I forgot the pain that awaited me after the anaesthesia. I only looked forward to pampering my bundle of joy and raising a beautiful woman in all aspects of the word. Shortly after, reality hit in that this would not be a straight journey as envisaged.
As my baby girl started to smile, crawl and attain every little milestone, I felt I was on sky nine. Having had two boys before, I literally felt like I was a new mother. True, it was my first time to mother a baby girl. The media reports about defilement, early pregnancies and domestic violence add to my fear for the future.
I imagine this kind of feeling can only be understood by a woman raising a fellow woman. The vulnerabilities surrounding the girl child are not a mere myth. The other day while taking a stroll in the evening, my eyes trespassed to an incident that left me shaken to the bone.
Don’t think I witnessed a murder scene or met face-to-face with the king of the jungle. Under a jackfruit tree lay a little girl of about eight years, and incessantly tickling her was a young adult man. The girl giggled, raised her legs and turned side to side in excitement.
For a moment I stood agape, shocked that what I had been reading about in the papers was now right in my eyes. So many thoughts run through my mind. I wanted to scream. I felt like beating up the shameless young man, and also wished I could spank this little innocent but foolish girl.
Which eight-year-old did not know the sanctity of her body? Didn’t her mother tell her how vulnerable she was to engage in silly games with wolves? I longed for the olden days where discipline was a communal affair. The young man would have tasted the wrath of being disciplined by a woman who is not his mother.
I remembered we live in a generation where human rights take precedence, and poking one’s nose in other people’s businesses is old-school.
My body language though clearly, and spoke the words I did not utter out. How do you utter out any word to a young man whom you are not sure of what is in charge of his life? Quite a number of them we have learnt are usually under influence.
I did not want to have his wrath and shame unleashed on me – all in one package. But what if I made an alarm attracting the locals? Would I tell them I saw a young man compromisingly tickling a little girl? “Just tickling?”
I imagined many would ask. That is how I abandoned the screaming idea. My mind raced to my baby girl at home. Would she understand the hostility of the world she was being raised into?
Would she, like this girl, carelessly enjoy any form of touch by someone a generation older than her? I wanted to rush home, hug her tightly and beg her never to take light my instruction as she grows up.
Yes, I already have a manual of what I want her to grow up like, just waiting for her to come of age and understand the complexity of life.
Downcast, I walked back home. Each time I thought about that incident, I feared the world awaiting my girl. How did I even survive as a girl growing up in such a world?