I mounted my motorcycle to make my way back home. My job was done for the day, or rather night. I longed to collapse upon my fluffy bed.
The cool early morning breeze blew against my hair and caressed my cheeks. The clock had barely struck five.
At the bus stop, I noticed her – a young girl. She sat at a corner. She yawned and stretched her body. Then she got up, dusted her dress and stood by the roadside.
Who was she? Where were her parents?
I stopped and watched from a distance with keen interest.
It was quite early. There were few people and vehicles on the road. As a vehicle approached, she ran after it. She knocked her fist against the tinted glasses yet the vehicle kept moving. She gave up and started walking back to her spot – her home.
Someone opened the door and called out from the vehicle.
She turned around. Finally, a smile swept across her face. She was hopeful.
She ran towards the vehicle – to the person who called out to her. She muttered something. Then, she was handed a black plastic bag. I couldn’t see what was in it. Before I knew it, she got into the vehicle.
The vehicle started moving. I followed. It turned into a corner – a very lonely street. I kept following.
What were they up to?
The vehicle stopped. The driver came out, shut the door and leaned against the bonnet. His head danced from side to side like a pendulum.
What was he doing? Where was she? Where was the girl?
The driver noticed me and moved briskly to get into the car. I roared towards him at full throttle.
I flew off my motorcycle not minding that the heavy machine almost collapsed on my feet.
“Where is she?”
I jumped on the driver, my hands reaching to clasp his throat.
As he pleaded for mercy, I pinned him to the ground and cuffed his hands.
My temper sparked as I opened the door of the car.
“Get out!!!!!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.
I made an attempt to throw a punch at him.
My colleagues made it to the scene just in time.
I gave the half-naked man a hefty shove. His back landed heavily on the ground.
“Are you alright?”
The little girl stammered. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her lips chattered. She gathered the pieces of her torn clothes together with trembling hands.
I took off my jacket and wrapped it around her tiny frame.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. My colleagues will take you to the station to make a statement. Don’t be afraid. Just tell them everything that happened. We are here to help you.”
She bent over to pick up a black plastic bag – the same one that was handed to her earlier. Its contents toppled over – remnants of an apple, remains of a drumstick, several grains of rice in a plate, a partially finished bottle of juice.
It was obvious he wanted to take advantage of her hunger to satisfy his sexual urges.
Thank God I followed my instincts. Thank God I followed the vehicle. Thank God I didn’t give in to the cravings of my tired body…Thank God!
The girl child is not a sex toy.
The girl child is not a punching bag.
The girl child is not a lesser being.
She does not belong to the kitchen and ‘the other room’.
What are you doing to protect the girl child?
Photo credit: Google Images