My daughter sits still on the bed in my room:
Her hollow eyes tell deep, dark stories of things worse than death.
Her tiny fingers gingerly hold my left thumb.
Her body is there, but her eyes are far, far away.

Mummy, why did the masked men remove my clothes?
Her trembling voice jolts me awake from my own reverie.
Tears thickened with sweat travel down my bony cheeks.
How do I tell her that the masked men were unknown gunmen?
How do I tell a 4-year-old the meaning of rape?

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Woe betides the day my destiny brought me doom.
The gunmen hid behind their pale masks while they jumped out of the forest.
The first shot was no warning;
It was a deliberate showstopper to the invisible audience of my fate.
The strong sorrowful song of the shots escorted a lone bullet
to my husband’s forehead.
A hole in the skull, a dead husband within seconds,
All unfolding in front of her daughter.

Guns behind, guns in front,
Masked men led them into the belly of the forest.
Dawn turned to dusk, but we marched on,
A widow and a damaged daughter in her care,
Perhaps it’s just a nightmare in the middle of a sleep.
But this is no nightmare. I’m the haunted house in a horror scene cut out of reality.

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While misfortune knocked on her door, the gods left. No dream or vision to warn her.
She came to this world naked with her chi,
But her chi left on the day of doom.
Some things are worse than death;
They damage you forever, make you numb to happiness.

Mummy, why did the masked men remove my clothes?
Her trembling voice jolts me awake from my own reverie.
How do I tell her that the masked men who killed her father are monsters?
How do I tell a 4-year-old the meaning of rape?