The night before she killed herself,she wrote a note. She must have been in terrible pain when writing the note. It wasn’t well written for an easy read . It must have been the kind of pain one is unable to explain and all she wanted was to leave a message,to let the world know that she wasn’t strangled or forced to drink some poison. It was her heart wanting rest from pain and her body dying for a rebirth.
Her scribbling was a reflection of a hand that has known nothing less than pain.
She had chosen the most painless way to rest her troubled heart but that wasn’t pain,pain was the life she had lived.
A mixture of corrosive lab chemicals was her way of decaying her flesh before any other interested living thing could devour her malnourished volume of a human. She never fought or struggled,the poison did it’s work as intended. She wore a black gown,a symbol of a life she had lived. She had made her bed,written the note before drinking the liquid and laid quietly waiting for an angel to guide her through her second journey either to hell or heaven if she was that lucky.
Peacefully she lay,blood running from her mouth and nose coloring her white sheets, coloring her dark life.
The note was addressed to her parents,the ones she referred to as her murders. No,they weren’t literally murders. Who on God’s earth will murder their own flesh and blood? the only key to their generation,a holder of a community or maybe a country. She said they killed her the day they chose her name on the name lists.
She wasn’t aware of the names they had in mind and she wouldn’t have agreed on the name they had chosen for her had she been given the chance. They weren’t out of names and the reasons as to why they settled for Gomorrah for a name was a mystery she died without solving.
How could they send her in a den of lions oiled in sheep’s oil? wasn’t that suicide? what mission had they sent her to?
She isn’t much of a writer but she must have mastered the art of telling a story since every of her words brought out the picture of her miserable Short life.
Well,I’m at the burial because her kind of death needed reporting and I’m bestowed with the art of writing and quenching the thirst of my fellow thirsty for a good read humans is what I’m paid for.
I’m standing next to her casket but I can’t have a view of who she really was. Maybe seeing her face would have given me the answers I wanted to ask but her entire body is sealed covering any single hole that might show her skin. ‘They’ say it’s a protective measure for the health of the live like me.
So her parents named her Gomorrah at birth and expected her to be Ruth or Esther.
Did your grandparents ever tell you about spirits? I’ve heard horrible stories of spirits of dead people manifesting in another living person named after them. I am a christian but I believe it when my grandmother says the spirit of her husband (my grandfather) watches her every night. He was a good man and what man wouldn’t love to watch over their wives when they’re gone?
Gomorrah grows up with this Gomorrah spirit in her. I’m not sure if in her note she’s referring to the one Gomorrah city I know from the bible. Damn! who who would even think of naming their child after that God forsaken city? But her family history says her great grandmother was called Gomorrah and hers was quit a story I would have loved to write had I been born early enough to witness her sinful life. She’s said to have been killed in the streets where she held a blossoming night business of selling out her sacred body for anything she dreamed of in life.
So when she (Gomorrah) changes course from her parents and everyone’s expectation she’s called an outcast, the lost child.
When she freely gave out her church baked body for a satisfaction she couldn’t explain,she’s called a whore, a slut like her granny.
The world so good at judging never understood that it was never her choice or what she really wanted to do and heavens could testify how hard she fought the power that surged through her and pushed her against her will getting her beyond her self control and doing what she dreaded most.
It killed her everyday. When she could no longer control the power that surged through her and the fire that burnt in her at the site of a male human. She gave in..bowed to the ‘cock’ and worshipped every thrust that gave her body life and made her sane.
She wanted to run away from it all, like any other church baked woman, she wanted to give in to purity and save herself for the man she prayed for but hers was an addiction no rehabilitation could heal.
I’m an addict. Not a cocaine or heroine addict, I’m a coffee addict (its not a drug right?) and I can tell you how bad it is when an addict misses what they’re addicted to.
To Gomorrah,having less than five men in a day was like missing a puff of cocaine or a sniff of weed early in the morning before tea when you’re an addict,it’s never easy and you might lose your breath but it’s never an easy way to rest your heart, not for a miserable heart like Gomorrah’s.
No one seemed to understand. Not even when she tried to explain how she had to wake up at night to feelings and emotions she couldn’t fight and all she wanted was repeated thrusts of a hungry Henry or Tom. Of how she locked herself in her room all day to suppress feelings she didn’t want rising to the top or how her body trembled in a way she couldn’t understand or control when her cousin Jeff walked into the room.
She was tired of her step brother who had taken advantage of her situation and raided her room every night yet no one could speak about it because it was not right,it never was.
Her peers thought she enjoyed every bit of it and some even wanted to know how she did it. Girls wanted the secret, boys thought she was a pro in the game and wanted to at least have a match and have their lessons. She couldn’t say no. How could she when her entire body broke into flames at any thing hard pressed against her bosom? So she readily walked around with the ‘whore’ tag from her friends and peers. If you’re a woman you know that such title is like someone tying a heavy rock round your neck and asking you to walk
Her complaining of how she didn’t like what she was doing was taken as a cover up for her sweet sins. “Everyone has a choice, you can chose to stop if you want to” they would say not knowing ,that she was a captive in choice making and she wasn’t entitled to her own self,she couldn’t stop.
Her own mother,the person she most wanted to understand thought she was doing it at will and rebuked her for every sin she committed. Her father blamed the devil,he said that Gomorrah was never serious with the church and God and now the devil was using her.
Maybe her father was the only person right,the devil in some spirit of a name really had a mission with her life,a mission only the devil knew and she didn’t want to ask what.
Maybe she could have had Esther’s spirit,Wakanyenje or Raduma’s spirit since they were people of her clan she considered to have the best spirits she couldn’t refuse a place in her. But Gomorrah? Why Gomorrah?
She had so many questions she wanted answered and when she could take it no more she chose death,her only escape.
It wasn’t her fault,she had fought so well but nothing had come out of her good fight. she was worn out and tired and her left strength could no longer carry a maximum of five men per day.
She could no longer stand her own self or look at herself in the mirror without seeing the sins of her body. She knew nothing was going to stop her from doing the things she most hated as long as she was still Gomorrah which had now become her life prison.
The pain was unbearable and all she wanted was end the pain. So she did what she had to do to save herself from her sorrowful life and here the world was blaming her for taking her own life,cursing her and branding her a bad omen.
Bad omen? Did they even understand? how could they when they were Esther,Samson,Ruth,Abraham or Nehemiah? She was named Gomorrah, was she to blame? did they understand the kind of power put in her or the kind of burden they had placed on her shoulder?
I place the black rose on her graveyard,I know there is much to her death and as much as Gomorrah has find peace in her death,what is left behind of her is never to be forgotten nor is there going to be the kind of peace especially to those she addressed her note to.
I look at the piece of eulogy in my hand,they would have had a smiling picture for her eulogy but it seems she never got the chance to smile in her lifetime for them to have a smelling picture of her, maybe in her afterlife where she sought peace.
The paper with a gloomy face of Gomorrah on the front termed the cause of her death as food poisoning. She left the note,it wasn’t food poisoning and they all know that. Wasn’t this written by her parents? the same people who named her Gomorrah?
I’ve already got my part of the story and a few pictures that will make headlines so I walk away head down. Deep down I’m thinking..maybe,maybe it was never up to Gomorrah.
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