I never understood when people said that they’ve missed something every single day. I couldn’t believe that any memory could have the power to sneak into the mind that often. But of late, a thought has had me occupied. Something or the other reminds me of it.

Please stop dividing women. Modern or traditional, female is a female. In Pakistan, we all are suffering in our known and unknown ways. Living in a context where tradition wins over common sense or science, the transfer of intergenerational trauma becomes a part of the DNA of our society. Expressed or unexpressed, we all carry this silent mutation.

I know so many girls in my country who want to wear jeans but are not allowed to do so because you see “decent girls need to dress a certain way”. Your jeans are too tight, your shirt is too short, lower your dupatta and cover your face, if someone touches you it’s probably because you dressed a certain way.

I am African
Astoundingly beautiful,
Flamboyantly diverse
Intricately woven in a pattern of counterfeit borders…

Many people who have had near-death experiences have spoken about how they had seen a light at the end of a tunnel. I can now verify that for myself. There had indeed been a light and a tunnel, but to be honest, I did not expect it to lead me to an empty street.

You see during my childhood, my parents ensured I watched fairy-tale movies and had books filled with magical stories of knights and beautiful princesses who were in dire need of saving. I don’t think they knew the effect of all these stories towards my love life. They have made me view relationships as something sacred, something beautiful to be shared with ONLY that person who loves you.

G was at the gate. Perfect. I remembered about my earphones on the bed. I rushed for them, and as I was about to leave the front door, I bumped into him. I didn’t hear him come. I look at G for a second as he closed the gate. He apologized with his eyes. What could he do? A fresh cloud of mist covered my eyes as they darted between him, G and the gate. He is smiling at me. ‘I saw your mother leave. Where are you going?’

When I entered the hospital room, she was leaning against the window on her bed. It was a warm sunny day. But her face was mirroring dark clouds which were about to rain filled with sadness and tiredness. With her gloomy eyes watching at the sun, she must be worried about the paddy she had planted in our field a month ago. That's my mother. Wherever she would be, she won't leave worrying about her vegetable farm. She must be missing home and family too.

For the past 15 years, I have been in London. There is nothing as strange in this city as my life. No one cared to join my strange journey. Not even my blood-mates. 15 years of a hidden and strange life. Tears just kissed my cheeks and fell to my arms. I just covered my face with my arms and suddenly threw it away. It showed me a clear picture of my life before those 15 years. My mom’s hug, my dad’s smile, and Sreya’s non-stop stories. Sreya!

The moon was full and bright. The stars glittered, with the cool night breeze making it a sensational night. Ofe uha and egusi aromas sifted through night. Mkpuluoma was nervous and excited - the long awaited Eke market day was here. Nnedi painted her legs with the popular uli, drawing beautiful patterns on her hands and legs respectively. Papa bought her coral beads. It was the day Iheoma was coming to perform the Igba Nkwu rituals, the pride of every woman.

It all started with a slight pain on Wednesday evening just before Bible Study. Unlike you would on a normal day, you took two tablets of Panadol, but it still didn’t get any better. In church, Bro CY kept tapping your shoulder to stand as you sat during the prayers…

I deserve to get equal education rights as any boy, and I deserve to get equal wages as my male counterparts. It is about receiving equal status and social respect as any other fellow. Sadly, many women in different parts of the world aren’t getting those rights. Feminism isn’t about man-hating, and if you think “why do we need feminism?”, then look at our community where girls are sexually harassed, a three year old girl is getting raped, a wife is suffering acid attacks from her husband because he didn’t like her face.

I laugh it off. They seem certain but unsure. That is how they are and even though love can take many forms, it cannot be unsure. They sit there telling me that they crave my company just to have it. I walk away knowing there is no hope for our story. Did I see the way he looked at me? Of course I did. It was full of desire, but I am skeptical because it is not completely for me but rather for the things I possessed…

I always see people passing judgment on the lady and holding her responsible for the broken marriage. I can't keep quiet because it literally breaks my heart why everyone thinks that it's only the girl who is at fault and is responsible for not managing the relationship well. And then they compare today's women to those who have been through hell, been exploited and finished in their abusive marriages…

Born in a family of fair-complexioned women, I was always insecure of my dusky complexion as a kid. It never really bothered me, until one day, my friend in school pointed out the difference in mine and my sister’s complexions. Now I didn’t know it mattered so much and I couldn’t answer her back, so I just kept quiet. The song “Mai aisa kyu hu” kept ringing in my head till the end of school that day.