I had watched a few giving birth scenes on T.V, where the woman would be held by nurses side by side; encouraging her, massaging her shoulders, brushing her hair, offering her the sweetest words of support.

I expected no less than that but it ended up being the worst day of my life. I always say I prefer physical pain because once it goes away you can’t feel it again, it won’t make you cry over and over again, it won’t leave a permanent mark in your heart. The physical pain I endured that day was bliss compared to the emotional scars the nurses’ comments left in my heart and soul.

You see because I was a teenager, they immediately created a profile for me. According to that profile I was a loose girl, sleeping around with different boys, which resulted in my pregnancy and when that happened I had no clue who the father was, so I just picked one, the most gullible one and claimed him as the father.

One nurse even asked me why I didn’t have an abortion because I was going to burden my family with this baby’s presence.

And that got me thinking; I had convinced myself during the last few months that I was having this baby for me and that I loved him regardless of how he came about, but sincerely I wasn’t ready to have him. I didn’t have what it took to nurture him. I longed to be a young teenage girl with no responsibilities and commitments.

I despised myself for letting society, culture and religion make decisions on behalf of my body, I hated how everything was made out as a normal part of life.

“All these girls your age have kids now, you’ll also survive mntanami,” my grandmother emphasised.

But the truth was I couldn’t survive, I needed to live my life, discover things about myself and the world. I needed to be protected from the cruelty of the world, from people’s disgusting stares and older men’s dirty comments. I felt like I was being punished for a silly little mistake, a defect in nature.

The people who claimed to love me the most, had treated me like an inanimate object. If only they knew how they broke my spirit, how they shattered my soul, how they let the world abuse and throw all kinds of comments at me.

If they did know then they would understand why I only cried once when he passed on, why I glowed like the sun and even put on weight after he was buried. They would understand why I felt so relieved, so free. They would understand that I needed to be listened to, that my voice also mattered.

Tell us: What do you think of this story?