LOCKED UP. THEY WON’T LET HER OUT

She continued to look through the Window of the bus on her way to the writers’ conference. She will be doing her presentation today otherwise she would have cancelled attending the conference.  The night before was nothing to write home about nor was it something to call home for. She had written and called home before but her parents kept assuring her that nwaanyi ina be di ya is never a good impression. "A woman running away from her husband's house is a shame and taboo" her mother had once shouted on the phone. "Did I leave your father's house? Don't worry, we will talk to him" her mother concluded.
So she maintained her gaze outside the Window as the bus glided past the various attractions and distractions of Lagos. She was in part hiding her left bruised eyes from her fellow passengers as if Lagos ever cared, and in part she was looking out searching for a motivation,  a trigger, a match to set her writing speech on fire.
First, she noticed a group of teeming youths rushing to change over and carry out their daily routine and unskilled works for the Chinese construction company which has been awarded the seemingly unending contract to build a ten lane road network extending into the neighboring West African countries.
The street boys who took full advantage of bad roads in the state and barricade the streets. Removing the barriers only after the bus driver had settled them via his conductor.  Then the government approved uniform 'touts' who collected monies from the buses at various busstops signing some incomprehensible autographs that she had always imagined how on earth they recognized what they had written.
The little boys and girls who instead of being in school were on the streets and main roads hawking goods for their parents and guardians.  She imagined the hazards of selling on the main road; the risk of car accident,  of kidnapping and of sexual harassment. She told had sold as a child too but that was at Relief market in Onitsha where her mum popularly known as NWAANYI OFEAKWU plied her trade. So when the little girl shouting "cold water, mineral" came directly to her Window showcasing her goods, she was in a dilemma whether to buy or not to buy. By buying, the girl would sell faster and leave the harm's way. But also, the parent or however threw her into the harm's way will see more profitable reasons to send her back that day or another day. The bus driver accelerated a bit faster helping her with her decision.
Then she remembered how after the Christmas season her neighbours brought a girl child to live with them in the city. The poor girl must have dreamt of coming to Lagos, a land where she would get to watch television, see high rise buildings, even climb onto some of them. She must have been expectant on learning the pidgin language which my neighbors children must have used to mesmerize their little heads back in the villa.
But she was disillusioned. March is ending but she barely sees the cloud of the heavens. Her uncle's wife had accused her of witchcraft just few weeks after her uncle brought her probably against the advice of the wife. Her uncle is a good man and wanted to help his sister by taking her daughter to live with him in Lagos. But his pregnant wife wouldn't tolerate such kindness.
She had always heard the man's wife beating the poor girl mercilessly and accusing her of all sorts of witchcraft.  The poor girl has been locked up for months in a cage of a room and most likely warned never to switch on the cage lights at night and never to come closer to the Window.

She always peeped to see if the poor child was still there.
She had found her inspiration for the conference. But she prays she would find a way to communicate to her audience that her story about the poor girl child wasn't fictional but a reality right within her compound.

#achildisbeentraumatized#