accompanied the bubbly face.
Pretense; it was a game society had taught her perfectly, and she had perfected her skills you wouldn’t really realize her pain.
I watched the sparkle in her eyes, everyone commented on how bright it made her face look, but I noticed the glitters were from unshed tears she constantly kept in check. She would blush, a tingling rose would color her cheeks, then look down in nervousness. Her constant perfect-it shadow commended herself for her achievement but deep inside she ached to be freed from the cage that was her life.
I watched her from the shadows, the little miss perfect.

She had to please everyone she loved, even if she didn’t want to do it. Slim was the theme of the society. I watched her puke her meals to attain the perfect figure. Bad boys were the flavor of the year. As she skipped from one abusive relationship to another unfaithful lover, she sighed, but she had to keep up with appearances.
I saw the dreamy look in her eyes, as she tried to cover she slits that escaped with her wrists from her skimpy long sleeved dress. She wanted an out, but she had people to please. Her parents needed to notice her existence, the school needed to be proud of their valedictorian, the hood, alas, this was her perfect killer crowd, but still, who would like to hang out with a freak that didn’t have a boyfriend, that didn’t do drugs. Talk about stuck between a rock and a hard place!
I watched her from my countless anonymous social media pages, the little miss Imperfect.

She was spiraling down the route to her destruction. The road was spinning hard and fast. She had finally lost track of what was important to her. For now, it was important to be the perfect miss for all to see.
She strived to set the record straight, her selfies had to be epic, no one needed to know she cried in her bathtub before she went to sleep. She was famous for all the wrong reasons, it made her inner demons rejoice. Her soul cried in despair from torture, suppression and suffocation from the imposter.
I watched her from the mirror, the little miss unworthy.

Her name was shame, her name was worthless, she was never important, or so she thought. The society made her believe, it filled her mind with images that caused her distress. With her back hunched, she finally gave in to defeat, she was now a slave to societal perception, a follower of the crowd, a believer of their cheers and jeers, a doer of their unreasonable demands, a pleaser, an abomination.
The slits were now more visible; I could see the deep red sauce trickle down her bony arms. I saw her sad smile, and her jovial relief. The end was finally near. She recounted her journey.

The noose she tried in her head, but movies made it seem too painful, the uncontrolled discomfort as one struggled for their last breaths. No, it would make her realize the importance of oxygen, a complicated explanation she failed to comprehend in biology.
The pills she tried, but they took too long, she was found before she crossed the finish line…
In her blur, I watched her watch me, she tried to reach out, time was far gone.
I watched her from her hospital bed, the little miss perfect.

Her baby, they told her, her little boy, the one she once thought she couldn’t bear to raise, had stared at her bloody heap sprawled on the floor and cried for help. A result of intercourse she did not consent.
Deep inside, she condemned her environment. The society had almost orphaned her little prince. She made a resolve, one she had to grasp hard to, in the fear of slipping again.
No more drowning. She no longer strived to please, she would strive to love. She had learnt the hard Love herself. Love her flaws. Love her weaknesses. Damned be what society thinks!
If they loved her, they wouldnt mind her size and her scars. All those who judged were a reflection of the devil swaggering across the earth seeking to devour the naive. She was ready to worry about those, only, who worried for her.
I no longer stare at her, little miss perfect, I stare at you, little miss broken.

My name is survivor. I see you see me; I know you feel the caress of my whispers in your darkened soul. know I am in there somewhere. One day, when you decide to let me out, then I can save you from the pain, I can show you that you are love, you are strong.


The worth of the papers I hold in my hands, have lost their value. I seek not to understand how the society operates; for, from time immemorial, society has only seemed to recognize though who it finds to be worthy its time. Despite my efforts in school to explore the library, the constant and consistent self-motivation talks to find the strength to move on despite the harsh reality that all my efforts may be in vain, the cold nights in the classrooms searching deeper within my books to find the knowledge that others could not comprehend and despite the consequences of my lonely nights in the classrooms found in the open view of the school street lights, but still lurking within the shadows of rapists and robbers! I thought God would reward my tireless efforts, but all my thoughts were hopeless reflections, I still could not secure a decent living.
The worth of the papers I hold in my hands have lost their value. The job applications from every entertainment propose requirements, that to me, are a far-fetched dream. They ask for three years’ experience yet I know not the entry of a construction site aside for the days I was put on attachments. They ask for a bulk of documents of verification, where one sheet of paper would cost me a thousand shillings, an extra five with double zeros if I will have to bribe to attain. They ask for application fees, and a bunch of other things, but yet even after I meet these, they ask again, what tribe are you from? I dreamed of a day, where I would not be judged, based on the perception of my tribe rather by the efforts of my hands. But alas, despite my revolutionary reflections, all those were hopeless reflections.
The worth of the papers I hold in my hands, have lost their value. I head back to my village with my head bent in shame. I feel ashamed of the color of my skin, I feel ashamed of the being cursed by my tribe name, I feel ashamed that I dared to dream. My anger is directed towards all those that set the society to believe success was meant for the chosen few, I desire for a podium to express my emotions of despair, but my soul is to crushed to take another leap of faith. I left the village knowing the past was behind, but here I am, on the country bus, headed back. I gnaw my mind and crush my teeth, the intensity of disappointment glooms my day, and then I realize, city life was not meant for girls like me, my fantasies of success and my visions of equality, all those were hopeless reflections.
The worth of the papers I hold in my hands, have lost their value. Despite graduating with a first class, a big uplift for my poor clan and being the only girl from my village with a university degree in Civil Engineering, I bend in the scorching sun and plough the dry lands. I work, back bent all day, until my bones ache, at least to get a loaf of bread at the end of the day to feed my two-year-old son, whose father seems to care not of his existence. The naïve girl in me still hoped he would come back and rescue me from the shackles of poverty, fulfill the empty promises he made that made my legs swoon back in the days, but all those are hopeless reflections.

The worth of the papers I once held in my hands already lost meaning. As I seat at the corner of my old hut, my roof leaks and drops of rain splash around, my son wails, my tummy aches. I see a reflection from a far, a ray of hope, a dazzling hand; it stretches towards me, saying, “Come, rest my child.” A smile of hope lights my face, a bit of the burden is lessened from my shoulder, I feel some inner peace, one I knew was too good to be true: My son’s cries, they bring me back, he looks at me with hope in his eyes, the kind of look that hopes for food. I thought I saw our break come through, but then again, as I console my son, close to my sagged bosoms and frail body, I realize what I have known all along, as long as I know not one, as long as I am the common Mwananchi, with common wananchi parents, all hopes and dreams I have, are hopeless reflections.
The worth of the papers my body holds, I no longer comprehend. My soul stares at my frail body, lying cold on the ground. My son weeps beside it, shaking it, begging it to siphon my soul from the link that separates us from the pains of this world. Asking it how it will survive without its shadow as a protection from the scorching sun and the glaring eyes. My load feels lesser than before, the environment is no mirror image of my former life. if feels like a mockery of how life should be. But how can life be when man decides to dictate who should enjoy their rights as privileges instead. As my soul flies higher, the weeping increases, I see the mothers lying on the ground across the world, I see their young ones weeping. Despite my wish to help, I desire not to relive the experiences I had with my hopeless reflections. I fly away; to a land we all are equal, a land where my hopeless reflections are a possible reality.