"The Man of My Youthful Epoch"
In the prime of his life, he stood tall, while I, a young girl, navigated a sea of choices. Despite my tender age, society cast its judgment upon me. Time swept by rapidly, ushering in a carousel of men, each departure painting me with the brush of societal scorn. For boys, such escapades earned them praise, as if they were intrepid explorers discovering new frontiers. As a girl, however, being abandoned by two frail hearts transformed me into the canvas upon which society labeled me a wayward soul.
In the throes of pain, where life refused to dance to my desires, I bore the scars of human vulnerability. Hurt was my companion, yet understanding eluded those who saw my struggles. For in the wake of failed relationships, the world pointed fingers not at the flawed men who misunderstood me, but at me—accusing me of lacking endurance. They questioned why I chose the wrong ones as if love were akin to picking flawless tomatoes in a market, oblivious to the deceit beneath the surface.
Have we not all ordered online, only to receive disappointment upon delivery? Must we be blamed for our choices? The young version of me, entangled in the grip of a man who dictated the terms of our connection, justified his actions with youth and wealth. He reveled in his ability to attract, while I, donned the same garments I meticulously cared for, watched him cast off affection like glamorous photos scattered in the wind.
The man of my youth, who paid the dowry, held me captive in a paradox of societal expectations. To leave him would mean facing judgment, a plea to let him outgrow his immaturity. Yet, as he flourished in his youth, I withered away, the cost of his growth extracted from the recesses of my pain. He frequented bars, leaving me in a cold bed, justified by the simple fact of his masculinity.
When I dared to raise my voice, elders would dismiss my grievances, preaching about the malleability of men and urging me to wait for change. But with each passing day, I found myself dying, while he reveled in the intoxicating thrill of his youth. Was it a universal truth that only those who could afford dowry deserved true love? Did financial prowess become the standard for respect and loyalty, overshadowing the virtues of those who lacked monetary means?
In my marital bed, I endured a silent torment—the intimate space that should have been sacred was marred by the imprints of other women. Respect and responsibility were bestowed upon him by society, the church, and a symbolic ring, yet I remained disrespected in the shadows of my bedroom. The defenders pleaded for me to endure, citing the need for a father figure for my children. But was I to sacrifice my well-being for the sake of an image?
Yes, I loved my man, but the burden became too heavy to bear. The excuses multiplied—his need for space, societal enablement—and as others had come and gone, this time, I too, had to leave.