What truly is religion?
Is it as simple as believing in something just as they believed the lies that were told to tarnish my image? Is it worshipping something bigger than oneself just as my husband glorified and sang the praises of every enlarged buttock that could make a bicycle seat disappear whenever they sat on it? Is it the devotion to a supreme power like his newfound dedication towards inhaling the strange grass that makes him compete with the most high?
I pondered on this question as I knelt again in front of my little altar, repeating the same prayer points as I had done for the past two years. At first, I was hopeful. I prayed with hope and fervency, but as time passed, I began to lose my faith.
I remembered how they said I was lucky to find a husband so early and how the gods favoured me. They said I was lucky to have taken in immediately and how the gods must love me. They also said it was a shame that it was not a boy and that the gods must have been angry with me. It seemed the gods were usually quick to lose interest in their beloved.
I stared at the altar, the burning candle, the figurine, the cowries, and other things that dictated my worth in the society, and I felt lost. Standing up, I picked up the few things I had. I wrapped my little one around my back and dashed into the night. It was then that I swore that the child I carried would become my new religion, and I would adore and devote all of my being towards making her the strong woman I could never be.
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Read – Robots on Steroids – A Flash Fiction by Refilwe Nsibande, South Africa
