THESE HOPELESS REFLECTIONS.

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.
 

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