She was only 12 years old. She grew up in the kind of place where life moved slowly—upcountry, where the hills cradle small homes and secrets alike. Here, the law was more of a suggestion than a system. People preferred to settle matters among a council of elders and a drink, neighbors who knew each other’s grandfathers and cattle brands. Justice could mean handing over a goat or two, a chicken if the offense felt light enough. And so, in this quiet place where retribution was measured in livestock, not legal code, she lived through horrors no child should ever witness.
At 12, while her peers worried about homework and pencil cases, she worried about fetching water, cooking, and taking care of the house so that she could continue having a roof over her head. She had no time to think about her hair as food was a priority. She was still a child when she experienced her first period. She was still trying to understand the mechanics of her own body, let alone the way the world worked. Her parents were gone—maybe if they’d lived, things would’ve been different. But grief doesn’t feed you, and the dead don’t raise the living.The man didn’t have to try hard. He offered attention, small promises, and what felt like kindness. She didn’t know better.
She only knew it hurt. She could barely walk afterward. She didn’t understand what sex was—only that it was something that happened to her. I don’t understand how one can look at a child and violate her. I wish thunder would strike him dead, or better yet, that the guillotine were still a legal option. He faced no real punishment—laws were mere suggestions in their world. His inhumane actions highlight just how vital evolution is; it separated us from beasts, yet here we are, with monsters roaming among us, preying on the innocent.
Months passed, and her period remained absent. She was caught in confusion; no one had ever painted the picture of what it meant to carry life, not in body, not in feeling. When it became apparent, her aunt didn’t offer comfort or protection. She said,“I can’t raise a child’s child. Not while my husband is in this house.”As if the girl were a threat. As if she had asked for any of this. As if the danger didn’t already come from the adults around her, what an outrage.
At school, things were no better. They didn’t just ignore her, they made an example out of her. She was paraded like a warning sign, not a student. In morning assemblies, teachers would pause and gesture her way: “Don’t end up like her.”
As if her existence had become a cautionary tale. In class, they called her out mid-lesson to recite answers, not to test her knowledge but to embarrass her when she stumbled. Whispers floated behind her back like smoke — suffocating and inescapable.
“She’s ruined.”
“Who would want her now?” Girls she once played with now avoided her gaze. Some mocked her by saying their parents do not want them to be next to her as she will transmit her pregnancy as if it were a communicable disease. Lunchtime became a silent ritual; no one shared a bench with her. Her desk was slowly moved to the far corner of the classroom. No one said it was punishment, but it felt like exile. Teachers who once praised her work now looked through her, as if she had failed some unspoken moral test. One even laughed during a staffroom conversation she overheard, “What did she expect playing grown-up games?” They did not see a CHILD who needed help. They saw a fallen girl. A mistake. And in turning their backs on her, they stripped her of joy, of belonging, of self-worth.
They treated her pregnancy as a moral failure, as if she were to blame for the cruelty of the world that had betrayed her. Human beings are truly capable of inflicting unimaginable pain, especially when they take the moral high ground. It was as if they all forgot—she was just a child, still grappling with the weight of a world that had turned against her. By a stroke of grace, maybe the first piece of luck she had received in her daunting life, a social worker visiting the area noticed her. She took the girl back to the city and placed her in a safe house for teen mothers. It was there—at eight months pregnant—that she had her first medical check-up. No prenatal care. No vitamins. No support. Just fear. Just survival. She was expecting twins! A child expecting not one but two babies. The safe house did what it could. Fed her. Clothed her. Held her hand through labor. But it couldn’t erase her isolation. When her time came, she gave birth in a hospital room full of strangers. No mother by her side. No familiar voice to comfort her. Just pain, exhaustion, and the quiet scream of everything she’d lost. And honestly, that’s what breaks me the most. That a child, because she still is one, had to bring life into the world without anyone who truly knew her. That her first cries of motherhood were met not with love, but with silence. We often speak of safe spaces, but safety without warmth is still cold.
She was protected, yes—but utterly alone. And I can’t help but wonder, how many other girls are enduring their darkest moments surrounded by people who mean well, but don’t see them? After just a few months, she was asked to leave the safe house—to make room for other girls like her, girls chased from the only homes they knew, seeking refuge to deliver in peace. But where was she to go now? In a new, unfamiliar city, with two babies in her arms and no one to turn to, she stood at the edge of survival. It feels cruel, almost inhumane, to offer temporary safety only to send them back into the very chaos they escaped. The world, they say, is unfair. But to her, it was merciless. As the months crept by, it became clear that she and her babies could no longer stay where they were.
Thankfully, kind-hearted strangers stepped in, offering a temporary roof over their heads and a small relief in the storm. But shelter is not sustenance. With no income and two little mouths to feed, she faced a haunting question: what now? She was still healing, still adjusting, still a new mom, still a child. What work could she possibly take on? The world is failing her greatly, and the same world that failed her will be the same one that will shame her and call her a waste of space, call her irresponsible for bringing children into this world. The same world that turned a blind eye to her plight will be the same world that will judge her immensely and harshly. She is unable to understand all this right now as she is still a child. She’d let you hold her babies so she could go play. She’d misplace the vaccination cards and forget clinic appointments unless reminded. She wouldn’t know how to plan for her children’s futures, because no one had planned for hers. She is still a child. A child with two children. And yet the world will scoff, judge, and condemn her for every misstep, blind to its role in her story. Watching her try to forge a path broke something in me; I felt fury at the very ability of women to bring life into this world—a supposed gift that, in the wrong context, becomes a lifelong sentence.
This article was originally published by Peace on Substack.
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