The Pot
4th March, 2016 Writers

The pot and I, funny how our lives can be likened to things that have no life, things we overlook, in this case ‘the pot’. How? You ask. I used to be shiny, much like the Tower aluminium pot my mother purchased, always a delight to see and be used because I looked clean on the outside even after several uses, but many years have come and gone. Now I’m ugly inside and out.

Now I’m not just a pot but an ugly pot on fire,dented and ready to be thrown away. You still wonder why I chose this pot as the object of this simile, Its because the only thing my eyes are fixed on as I lay here being raped by this man I once loved is the pot on fire…the pot on fire much like me as I feel fire between my thighs from this drunken man.

Why I’m still with him? The fear of being put to shame or worse,being assassinated by his family. I bear this pain because its my first step to victory. Just like that pot, slow and deadly within me as I’ve endured this for a little less than a decade. I serve his meal from the pot, the pot much like me harmless when seen but deadly when tasted…and he eats his last meal.

I sit on the floor I was raped on and I’m left with the pot, the pot much like me now empty of all anger and pain, ready to be thrown away.

Lagos, Nigeria
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