Part 3
I say to myself, I will not mention His name, I will speak in His name no more. But then, it becomes like a fire burning in my heart, imprisoned in my bones. I grow weary holding it in, I cannot endure it.
Jeremiah 20:9
Why are You still here?
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Go away!
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Where were You when it happened? Did You watch? Did You cringe? Did You cry? Did You know all day? As I washed my face and brushed my teeth, chose my underwear and pulled on my scrub pants, did You know already that they’d later be ripped, that my tongue would be torn and my front teeth cracked?
Did You pity me, God?
How long have You known for? From the day before yesterday or the day before that? From my seventh birthday or the day of my birth? And all this time as I giggled and laughed and blew out candles on cakes, You knew this lay on my horizon and You said and did nothing?
And if You cared, because You claim You do, did You watch? All of it? From beginning to end? With eyes wide open? Was there no knot for me in Your stomach, no lump in Your throat? Me, Your child? You watched them rape me and didn’t blink, didn’t even blink. You, God, watched them tear me apart, divide me among themselves, and You stood and stared.
Or did You run and hide? See none of it at all? Only hear about it later?
Or were You out of town, away on business, saving lives somewhere else?
So now You come and You want to help me? Now, after the event, You want to console me? That’s very nice. That’s very, very nice.
Go away!
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Why do You want to see us grovel? Why must we break first into millions of pieces before You shovel us off the floor? Why must we shatter first before You react? Why must we pray for things that are obvious? Wasn’t it obvious that I needed You to save me?
Go away!
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Nyasha would mock me if she knew I still wrote to You.
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I can’t sleep.
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Our Father in heaven . . .
How could You let it happen?
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Stay calm, breathe slow, think less.
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Lord, please give me a hug. If You’re there, please give me a hug.
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I’m so scared.
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Do You hate me?
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Who are You, anyway, and why should I care what You think? Where do You come from? How can I trust You when You have no home, no people who call You their own?
Just leave me alone.
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Please Jesus, come now. Please don’t leave me.
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I wish this was all just a really long, really bad dream.
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I took a bath today. Ma cried. I cried. Ma said, “Everything will be fine.” I told her not to lie. Ma cried some more.
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I wish I could disappear.
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You’d think You, being the ruler of the universe, could take a large damp cloth, spray it with bleach and wipe all of this away. Or press a reset button, or pull out the batteries, disconnect the cord, or something, anything. Put me in a deep sleep and make it all a dream.
But You won’t, will You?
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I don’t even know why I speak to You. You never speak back. Your silence is everywhere. It’s thick and plugs out the air. It’s outside and inside, making it hard to breathe, hard to believe.
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I prayed daily. I prayed DAILY. I PRAYED DAILY. I PRAY DAILY. I PRAY DAILY! Are You deaf? Why do You not hear me? Why can’t You see me? Here I am. Strike me down, please! I want to die.
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Lord, I’m sorry. Will You get under the covers with me, please? If I ask You nicely, will You do it, please? If You’re there, please don’t leave me here alone.
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Is it because I didn’t wear my rosary to work? Are You mad at me? Is it because I didn’t vote? Or is this about François? I only let him finger me, Lord. That’s all we did. Surely You can’t be so cruel?
Or is this supposed to be the “thorn in my flesh”? This is no thorn, Lord, this is a dagger!
What did I do to deserve this?
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Okay, never mind. Just go. Go be wherever else You need to be. Leave me be.
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Sister Agnes came to visit me today. She brought scones with her and a recycled card that said “Happy Birthday” on the front. It had a kitten on it with big cartoon-like eyes. Inside she had scratched out the “Happy Birthday” and written “Condolences.” She told me some of the interns had written a letter of complaint to the National Department of Health. They passed it around from one departmental morning meeting to the next, asking for signatures to support the letter stating that security on the hospital premises needs to be improved. She said the superintendent had ordered pepper spray and whistles for everyone to wear at night. She said they were praying for me every day. She said I should pray, too, that God would help me.
Help me with what, I wondered. What could this God possibly do for me now?
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The visitors pour through the door. I feel like an animal in a zoo. Ma says they only want to show me their support; it’s better not to be alone for too long. But they irritate me, saying stupid things like, “Everything will be okay, don’t worry, everything will be okay.” How do they know everything will be okay? Why do they say stupid things they have no evidence for?
Things that are impossible to guarantee. “Everything will be okay.” They say it with such confidence. Liars! Where is their evidence? Everything will be okay? No, it won’t. Nothing is
