In A World of Darkness, There has to be Light
My day ends as the sun goes down. I feel as if I can move no longer. My day, let alone life, has been a never ending cycle of work and supplying for my family. I am a single woman living in the poorer parts of Africa, with three children. My husband was killed last year, leaving not only I, but my family devastated. He held our family together, told us that each day was a new day, and to always have hope of freedom and love. Back then, my only jobs were to watch the children, cook dinner with whatever we earned for the day, and wash our clothes in the creeks. The typical woman's job for where I live. Now, with him being gone, on top of all of that, I am the one that works to feed our family.
I work in the fields doing whatever I am told to do by the wealthier class that live here. I work with others like me, the less fortunate. On days like today, one of the hottest days of the year, they let us sit in the shade sorting and cleaning fruit that I will never get to try. I am fortunate that I am a woman, I think, as I watch the men dig and plow in the blazing sun for hours. I don't get paid much, .50 cents when they're feeling generous. It mostly all goes toward our meals for the day, but on the occasions that I get a little extra, I go into the markets and buy fabrics, so I can put some clothes on our bodies.
Now, as I drag my worn out feet across the rocky, dusty roads, I think of my children. I sometimes cry myself to sleep at night when I think of them. I brought them to this place of cruelty and hate, and I fear that's all they'll ever see. There's a different world they have yet to see, one of love and hope, something I, myself, have yet to see. I know they deserve it, they have nothing but joy in their eyes, even when times are rough. They bring me joy.
I see them waiting for me, as I finish the few steps to where our home lies. It's more of a hut, made out of clay and twigs. I have lived here for as long as I can remember, or as long as they let me. I raised my younger sister here, when our parents passed away. I was only fourteen, and by then I knew everything there was to take care of another. They tug on my colorful, patterned dress that has a thin layer of dusting on it, from the long, work day I had just finished. My rough, working feet feel nice against my clay flooring. They're greeting me with their smiling faces, and I know right then why I go through each day.
"Mama!" They yell, hugging my knees.
"My sweet angels, are you hungry?" I know they are, because they haven't ate since the early morning hours. Hungry eyes never lie, I think, and I turn the burner on as high as it goes, lighting a twig to spark it more. The fire soars to life, as I let the water boil. They are telling me all about their days, running the fields with their friends, tossing rocks and singing songs. We have dinner by candle light, as I watch their faces grow tired, and feel my own do the same.
I put them to sleep, and lay my achy body down as well, knowing that tomorrow will be just like today.
