by on Mar 19, 2019 - 4 min read
In category


"Don't look for answers on social media. Nobody ever posts their biggest failures."

I have conceived babies before. Beautiful babies that I never really carried to full term. I think I had my first when I was 12. She was a beautiful fictional collaboration with my then buddy called Victor. A story on the apocalyptic period and how humanity was to be saved by a gem strategically placed between two rocks in some uninhabited planet. I can still remember the joy her conception brought us. We fought over baby names. We couldn't wait to birth her, buy her cute toys, clothes and record her first steps. We even argued over what her first word would be. I said it would be 'mommy' for I would religiously sing it in her little ears day and night. Sadly, she didn't live that long. She didn't even live long enough to grow a full placenta attaching her firmly to my endometrium. We didn't mourn her. We didn't burry her either. Vic and I moved on like we hadn't just miscarried.

Then came my second born. This time round, I was older. 14years old to be precise. This one I did solo. I was going to be the bomb single mum. At 3 chapters old, she was already such a mysterious one! The blinding lights of her prospective bright future shone through any readers eyes as one took in line after line of her. I remember reading and re-reading her without getting bored. The art that tailored her words into sentences and those sentences into paragraphs demanded attention. When an audition came up to join some club I'd always wanted to be part of, I had no doubt she'd score me that slot. So I filed her in a green file and submitted her. It felt like giving her up for adoption. The staff at the adoption agency loved her just as much as they were all amused by her. She circulated among them, getting showers of praises at each stop-over. Undoubtedly, I scored the audition I was targeting but my fascinating and actively interchanged baby got lost in the process. I mourned her. I still get a little nostlagic whenever I think about her. I know she's somewhere out there, being 3chapters old, clothed in a plain green file and still being so mysterious.

After her, followed a series of my multiple single mum attempts. From crime stories, to drama, to dark poetry each with its' own unique and heartbreaking miscarriage tale. Each of these 'miscarriages' led me a step closer and closer into my writing menopause. I went from incomplete articles, to just coming up with titles and over an year of the writer's dryspell.

As a frequent writer, I had developed an intimate relationship with words. From the tip of my pen, all funny phrases fell into place. Sexually appealing words seemed to naturally align themselves to bring my object of seduction to life. Emotions like fear, anger and sadness were never represented as just one word; They crawled up to your spine and you'd feel them in all your fibres. Then came betrayal. The feeling when the words I once loved, words that flowed freely through my pen decided to desert me. And desert me they did for over a year. When asked if I still write I said "Sometimes" and always included "Nothing online though..." I was in denial and couldn't accept what had become of my motherhood dreams. Till today that I decided to fill a blank page with my lack of 'children' and to honor all those stories that only lived to be one sentence long. 

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