Modern life slavery-The empty promise

She opened the door to the restroom of the plush hotel.

She opened the faucet and threw some water on her face, dabbing at the bruises on her face very gently.

It was too much to take. The family was happily eating in the restaurant. She would get some scraps from the leftovers, much later, if the family thought it necessary. Her body ached from all the hard labour and the beating. It didn’t help anything that she had to carry the youngest wife’s third baby all day – the baby who used her as a punch-bag. The little boy would ball his fists and pound her head. This boy will be just like all the men in this part of the world, beating women all the time. She grimaced at the thought.

She was a maid servant, a nanny, an odd jobs help and a governess. Anything that the house needed doing, she would be made to do it. Every day, she would endure a round of beatings by her master. He was an Arab businessman. He had a fleet of cars and a host of assistants – the house would rouse in an atmosphere of chaotic cacophony when they knew he was at the end of the road. The approaching car meant one thing: one of the wives from the harem would get his undivided attention. The other women in the entire house – each of the remaining wives, and the maids, would suffer anything from beatings and lashings, to being forced to give him sexual favours. His whimsical ways would determine their fate. On some days she was shouted at. On some other days, she was raped. She was raped either by the businessman himself, or by one of his older sons. On every remaining day, she was beaten. She would cry all night from the pain. The next day, no one was to be seen complaining of any pain – if they did so much as whimper, there would be more to contend with – in worse ways at that.

She looked at her face in the mirror. The bruise under her eye was fast turning purple, from the shade of angry red. The businessman had thrown a plate under her eye – which knocked her flat in the face – simply because she had not done his bidding.

She would wish so many times that she could go back home. She needed an exit permit to leave – which he wouldn’t give so easily. She could not go back unless he sent her. She regretted having gone to that shoddy agent who duped her. The agent had come to her house one afternoon, telling her mother that he had very high aspirations for me. Which mother would want to pass up an opportunity like that? He told her that she would earn enough to send home a thumping salary – and he himself would see that she did that. At first, she was excited. She could go to a foreign country and earn for her family! Her family agreed. The agent then asked for her photographs, saying it was all for protocol. They didn’t sniff anything amiss when they agreed.

It was only when she came to the Gulf that she understood what had happened. He had placed her photograph in an album, to show a prospective master. The Arab businessman found her to be perfect for his family. He paid her 270$ a month. The visa process began. The businessman sponsored her visa, and she was taken to the Gulf. When she got there, she was made to work under his terms. She was not allowed a phone. She was not allowed to go out. She was given no holidays. She could not escape either: the businessman would easily revoke her visa, leaving her an illegal immigrant, vulnerable to imprisonment if she was caught. She could not work for another person – the revocation of a visa could come down heavily on her. It was modern day slavery. The only way she had was to end her life.  

She was too tired. It hurt her to continue like this. She lightly fingered the knife she had nicked a while ago, from the table. One slash, and it would be all. A quick flick of her wrist, blood flowed. She struggled in pain for a few moments. And it was finally over.

By Elsie Reed and Kirthi Jayakumar

Fighting Alcoholism: Interview with Sherri VandenAkker

Sherri VandenAkker, the maker of the film My Name was Bette: The Life and Death of an Alcoholic, is a powerhouse of strength and courage. Narrating a story that is close to her heart and a significant part of her life, Sherri’s film is an eye-opener on the sordid tale of alcoholism. She spoke with Delta Women recently. The interview follows. For more information about the film, please contact Sherri at thebettefilm@gmail.com.

What made you make the film "My name was Bette: The Life and Death of an Alcoholic"?

My mother died tragically of alcoholism in September, 2007, and I wanted to bring meaning to her death. She had been battling alcoholism for many decades, and in the six years before her death, she had gone into a deep depression and largely cut off contact with everyone. Privacy laws in the United States are very strong; when she refused to let anyone come into her home, and hadn’t answered telephone calls, there wasn’t much that anyone could do—she had the legal right to close her door to the world and drink herself literally to death. But when her mail piled up for more than a week and a terrible odor came from her home, the police broke in to check on her and discovered that she had died, many days earlier. Although my mother and I had a difficult relationship due to her drinking, we still loved each other deeply. I respected my mother a great deal also. She had raised me and my sister largely on her own. She had pursued a career as a nurse at a time when few married women, especially mothers, worked outside the home. She divorced when her marriage went bad, and lived on her own terms, even when others criticized her for doing so. And she was very beautiful. I wanted to bring some meaning to her tragic death, and try to prevent others from experiencing her pain and ours at losing her. In addition, when I researched women and alcoholism, to learn even more about the disease that killed her, I was astonished at what I learned. Alcoholism kills women far faster than men, largely due to biological differences between the genders. Women’s smaller overall mass, lower levels of water in the body, higher percentage of toxin-storing fat, and different hormones and enzymes make alcohol far more toxic. The death rate amongst women alcoholics is more than twice that amongst men. I thought these facts needed to be made widely known.

Could you tell us more about your personal experience with working on women's issues?

As I said, simply watching my mother make her own way in the world was an immensely educational and liberating experience for me. Then I attended Mount Holyoke College, the first college founded for women in the United States. At Mount Holyoke, I learned more about the struggles that women have faced, since the dawn of human history, to become educated, to earn and control their own money, to make the most fundamental decisions affecting their lives—like whom to marry, and even to gain legal protection against horrible abuse from husbands and family members. My own experience coupled with the knowledge I gained at Mount Holyoke made me committed to the liberation of women. I wish that there was no need to continue to work on women’s issues, but of course, as we all know, the need is great—not only in the developing world but also in the developed world. Even where women have earned fairly strong rights, they are always on the verge of losing them, as we saw in the recent election campaign in the United States.

You work as a teacher in a course called Exploring Women's Issues through Literature. How did you come by working on that?

I am a Professor at the Springfield College, School of Human Services, Boston campus. The School was founded in the 1970’s and now has 11 campuses across the United States. Its mission includes the promotion of “social and economic justice.” The course “Exploring Women’s Issues through Literature” was developed in response to the school’s social justice mission. I was thrilled to have the opportunity to teach it, because it allowed me to bring together two of my passions: literature and women’s empowerment. It is a thrill to watch students learn about the immense sacrifices their ancestors made to advance women’s rights, and to commit themselves to furthering the cause.

When is a woman empowered?

I wish that I knew the answer to this question!  But let me proffer some ideas.  Ironically, I think that when a woman is empowered, she doesn’t think all that much about being empowered—she lives life on her on terms, unfettered by her gender. She marries if she chooses, when she chooses, whom she chooses. She may leave her spouse if, when, and for whatever reason she chooses. (That’s not to say that empowered women treat others badly; however, they don’t let others treat them badly either.) She pursues whatever career she chooses—including homemaking—even those traditionally held by men. She has the freedom to choose her career, and her employment, on her own terms. She and her spouse have equal control over household finances, and both take responsibility for the welfare of the children. She has just as much right and access to education as a man. Empowerment is a right, but it is also a responsibility.  Being responsible for oneself, and sharing the responsibility for the family, can be difficult—but ultimately, I believe, it is far preferable to living in physical, psychological, and economic bondage. I also believe that true liberation of women will also create true liberation of men; although they enjoy many privileges of patriarchy, their traditional gender roles can also carry heavy burdens.

What holds women back?

I wish that I knew the answer to that question too! I have some suspicions, and some are controversial. Please know that I am speaking from my own experience, and not casting judgments on anyone. I believe that convention is the main limitation—women’s subjugation to men has been a fact for so many centuries that it can be hard to question it. Subjugation of women to men has also by preached by fundamentalists in every religion that I know of. And the economic system has also reinforced it. In the United States, for instance, professions traditionally dominate by women—such as childcare and teaching—require college degrees, yet they pay less than many professions traditionally dominated by men that do not require degrees, such as construction and manufacturing.

What is Unlikely Hero Productions all about? What is the documentary you are making with them, about?

“My Name Was Bette: The Life and Death of an Alcoholic” was co-produced by me and Josh WE Hays, the founder of Kairos Productions. However, we were fortunate to collaborate with Unlikely Hero Productions, a small but talented production company based in Los Angeles that is dedicated to telling stories of ordinary people who make a difference in the world. Unlikely Heroes is now working on a film about the Ugandan people’s recovery from civil war and remarkable efforts to rebuild their nation.

How do you keep yourself inspired in this goal? What have your challenges been, like?

In my goal to spread the word about women and alcoholism, my inspiration comes from the people who view the film and tell me that it has educated and motivated them. So many people have shared their stories of healing from their own or their loved one’s addiction with me. I am so moved by these stories, and have such deep respect for people who are able to confront their pain and recover from it.  I have also learned, from my experience with my mother, to have compassion for those who are not yet ready to enter recovery; they are wounded, and in such deep pain. My inspiration to work for the empowerment of women is similar. Every day I see women—and men--who are heroic. They work so very hard; they sacrifice so very much for their families and communities. It is a privilege to hear their stories.

What is your vision and mission in life?

Right now my mission in life is to promote understanding, compassion, and healing—not only for alcoholics, not only for women, but for everyone who is wounded and hurting.  

Women and Alcoholism is seldom spoken. Could you walk us through some of the curveballs this relationship throws to the life of a woman and her family?

Of course there are many similarities in alcoholism for men and for women. But there are many differences too.  As I say above, women alcoholics suffer much greater physical problems from drinking. But they suffer other consequences too. Women’s alcoholism is typically hidden longer than men’s, because women tend to “hide” it for longer. Men are more apt to drink in public, with friends; women are more apt to drink in secret, behind closed doors. In many culture, men are more likely to act “out” when drunk—become engaged in arguments, for instance. Women are more likely to turn inward and become depressed and isolate themselves from others. Therefore, people typically don’t recognize a woman’s alcohol problem as quickly as they recognize a man’s, so interventions that can lead to treatment are often delayed for women. In addition, at least since Victorian times, in many societies, men’s drinking--even problem drinking--has been far more “acceptable” than women’s. Women alcoholics face higher levels of stigma and shame than men, and that can make it particularly difficult for a woman to admit that she has a problem and to seek help for it. Once a woman’s addiction comes to light, she still faces great barriers to treatment. Who will take care of her children while she is in treatment, especially if she is a single parent? Will the state feel that she is “unfit” to raise children and take them away from her? Does she have medical insurance that will pay for treatment? Will her employer give her time off from work to seek treatment? And what will people think? I found it interesting, also, to discover that women are extremely influenced by the drinking of their husbands, but men are not much influenced by the drinking of their wives. That is, women with alcoholic husbands are far more likely to develop an alcohol problem themselves than men with alcoholic wives. And while approximately 9 in 10 women stay with alcoholic men, approximately 9 in 10 men leave alcoholic women.

Your message to DW's readers.

First, thank you so very much for your time and attention in reading this interview. My message is really a wish: may your day be full of joy, peace, and health of every kind, and may you promote the same for others. 

As told to Elsie Reed and Kirthi Gita Jayakumar

My Fire Within

A true story. The identity of the narrator has been protected.

I am going to tell you a story.

My story.

One that I have not divulged a single other soul, so far.

The worst trauma one can suffer, people say, are cancer and fire-burns. And that’s true. Because besides the horror of being burned alive, you live your life all along, carrying the pain, the wounds, and the scars – the scars, they are a constant reminder.

And mine, these scars? They are my constant reminder.

Let me tell you my story.

I was ten years old. What would a little ten year old have to do with the kitchen, right? But that fateful day, when my mother was asleep, my sister was hungry. I decided to fry plantains for her to eat, because I couldn’t stand the thought of a hungry little girl. And so I went, frying plantains for my little sister – but no sooner had they gotten ready, than my other sister came in and gobbled it all up. My little sister was still hungry, and I hadn’t any plantains.

My heart still felt heavy, I couldn’t stand the thought that she was hungry. So I decided to boil yams for her. I reached out for what I thought was the smallest pot – but fate decided otherwise, and it wasn’t the smallest. It was too huge for the little pieces of yam, and I needed to change the pot immediately, because if mother found out, she would be angry.

There wasn’t a napkin in sight. But I had to do this right, so I used my dress to hold onto the pot.

That was when it happened.

My dress caught fire. I was scared. My heart raced, my mind was numb. I didn’t know what to do. Fear coursed my veins as the flames licked my body roughly. I ran around the house with my sisters running after me. My little cousin ran about, asking me to roll myself on the floor. But I was scared. I was sure I would burn to death. The fire was all over me.

Was I asleep? Was I dead? Was I conscious? What was happening? My body hurt, burned, and felt so tortured. The heat was blazing. My life was going away before my eyes. But suddenly, splashes of water came onto my body.

Mother woke up, finally. The noise shook her awake.

She began ripping my clothes off me. My sisters threw water all over me. I don’t remember anything after that. The flames died down. I remember, I saw my charred body. Fear gripped my heart like an iron-fist. Tears clouded my vision.

My stomach had a third degree gas burn. I was in the hospital, I remember. I don’t know if I thought of anything then – but the pain, it is etched deeply in my memory. So deeply, that I feel it even now as I tell you the story. My palms were burned. My stomach had a terrible burn. The pain, the thought of living life with scars always, the fear – it all made me cry. But as I cried, the wounds on my stomach would bleed. I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t laugh.

Life was bleak.

And then there came another slap. The doctor told my parents that my body was allergic to the cream they were using on me. My parents had to buy something else, they said. Guess what? The nurses stole these drugs from my parents. And they kept using the one that I was allergic to. My body began to swell. The wounds got bad instead of healing.

My mother noticed my wounds and took me out of the hospital. The doctors fought, but mother took me home and cared for me.

I grew up with two huge scars. But I was good at hiding them. I wouldn’t bathe before the other girls at school, and got into trouble because of that. But no one asked if I was alright, or why I did what I did. No one wanted to bother enough to ask if I was alright after the incident, which they had all heard about.

Today, years have passed. But I still carry the wounds, the scars and the fear. I still do not talk about it. I do not undress in front of people. It has been my little secret that only five people know. I know, it is not my fault that I got burned. But somehow I am ashamed of the scars and I do not feel complete. I wish there were help for this in Nigeria. I wish there are counsellors even in primary schools in Nigeria for kids - so that children are talked to when they are behaving unusually. I tell my story today because I want to be free. I am hoping it would bless someone out there and that the person would know she or he is not alone.

By Elsie and Kirthi

Women To Tackle National Issues-NGO

A non governmental orgnization, Deltawomen, has said it is committed to realizing the dreams of women as pivotal change makers who against all odds strive to make their impact felt.

Mr.  Agboje Shedrack, who spoke on behalf of the CEO, Mrs Elsie Reed said the organization was spurred by the need to raise transformational leaders who will change the nation. He said though everyone was lamenting about the deplorable situation in the country, “it would remain same if women do not pick up the auntlet.”

“Women are natural born leaders and so should be given the opportunity to carve a niche for themselves in the society.

“Female folks are uniquely positioned as life springs and conscience of
the nation and as such is imperative that they realize their purpose,” He said .
He also said women, to a large extent, affect the destiny of a nation because they influence direction of values of youth.

He noted that by the  time leadership schools are trying to teach people the principles of leadership, it is usually too late but when a mother handles a child and talks to them about what is right or wrong it stays with them.
He, however, said Deltawomen was dedicated to empower them to be positioned as catalyst in promoting social justice, social welfare and equity in different works of life as well as people of
character and purpose who are change agent.

Source: Pointer Newspaper. Vol 12, No 3403 ISSN 14444-5975 Thursday, November 8, 2021

When Irony Slapped her....

Ndidi had absolutely no intention of trying this whole “sugar daddy” thing when Ngozi came up to her with a persuasive tone. “Oh come on, now, Ndidi, it’s fun! All he wants is for you to hang out with him, and he will give you plenty, plenty of things!”  Ndidi was unsure. Her own father was strict, and terribly harsh with her. But when Ngozi would tell her how wonderful her sugar daddy was – how he took care of her – showered her with gifts, bought her so much... some of which Ngozi shared with her, even... it was too much to take. And now, Ngozi wanted to introduce her to her sugar daddy’s friends!

“Come on Ndidi. For my sake!” pleaded Ngozi.

“Nope.”

“Okay. At least to see the guest house he meets me in, please?”

Ndidi gave in. That evening, she went with Ngozi to the guest house, thinking it would just be a visit to see the place. But Ndidi was wrong. Ngozi made Ndidi feel comfortable, settling around the space, when there came a knock on the door. The sugar daddy and his friend were home.

Ndidi got the shock of her life.

The “friend” was her own father!

Ndidi was furious. But she decided to play the game. She introduced herself to her father, saying, “I’m Ndidi. Pleased to meet you!”

Her father stuttered in response.

Ndidi asked him, “I want a big bottle of Guinness Stout!”

Her father asked her, “Aren’t you too young to drink?”

Ndidi stared back, her eyes blazing. “I didn’t even want to meet this friend, and Ngozi brings me here to see the guest house. But what do I see? YOU!” she spat. She turned to Ngozi. “Give me the Guinness Stout I wanted. Ask your Sugar daddy for it!”

Her father was shocked, ashamed and dreadfully numbed to say anything. Ndidi drank herself silly, and lit up a cigarette before him. She was too angry, and ran out on them. She went around for hours, wondering what she should do. She returned home past her curfew, but never told her mother, lest it hurt her. But that day, she lost all respect for her father. She blackmailed him for years until she left home, threatening to tell her mother the truth if he tried to be unreasonably strict with her.

A true story, as told to Elsie Ijorogu-Reed and Kirthi Jayakumar

Bayo's Story

He arrived in the United Kingdom in the summer of 2003. Funnily enough, it was the hottest summer recorded in a long time.

He had with him, just 200 pounds and a dream.

All set to stay at his Aunt’s place, he smelt trouble the moment he set foot inside the house. He wasn’t welcome – as simple as that. Time showed him the door, comfort and welcoming attitudes were conspicuous by their absence. He slept on the floor. He wasn’t allowed into certain rooms. He was not given the chance to enjoy the care of a family – it wasn’t even given to him.

200 pounds took him only so far. But in two days, he landed a job in Mc Donalds. Weeks passed by with him flipping burgers. One day, luck dawned on him. He took a chance and skipped work, running to a job fair where he got a job with O2 telecoms as a retail assistant. They paid little, but more than the folks at Mc Donalds for his nifty ways of flipping burgers. But the store manager hated his guts.

He retailed and retailed, and retailed, and retailed some more. Education knocked on his doors, this time, asking for some space in his life. He enrolled in University for a multimedia course. And the store manager hated him even more.

At home, he was under the iron-fist of hatred and control. An 8:00 pm curfew was imposed. But because he was so far back in his studies, he had to stay in the library till late. When he came home, he would be locked out. Once, twice, several times. And then he got smart. He eventually devised a system where he would study until late and go to night clubs till the early hours of the morning. And from there, he would head to school or work. Sometimes, he spent the night in a telephone booth.

Luck still decided to send clouds his way. Upon graduation he didn’t get any work and was disillusioned. He quit the job at O2, and devoted his time to getting a job. To the wealthy relatives he had, he was a joke. Broke, hungry and on the verge of being kicked out, he surrendered to God and asked him to help out.

He moved out, slept in a friend’s house, on his sitting room floor. He took up a job at a call centre. He would cold call people to buy things they didn’t need. He had a degree in Architecture, but no one hired him. He tried, he tried, he tried and he tried some more.

One morning he got a call to attend an interview outside London, with a huge property developers design unit. By now he had attended so many interviews and gotten the 'we'll be in touch' response that he really didn’t want to go this time. But he did.

He picked up his heavy portfolio, and ran to catch his train. But the train was delayed. He went in late for his interview, but life was waiting for him, to happen. At the interview they talked design, multimedia and music! And the job, the job was his. In the middle, somewhere, he also moonlighted as a musician, recording a UK Top 3 track.

He climbed steps then, one, two, three, one by one by one by one. And slowly made his way to the top – the much coveted top rung. From Minimum wage and Sleeping on floors, he got his Masters and Salary hikes. A long arduous ride, he even got to go back to the McDonalds where he once worked to grab a bite and several workers were still there.

He looks back now. He respects them for making an honest living. But the darkest hours were there. It felt a million miles away now

As told to Elsie Ijorogu-Reed and Kirthi Jayakumar

Sexual Harassment: Ese's Story

This is a True Story based on the life of a dear well-wisher of DeltaWomen. She hopes this story would reach out to myriads of girls world over. Don't trust so easily, beautiful soul, Don't trust so easily - she wants YOU to know that. 

She tumbled out of the car, dishevelled. She felt dirty, her every sinew feeling like there were a thousand icy knives plunged into them. 

Cold. Shocked. White. Numb.

And then it dawned on her, a torpedo of emotions, a whirlwind of fear and anger, of disgust and hatred. Heat. Hurt. Pain. Anger.

She made her way home, mechanically following her feet, which knew where she was to go. She plodded, thudding, her mind thinking mechanically. 

Shame. Disgust. Unclean. Dirty.

Ese went out one day, she wanted to visit a friend. An ordinary day, an ordinary outing. But that was hardly what it was. She stood outside waiting for a taxi, when out of nowhere, a car pulled up with her Uncle at the driver’s seat. 

Ordinary. Normal. Simple. Life.

Where are you off to, Ese?

I’m going out, to see my friend, Uncle Victor.

Oh which way?

By the school. A little after, actually.

Oh I’m headed that way! Hop on, let me drop you on the way!

Trust. Innocence. Naivete. Faith.

Ese wasted no moment. She didn’t have to walk, it was a quick ride. Her uncle was the chatty kind, he always made her laugh. Light hearted banter ensued – about school, life, friends, the weather, stupid jokes and whatnot. She never remembered a time when she didn’t enjoy his company. Until then.

It didn’t occur to Ese that the car sped further in a direction different from the one she asked him. She was smart, so she pointed it out. But he was smarter, and he told her he just promised to pick something up from a friend, so he had to make the detour.

Trust. Innocence. Naivete. Faith.

But all of a sudden, he stopped the car.

Come, Ese, it’s not safe for you to sit in the car alone, it is a new neighbourhood.

Sure, Uncle!

Ese followed him into his friend’s house. A shady man of sorts, he immediately dodged them, offering to get drinks.  His house was dark, small and smelly. Something didn’t feel right.

Strange. Fear. Foreboding. Trepidation.  

As his friend walked out, her uncle fastened the door shut and locked it. Ese felt dread flood her. Alarm bells rang inside her head, her heart stopped beating. Something was not right, something was so, so wrong. There was nothing right about the situation.

Alert. Wrong. Fear. Alarms. 

Un..Uncle why are you locking the door?

Ah Ese, Ese, Ese. Come now. We both know you want me, that you like me – I have seen how you see me with romantic eyes. Come.

N...No! Never! My eyes are just how they are – and you! You are my uncle! I never thought a thing like that!

Ah Ese, don’t be ashamed to tell me. It is okay, it is really okay my love.

No! You are my uncle. Our culture forbids such a thing! Get away from me!

Anger. Hurt. Fear. Shock. 

Ese stepped back as he made his way towards her. She dropped to her knees and begged him to spare her, to leave her.

Uncle please, no! If you do anything to me, bad things would happen to me. I have to confess that you would have damaged me – please, please uncle stop!

He laughed.

You stupid girl. It is a silly superstition. No one will know if you shut up.

I am a born-again Christian! Don’t you dare say such things to me!

You fool. Stop behaving like a child. I know you are not a virgin – look at the way you walk!

Shock. Numb. Fear. Struggle. 

She struggled as he pushed her to the ground and ripped her clothes off. She cried and begged and pleaded. She knew she could never stop him, he was a big man, and she was small and skinny. God was the only one on her mind. She broke out in spiritual language just in the nick of time. Her uncle stumbled in shock. She was crying and speaking in spiritual language, babbling without a thought.

Faith. God. Prayer. Rescue. 

Get yourself together and get into the car. I’ll drop you home.

No. I’m going myself.

Ese walked out with the courage she had left in her. She cried all the way home, where h

er mother opened the door. Ese didn’t hold back, and told her everything that happened. Every single thing.

That’s it? Nothing happened so it’s ok. Just go clean your eyes and shut up.

Shock. Disappointment. Anger. Hurt. 

Ese was scared. Nothing was okay. Nothing was right. How could an uncle do such a thing and get away with it? How could her mother be so careless and cavalier? How could her mother be so unfair and not care to listen to her? How dare her uncle treat her like that? How could he? 

Shame. Hatred. Anger. Grief.

She was sickened to the bone and disillusioned with life. She had to do something. 

Resolve. Grit. Determination. Guts.

She went to her uncle’s house and told his mother everything. But the man changed the story, and denied everything, and painted her as the bad one. She wanted me! I refused her, and now look at what she is doing? 

Lies. Tales. Aspersions. Tales.

The story was buried. Her pain was buried. She could never speak of it again. She could never tell a soul. She wonders if she should have kept quiet altogether. 

Regret. Fear. Trepidation. Wounds. 

Her only solace was how other girls kept away after they heard. 

Solace. 

Written by Elsie Reed and Kirthi Gita Jyakumar

A lonely walk

This is a true life story of a lovely, spirited and strong lady who wishes to remain anonymous. She is a living example of having crossed obstacles and having made it big through all the pain. She wants her story to come across as a source of inspiration for all the ladies out there. She wants YOU to know that there is light at the end of the tunnel.

It was the first time she had sat on an aeroplane, and where else was she going, but the Big Apple? Work, the dream of being able to work in the country that was the melting pot of races, the fount of opportunities and the land of possibilities that one could otherwise only dream of coveting? She got off the flight, a little light-headed from all the jet lag, but hardly beaten – the dreams waiting to be fulfilled were far more encouraging than anything else!

Her uncle greeted her at the airport. Welcome! He said. But that sentiment only lasted on his lips for a moment, and hadn’t a true spot in his heart. She landed a job at a local supermarket. Soon, four actions coloured her working hours. Pick, swipe, bill, tender change.Pick, swipe, bill, tender change. Her home was nice, living with a relative was safe. It felt safe, at least. But that wall around her came crumbling down when in two weeks, he sent her packing. I can’t provide for you anymore. Now get out!

She found herself stranded in the streets. Where would she go? What would become of the dreams she had? Where would she find work? Could she feed herself? How would she survive? Her mind was a cornucopia of thoughts, running overtime in a whirlwind of riotous colour of the possibilities that could have been, and the harsh reality that was. She kept quiet for a week, sleeping on the street, behind the supermarket, anywhere that offered her shelter, a chance to be invisible while she was in Morpheus’ Arms. But one day, a co-worker followed her out, after smelling a rat, and offered her the olive branch of friendship. Come. Stay with me, won’t you?  She looked at her co-worker, pride itched the insides of her throat.  I will, but I will eat my meals outside, please. Her friend agreed – understanding that she clutched at the only little thing she had in hand - Pride. She spent the next few weeks eating just one hotdog a day, hoping hard to save the little money in hand. But things didn’t stay stable. Her friend was soon afraid and insecure, for the pretty girl in her house might be someone her husband would be interested in. She was kicked out unceremoniously, the worm of insecurity being the fulcrum for the change.

Some nights, she slept. Some nights, she didn’t. Each night, she cried. The super-market sent her out of work. You dress like a beggar, you look so shabby! What would our customers think? You are unclean, unbathed, and you don’t change your clothes! She walked, miles and miles each day, searching for accommodation, a place that would have her, a place where she could be a human. She chanced upon a good Samaritan, a kindred soul that never defiled her, while he let her sleep on the floor each night. I will get you a job. How do you feel about Pizza?

She was now a worker in Pizza Hut. She made a little more than in her previous job. A hot, steaming mug of coffee came her way sometimes. Water was plentiful. A quick bite of a wasted pizza slice on a plate she cleaned out. Some tips. Some strange customers who made a pass at her once, twice, so many times. Some more tips. A nibble at a pizza slice that a customer bit into in part.A tomato slice.A pack of seasoning. Hunger, though. Always. And then it came, that light at the end of the tunnel. She had money, enough to rent out a room in a house, enough to enrol in classes to be a nursing assistant, enough to enrol in computer classes. A doctor found her attractive, and diligently asked her out, hoping she would say yes.

Then came the tough part.Three things, one day.One person. No food. Plenty of back-biting.Ah that girl! How ambitious she is – she will fail, really. Said one.Huh? What is she thinking? This is a white, white world. What place has she here? Said another.The stupid girl. Can’t she just go get married, she’ll have money at least! Said a third. She walked on unfazed. There was no money in hand. She had no food. Hunger gnawed at her insides. Threatened to kill her. She fought, fought bravely, shedding tears but never giving up. She fought with herself. Shouted at herself for being discontented with life and being a dreamer instead.  She fed on her Emotions. She thrived in the hope of a brighter future. She would eat discards – rice, if she was lucky, butter. The doctor was livid, that she didn’t say yes to him. The only reason you sufferis because you are stubborn.If you were nice to me,I would be nice to you! Disturbing person that you are – you and your big dreams. How crazy can you be?  Work at the restaurant stopped. She was a nurse assistant now. But money was frugal, next to non-existent.

She locked herself in her room. Tears flowing, body racking with sobs. She had no one. She was alone. She was The Crazy Girl. The Fool.The Failure.The Cursed idiot who was restless. Poverty never left her side, slowly impinging on her every sphere of existence.  I want better in life! She would cry to herself. WHAT DO I WANT! She would ask in pain.  There was nothing she could do about her dismal life, except hope. Salt replaced toothpaste, as brown replaced white in the colour of her teeth. A little dab of vegetable oil was her lotion. Hunger, he danced in her face, all the time. Come, come, come!Let me swallow you whole! Come, come, Come! Let me make you crawl.

She was so hungry, so hungry, that the world swam in front of her eyes. Water filled her stomach sometimes, but only for a while. Her stomach begged her to feed it, pleaded with her to consider putting a morsel from somewhere. Please give me a dollar, Please, she asked one of her co-workers.  I wish to buy myself some fries, please. He looked back at her. How dare you! Did you sleep with me when I asked you to? What money do you claim to deserve? He spat at her.

The tears came back, stinging. She ran back to her staff-room. Will it ever, ever be okay, Lord? Am I ill? Am I not your child? Why do you test me so?

Her unwavering faith brought her hope. A strange woman came to her. The Lord told me to feed you today. Come.Her unwavering faith had been rewarded. She was not sick. God was watching out for her.She would make it in life. She promised God that day. If you bless me,I would be a blessing to other people.

Life turned around, as if on cue. She found herself locked out one day, the rain pouring down abhorrently. She knocked on her neighbour’s door. Might I wait here, please? My roommate is due back in an hour. She asked. Sure! He said.

He got talking. He called his wife, too, to speak with her.

What do you do for a living?

I am studying, I am also a nurse.

Studying? What are you studying?

IT.

Hmm. Do you have the books you need? Would you like to do a practice test?

I have nothing, Sir. I don’t have money enough for a book. I have a rented computer and borrow books.

The man abruptly got up and went into a room behind them.

In a few minutes, he was out with a huge box. It was filled with CDs, books, practice exams – everything!

She had tears in her eyes as he gave it to her. She fell to her knees, crying out of gratitude and surprise. All she needed to do was knock at her neighbour’sdoor! If only she knew that what she desired was just next door.Until that day she had never spoken to them because she was trained not to get too friendly with neighbours.

Her first test came and went. A hundred percent, her score read.

Her second, third, fourth, fifth – every test that came her way was aced.

The neighbour, that kindred soul, helped her piece her resume. She was online one week, and then in a recruiter’s file the next. And before she knew it – she was already in a job. In the five years of recruitment, no one had the story She had. She was offered the job without an interview,She was an IT help desk technician.

She went to bed one day without money. Today, she made $15 an hour.

The sun had just risen on her empire.

 By Kirthi Gita Jayakumar and Elsie Reed