Joys of Innocence
Pages Before it all Ends…
I wish I was never writing this letter. Or I’d better wish I was not writing it here. Some horrifying times had come turning my life into a book of stories I never told anyone, not even the God-heart lawyer that tried pleading my course for free.…
July, 2000. Joys of Innocence.
Well, I had thought the things I knew running in my stomach were joy. I thought it would never end, since it already chose to start. It was harsh accepting it at first. I was in a world where my pains were my joys, and I laughed loud in tears and hatred and love, since it was my father assuring me “ I love you, it’s all for your good”. Then I’d munch some cries like songs tempoed in fragments, and I was finally going to say “thanks dad, I love you too”… and I would wash my bed-spread…. But I think I had finished washing it when some terrible thoughts rushed up my lungs – how disgusting mucous blood can be! It smells too, and dad said it showed I was a good girl. I was 16, with newly visiting breasts. I wished you were around to share my feelings with me, but dad had told me he was better a single help than two, since no one else had his attention.
June 2000. When You Left Me
I was still your tender and untainted child before I woke up to a very noisy morning and heard dad tell you how useless you were and would never be my true mother. I knew dad must be very angry with the way you cautioned me all the time, ‘maybe he was true’ I thought.
Mum, you never told me there were absorbing plays between my laps that dad could play with me. You never told me I was a good girl who had mucous blood in her laps. You never told me you would leave and never come back again. Well, dad was caring and did all he promised until I started profuse vomits and my breath often left me somewhere between the need to throw-up or swallow. ‘Such malaria must be very bad.’ I had told myself.
Dad had called the family doctor, and he had taken several tests on my fast plumbing breast than I felt I was sick…. you would remember that our house doctor should be a little younger than dad, he should be 45 or whatever. He knows how better to touch me than dad does – but he’d latter say “I’m sorry” and I’d wish he did again before he says another time, “I’m sorry dear”.
August 29, 2000. Death of Innocence.
It was some minuets before the sun would go weird and its rays would chase me off my bed. It was a Saturday; I’d loved to rest so well. I was hot and hurting too – dad was a little hash with me over the night. ‘Seems our play was now good for him alone. I had only known he was so restless, and his breath heated like fresh coals. I had noticed these some two plays ago; I had wished another person knows how to play better than dad.
Our house doctor must have come to do his monthly check-up for me. And I was alone before he came, and I was not wearing a cloth too, and I wanted dad to come take me through my joys again, or someone who could play better. He was getting too late, and I had tried something in my laps too – a candle. It was funny, but not with as much happy pains I had, when dad played so well. I had plastered three candles together to seek the joys I wanted…. The doctor knocked at the door, and I would not wear a dress, and I thought it was dad, and I saw it was a better dad… and the doctor would check me up and down, and I’d wish he’d not stop being dad….
12 pm. August 29, 2000
Well, dad did not have to knock the door when he came in. We did not remember to lock the door either, doctor only needed to be surprised for some seconds that I was not dressed. He would latter confess along our plays that he had ever hoped to have a breast test for me someday, to teach me ‘how to check for lumps since mum is never around’. But dad would not allow if he suggested…so glad he now was dad.
When dad had entered with a zest for our joys again, and he had found our doctor playing our play with me on the sofa, he would not allow me to welcome him and ask him to thank doctor for playing with me, he would not kiss my head with my eyes closed in dreams of our plays, he’d smash the bottle of wine in his hand against his head – the wine we often took before we played. Doctor would stagger out with his head far ahead of him, he would fall and would not close his mouth or eyes again, and there would flow a pool of blood – not mucous blood – so watery and meshed with some white flesh-like fats.
I’d run out! I would be sure dad was mad! I would not know if doctor was one of those boys he had warned that I never get playing with. But Doctor was like him, he was not a boy, he was dad! He cares for us and our health!
I would dash into the streets with more hatred for my panties or any dress at all, I’d get them off my body, I’d wish I found another dad… my dad was mad; he had killed my new dad – if I found a dad, I sure would tell him to go kill my dad before he comes to kill him.
It would soon be dark and I would feel so free than a bird at first notice of her wings. No walls and no gates. It only pained there was no dad too…
10 pm. August 2000 – Freedom
It would now be dark and three dads would come, they’d think I was mad, they’d veil my face and tie my hands to the sides, they’d take turns of fast plays on me and I’d not cry nor shout nor grind my tooth. They’d talk to me and I would not remember my name. They’d come tomorrow and find me waiting. They’d give me a peer of pants, a transparent top and some money. They’d take me into their car and bring me down here in Hot-Hems Brothel. I’d get my first client and he’d throw a thousand Naira at me. I’d be sure our plays are truly for dads and not for me…
Sept. 2000. I’d Rather Not be a Mother.
I’d soon swear to myself, “I cannot be a mother like you, or mother a daughter like myself, or a son like dad, he would be worse – an embodiment of many dads”. I’d take some wicked pills and kill him or her in the second month, I was just told it meant pregnancy – I was going to be a mother if care was not taken! I’d flush her off like dung after some strange pains and a force to poo. It would be black and worse in smell than mucous blood. I would not sleep with a dad any time soon, I would be so sick, and some mother sluts would help me…
December 2000. I killed Dad Again.
It would be my last day at HHB, my first client to ever remind me of my wicked dad would come. He would have taken 15 rounds of play on me before the day would break. He’d then lie he never enjoyed the play, he would not pay me a dime, and I would hit him in the head like my evil dad did my good dad. And there again it would flow – a pool of hot blood. Not mucous blood – so watery and meshed with some white flesh-like fats… I would then feel I was becoming wicked like dad too – how I had killed another good dad. I’d hate myself and would first sentence myself in eternal jail before I’d be jailed here till no one knows when, and it would never pain like the itches of ever killing a dad, a son or daughter, and the nostalgia of ever finding a good new dad….
4 pm. August 29, 2005. Adieu.
Just in few time, a squad of gunmen would match on a queue, they would not miss their target at us – including few who still may have their innocence by their sides. They’d rid me of a life bereaved of innocence, I’d never forgive you for leaving me without telling me a tale of your childhood and when you first lost innocence. I’d never forget dad, never – for killing a good dad, and I’d never forgive myself for never hoping to find my innocence or a good child, or a good dad.
Good night mum, please tell dad if you found him, that I’d never find the joys of my innocence…