Salvation from damnation. That’s all I need at the moment. Something to ensure that my sanity is at an equilibrium. The presence of a church inside my soul or somewhere around the vicinity. Maybe the voices of saints singing will at least awaken the angels in my soul. Maybe the priest’s voice declaring a savior may light up the cold, dusty, venust candles that once burned so brightly.
Meet me, a 19-year-old female. My identity is well known as The Daughter of the Village Chief. My all time slogan is a quote by Mercy Masika: “Kuvaa kwangu na kunena kwangu kukupendeze wewe.”
That is all about me that is not a mess. The constant, K, in my life. That is the farthest my desperation has pushed me. Every fibre and muscle in my system stretches out in need of salvation. Not only the religious salvation but a salvation from my own demons.
Check the bags that ladies carry around. Lip gloss here, mirror there, a tiny bottle of perfume in the inner pocket, mascara, wipes … name them. But you can’t dare dip your hands into my bag lest your fingers will be pricked. My bag is always full of needles and syringes and tiny numerous brittle glass bottles of morphine. Wonder how I got the courage to openly say that I walk around with syringes yet I’m not a medical student? The torture that my inner demons have caused me is a game I’ve longed to be over.
It always felt good as the needles penetrate through the thin lining of my skin, and the flow of morphine in my bloodstream is mind blowing. The sudden silence and tranquility always seems like a fantasy but once the whole dosage is in, I become the princess ready to marry my prince charming.