The girl in the slum

Dear Mama,

Every morning I wake up to your loud shrilly voice screaming my name. It never gets easier, even after sixteen years. But today, as I sit here with a swollen shoulder from your bamboo cane, I can't help but wonder if God hears our cries. I know we go to church every Sunday and Wednesday, and we give almost everything we have to the church on Thanksgiving. But sometimes I wonder if it's all worth it. Do you truly believe in what you do, or do you only do it because the pastor says you should?

I'm not a huge believer, but I try to be a good person. I don't lie, I don't steal, and I try to be respectful. But how long do I have to suffer in poverty before I die? Will our inheritance truly be in heaven, or will we continue to struggle in this life? I can't help but blame you for the life we live. You choose to open your legs for the man we call Papa, and now we have five kids and another on the way. I can't help but blame you for bringing me into this world.

Today, as you flogged me with the bamboo cane, I wished for death. Maybe then I could finally experience peace. But I'm not suicidal, I promise. I opened the Bible to 1 Peter, 5 verse 6, which says, "Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God, that he may exalt you in due time." But if God is so mighty, why can't he just take my life and end this misery?

I know you want me to preach the word of God, but how can I do that when I know nothing of this book? I don't know the words written in it, the characters, nothing. But maybe that's because I don't believe in it. I don't believe that God hears us, that he cares for us. And maybe that's because of the life we live.

I'm not trying to be stubborn, Mama. I'm not trying to disrespect you. I know you take care of us all and send only me to school from all my siblings. But sometimes I can't help but blame you for our struggles. I hope one day things will get better, but until then, I'll keep trying to be a good person.

Love,

Your Daughter

Your point of View; My point of View

Dear Reader,

I write to you in pain and agony,

For every morning starts the same, you see.

My mother screams my name, her voice shrill,

A sound that echoes in my ears still.

My sister comes in, with her voice squeaky,

Telling me to come for morning devotion, cheeky.

I wonder if God listens to our cries,

Or if He listens to just the rich guys.

I'm not a huge believer, it's true,

But I hope my good deeds will get me through.

My mother talks about our inheritance in heaven,

But I wonder how many years must I be beaten?

Our house is small, with an old TV,

And Papa is always out drinking, you see.

My mother works hard, bent from the farm and market,

And chooses only me for school, but I can't help but be the target.

I blame her for the life we live,

For bringing me into this world, I can't forgive.

She calls me stubborn girl and raises her hand,

And I wonder if dying is what I demand.

I read from the Bible, not knowing much,

And wonder why God can't end my life as such.

My chores await me, my pain still fresh,

But I promise you, I'm not suicidal, I confess.

Yours truly,

The girl in the slum.