Day 1: Conception

Get a gun, or something sharp. Something scary definitely. That’s what pops into my head whenever i see her 3 year old in her pretty coats and her chic-lady bun. So striking the way she carries herself like she’s always on the red carpet. I want to hold her hand and babble about ridiculous things. Then tell her to relax and roll all over the carpet or make a mess. Then there you are with higher than high Gele and your glittery murder-weapon pumps. your strutting, poses and look-at-ME laugh.

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A young lady holds her hands and twirls her around. She screams. Her afraid look is so intense that it’s almost funny but it does not deter her torturer. Heads turn as shrieks fill the red room. Her lips quiver even as her mother’s Gele bobs in laughter as Baby Beauty’s tossed into space. A young man, a boy looking to be in his 27s, 28s, heads straight from the mayhem and the little girl reaches for him.

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He whispers reassurances audible to only the pair. The  Red room get lost in their chitchat and Samsung Note picture-taking again. Baby Beauty is laughing as her Saviour bounces her on his knee. Her torturer looks on from her spot in the square box. Heartbroken and despondent, her heart on her sleeve.

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Take heart my dear, Baby Beauty’s mother says to her wee one’s torturer.

She is like that. She likes men.

A flirt. She is just like her father.

She smiles. The torturer smiles. I smile.

I can still taste

the cottonishness.

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