I have sung to the stars, the moon and the earth. Shed a tear for a wretched love lost in the fire of pride. Hidden in the shadows of if’s and maybe. Let the umbilical cord be ripped off my heart. In hopes that forever and a day will for the first time be real.
Nine months of broken glass promises wrapped in a smile. Fragile hearts lost in the search for “I love you”. Listening to the broken tune of backseat drivers “We told you he ain’t shit’” Yapping in the background ‘as if your words will erase. The nine months of the lullaby my own cries have now become.
Nappies and pre-school, dresses and prom, books and graduation. An unwanted nightmare, a princess dress and a slayed dragon. I have become a slave from a missed bloodshed to the first breath of labour. Because I have been biologically programmed to fertilize corpses and birth life. In all, praying my womb carries more than a bastard. Because nine months of “I wish he had stayed”.
But maybe, just maybe, like others who have breastfed a hungry homeless child. Hiding from the thunder in a makeshift shelter of torn boxes and cans. Loving the supposed successful child from the slums who never questioned naught. Raising more than destroyed temples their daughters might be. Just maybe, Nine months of phoenix rising from the ashes that is my womb.
I have waited for the applaud from the universe. For a life it will spit out as if it is not its own. That my creased dress vomiting flowers. Will be the resting place for my princess on a winter night. That maybe the unsung hero. Is the tainted reflection of my broken heart in the mirror? Maybe my womb was not meant to be an alternate grave after all. Because heaven clings to my side…never letting go.
Alone, I did it.
Written by Amogelang Lekwadu.
Photography by Kea Mooka.