Nervous hands clutching the hydrangeas you handpicked; wearing a dress of lace and organza, face made up for you. I’m the bride of your dreams, the constant talks of what you want me to look like when we take our solemn vows has etched itself on my mind. I smile wistfully to my reflection in the mirror, I should have told you sooner, but I wanted to kiss you with the surprise as you carried me across the threshing floor. My hand rests on my stomach, stroking the new life we created—the fruit of our love. You are going to be so pleased, I think.
I’m somewhat saddened by the memory of you rocking my body, crying as I bled out our baby. It could have happened to anyone, the doctors had said, but it was my fault entirely; my mind yelled. If only I had loved you more, if only I had cut my hair liked you asked, if only I had broke my back whilst bending over for you; our baby would have lived.
My mother and her people had not been invited, she didn’t support of our love and union, so, like everyone else from my past and childhood; I cut her off. She can snicker at my choices all she wants, but let her do it from her farmhouse. So, with smiles and the perfect gait I strut down the aisle . . . but there she stands, the woman you claimed not to love, the woman you claimed meant nothing to you. But there she is standing beside you with her stomach bulging. Our eyes meet; all you could mutter is, “I’m a prince and I need an heir”. “I am carrying your child!” I yell. It dawns on me; the sad realization that my mother was right. You never loved me. I wake up in the white padded room. My river of tears wasn’t able to wash blood mixed with water off my hands, I can still see the face of your pregnant bride as she ran into my knife….
Monaleesaah is a black skinny writer and singer, who can be a substitute therapist, and can be baited and thus kidnapped with pounded yam.
P.s she loves, white, black and grey