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Thursday, 14 January 2016


She lurks around the dark corridor, hidden safely from “madam” who watches TV. She peeps fearfully into the parlor. She hasn’t seen a television before. Suddenly, a hand forcefully drags her into darkness.  This hand searches her dress in a filthy exploration and pokes her mound. She cries out in pain but only in her heart. Who would believe her? Who would fight for her?

“Wash these plates, you wretch!” Madam thunders. “I don’t care about how you feel and why do you walk like that, little wretch?” before she can reply, five chubby fingers swiftly lands on her cheek and her eye water spills slowly. If only father is alive and mother is not poor.

She is a victim of not one abuse but multiple. “Who stole my necklace?” Another blow sends her sprawling on the floor. “Bastard! You now steal from me.” Her clothes are burned and she is sent back to the village, empty.
Defiled Iris; flower once beautiful. She died of syphilis.

Little Maid, Rest In Peace.

Most of us have you in our homes but we treat you like a modern day slave—a beast of burden. Little maid, when will your light come? 

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