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Author/Writer/Spoken word artist/Songwriter/Singer/Student. @ UNIZIK
Awka, Nigeria
2337
4881
163
164
Death Street.
<p>I am tired of looking over my shoulder whenever I walk down the street.</p><p><br/></p><p>I am tired of having to stiffen my body as I walk because I don't want my hips to sway... lest I get catcalled.</p><p><br/></p><p>I am tired of dressing boyishly whenever I step outside, hiding my curves because of someone else's lack of respect.</p><p><br/></p><p>I am tired of slowing my pace because paranoia has become second nature. I can always sense it.</p><p><br/></p><p>And somehow, my instincts are almost always right.</p><p><br/></p><p>They are staring.</p><p><br/></p><p>I can feel it.</p><p><br/></p><p>I can already hear their whispers.</p><p><br/></p><p>So I begin questioning myself.</p><p><br/></p><p>Is my outfit okay today?</p><p><br/></p><p>Am I stained?</p><p><br/></p><p>Is my dress torn somewhere?</p><p><br/></p><p>Will I get stabbed on this street?</p><p><br/></p><p>What if I get raped?</p><p><br/></p><p>What if I get kidnapped?</p><p><br/></p><p>I am tired of walking down the street with atrocious thoughts racing through my mind.</p><p><br/></p><p>Will I get hit by a drunk driver?</p><p><br/></p><p>What if someone throws me into a van and it speeds away?</p><p><br/></p><p>What if a psychopath pulls out a knife... or a gun?</p><p><br/></p><p>I am tired of walking down the street only to have men old enough to be my father call me,</p><p><br/></p><p><em>"Our wife."</em></p><p><br/></p><p>I am tired of minding my business while an older man, too daft to understand basic respect, tries to grab my attention by reaching for me.</p><p><br/></p><p><em>"My love, come na."</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>"Our wife, enter this one."</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>"Fine girl, come make I spoil you."</em></p><p><br/></p><p>I am tired.</p><p><br/></p><p>And it is mentally draining.</p><p><br/></p><p>I am tired, and it is not my fault that I chose to walk through Death Street.</p><p><br/></p><p>A place where compassion is scarce.</p><p><br/></p><p>Where dignity is negotiable.</p><p><br/></p><p>Where respect is treated like a privilege instead of a right.</p><p><br/></p><p>I am just a girl.</p><p><br/></p><p>Please.</p><p><br/></p><p>It is getting out of control.</p><p><br/></p><p>Covered or exposed, we are still hunted.</p><p><br/></p><p>So tell me...</p><p><br/></p><p>Is "cheap" written across my forehead?</p><p><br/></p><p>I cannot even walk freely anymore.</p><p><br/></p><p>I keep looking behind me just to convince myself that I am safe.</p><p><br/></p><p>I clutch my bag tighter whenever someone walks past me.</p><p><br/></p><p>And now...</p><p><br/></p><p>Even my own gender can frighten me.</p><p><br/></p><p>Death Street has no compassion.</p><p><br/></p><p>It does not care about my age.</p><p><br/></p><p>Nor yours.</p><p><br/></p><p>It does not care about status or wealth.</p><p><br/></p><p>It does not always spill blood.</p><p><br/></p><p>Sometimes...</p><p><br/></p><p>It leaves no bruises.</p><p><br/></p><p>No fingerprints.</p><p><br/></p><p>No evidence.</p><p><br/></p><p>Only fear—</p><p><br/></p><p>quietly carried home by those who survived walking through it.</p>
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