The face (s) you see, do not always

portray what it actually is.

There are things you do not see;

You only see:

their lips stretching into smiles, softening hardened faces,
but never travelling to the heart,
on the black box that talks

You follow them on whatever social medium which aids in packaging false lives to appear real.

You admire their zeal as they walk briskly to answer the Muezzin’s call in the place of prayer.

You praise their good neighbourliness; “they seldom have issues with anyone and are gentle people.”

You see them going to and fro work in well tailored suits and ties,
you respect them, and model your life after their mirage of perfection.

You pass by them in the streets, your streets; responsible men and women.

You look at them with admiration, as they ‘preach’ and lift up holy hands laced with cobwebs from skeletal sins; unsuspected culprits on the pulpit.

You share beds with them; breadwinner, husband who loves his wife and lusts after his daughter (s).

Sometimes,
you don’t see them because, they wear masks with tags such as: ‘help’ ‘gateman’ ‘driver’ ‘aunty’ ‘uncle’ ‘teacher’ ‘daddy’ ‘sir’ ‘ma’ ‘grandpa’ ‘grandma’ which society accrues to them
Bless your sweet soul,
they could never conceive such perversion!
Ofcourse, ofcourse…

That’s why you don’t see them
climbing infants at night and daring the light of day
You don’t see them tweaking nipples on budding breasts,
You don’t hear them giving vicious threats which they wouldn’t hesitate to execute.
You don’t feel them basking in the throes of triumphant entry,
into a soil that is most times ill-prepared for planting.
You don’t see their fingers probing into delicate and sensitive parts.

You don’t see the lust in their eyes as they monitor your children like spies.

Even they themselves are hard of hearing,
to the cries and pleas of their victims
they don’t hear the curses in the silent salty tears,
tears which leave residues of streaks on their faces for years to come.
They don’t care about the souls and clothes they leave battered, shattered, scattered,
and tattered… like a kite in a raging storm.

Related  Instinctive Push For New Adventures

If only ablutions could wash off filth from the soul,
If only religion could reach into the recesses of a bitter heart and extract the bile.
If only erasers could prove effective in erasing the painful pages of people’s past.
If only you wouldn’t turn the other way when you do see these things.

Instagram: @Girlwith_soul

Susan Nwaobiala
Author: Susan Nwaobiala

Susan Nwaobiala is currently a year-three Literature major in the University of Ilorin, Kwara, Nigeria. She reviews books, writes contents for blogs, is interested in mental health, and likes to interact with people through her bedroom window.

Short Story and Quiz-Rescued by an Eagle
SHORT STORY: LUCIA