The only thing I can write as an introduction to this poem is this quote:
“Young girls are like helpless children in the hands of amorous men, whatever is said to them is true and whatever manipulation on their bodies seems like love to them, sooner or later, they come back to their senses, but the scars are not dead inasmuch as her spoiler lives.”
― Michael Bassey Johnson, Trials Of A Damsel
© 2019 A. Happy Umwagarwa
All Rights Reserved.
A Poem Without A Name
You were my savior.
To your tall silhouette, I kowtowed.
Before your war uniform, I crawled.
I feared not.
I loathed not.
I simply submitted to your authority.
You were my liberator.
From the hands of the militias, you rescued me.
A war winner, I saluted your bravery.
A call girl, I was not.
A cocotte, I was not.
My mother had told me you were all saints.
You were my protector.
Looking at your armaments, I trembled not.
Your teeth-grinding face, I justified.
You, I trusted.
On you, I depended.
Without the guns, you wouldn’t have saved me.
You were my guardian.
A tall-giant man, I secretly admired.
A father figure or a brother I had lost.
I liked you.
In love, I was not.
I only felt safe having a combatant around.
You were my confuser.
Close to you, my teen body felt your warmth.
The girl suffered the hotness of adolescence.
I dared not.
Not even a thought.
My mother had said you were the most virtuous.
You were my commander.
When you sent for me, I sprinted to your room.
Your chest stared at me as you pushed me to bed.
I wept not.
I croaked not.
I simply wanted to wake up from that nightmare.
You were my assaulter.
When I cried for the membrane you had torn.
You asked to see the red on the sheets.
You wanted blood.
All I could see were the April bodies lying in blood.
You were my horror.
Food I refused to eat, songs I rejected to chant.
Family concluded I suffered the April trauma.
I said nothing.
I had no words.
Nobody could have believed the indescribable.
You were my provocateur.
I wanted you to be the first and the last.
You had done it and you had to commit to it.
No other man.
No other touches.
My mother used to say the first should be for life.
You were my master.
I was turned into a slave for your desires.
You ravished my body again and again.
You loved me not.
I loved you not.
I simply thought there was no better in this life.
You were my destroyer.
At the lab they gave me a paper with red remarks.
Forever, you turned my girlhood into a purgatory.
Heaven I forgot.
Hell I was there.
Finally, there was no more to life than death waiting.
You are my loser.
A bad memory that reminded me I was a survivor.
The experience that made me stronger than death.
I fear never again.
I tremble never again.
One day, I discovered love and love liberated me.
He is my hero.
The love who put a permanent smile on my face.
The man whose poem shall be written with rose feathers.
With him, I am loved.
In his chest, I’m safe.
Finally, I know there is at least one angel in the world.
He is my lover.
The man my soul and my body have ever truly cherished.
The prince who taught me the true meaning of love.
To him, I’m the prettiest.
With him, I am alive.
I have found a stellar gentleman from my grey skies.
Finally, I know my name.
My name is Umwagarwa.
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