Angels Don’t Cry
    In the midst of the day, near the break of autumn in the cool African breeze a young girl searched for her doll amongst the rubbish. The dump permeated a nauseating odour for anyone who was not accustomed to its stench of raw waste. Molaika however was on a mission; she was determined to find the doll, for it had been her mothers last gift to her before the desolation of HIV aids had taken its final call. Molaika had thrown the doll away in a fit of rage and sorrow, cursing death in her young heart. She immediately regretted her decision, and was now seeking to make amends by finding the uniquely crafted home sewed dolly.

    It is amongst the slums that perverted men and their twisted carnal minds sleek as predators searching for their prey. Snakes and scorpions with poisonous venom awake from their slumber and strike mercilessly their fragile and hopeless victims; always too young to defend themselves, and always alone. It was no different on that day, and when it was over she lay violated; afraid; near dead; painfully aware of the raw hatred she now felt. The raw hatred she felt for men bubbled within her core. She grasped tenaciously onto a nearby stone, and she swore to the highest heavens and the deepest depths “Angels don’t Cry.”
And from that day for twenty -six years she never did.

    The day she finally did cry was a day that began like any other. As in any other day she went about her routine of sewing homemade finely crafted puppets. She had made thousands of them over the years, each one sombre and grave reflecting the bitterness still very alive in her soul. She sewed meticulously and obsessively sure to perfect their look of agony, it was her only source of income, and it was all she could bear to do. It was the only way she could express the still lingering pain that haunted her every crevice.

    It wasn’t until one of her puppets spoke to her that she knew that she was truly losing her sanity. It was her latest creation, and perhaps her finest, because she had never worked so tirelessly on one doll. It could be confidently asserted that this dolly was the last bit of her soul poured into her art, the last bit of the soul left before it was consumed by the wrath of her mortal wound. And like the little child she once was, before life had drained the vivacity out of her, so was her puppet, fresh and alive.

    “Molaika, Nakupenda Molaika.” Startled Molaika blinked. Perhaps she had been working too long on this particular puppet, after all it was the first happy one she had made in years. “Molaika Nakupenda Molaika.” Now she’d heard it twice; clearly, but there was no source of the sound. Was it possible that one of the neighbouring children was playing a trick on her? Yes she rationalized that was probably it: after all she was known in local circles as the crazy puppet lady.“Do you remember me?” The puppet quipped in a jolly off-putting tone.

    “Remember you? How can I remember you?” She thought herself awfully odd talking to a toy, and knew by now she definitely needed her rest.

   


    “I once was lost, but now I am found. I was once dead but now I live. I was so far gone, but I’m home  now. I once was lost but now I’m found!” Confused Molaika could not help but be intrigued by the conversation, despite her better judgment she continued her dialogue with the puppet.                                           

    “Tell me, what do you mean you were once lost?” She queried, unable to fathom what on earth was happening.

    “Oh Molaika, how could you not remember me? Has it been so many years?”
   
    “I...” To think of it the puppet did seem slightly familiar all of the sudden, almost like an old friend that had mysteriously vanished and then reappeared in the most unlikely of circumstances.

    “I am Morah!”
   
    “Morah?” Then it dawned on her, “Morah!” It was her long last dolly, at last, at last she had found her! Oh what a glorious day! And then she remembered...

    “You can’t be here Morah! The man will come... I’m sorry.” And ever so gently with great regret she opened the lid to her trash can.

    “Wait! Molaika! Wait! Listen to me! Angels do cry!” Molaika paused and pondered what her little long lost friend had just spoken, and in a moment of sheer rage whipped the puppet across the room and screamed “Angels Don’t Cry!!!” Immediately she was repentant of what she had just done, and she scooped up the little puppet tenderly in her arms, and rocked it as one would rock a child.

    “I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”
   
    “Molaika, Angels cry for you.” No. How could an angel cry for her? She hadn’t heard Morah right, she couldn’t have. Could she?
                            
    “They cry because you do not cry... Because in crying you would forgive him.”
   
    “Forgive him! I could never forgive him! He’s a monster! He’s a beast, He’s a...” As her face swelled with anger a little teardrop came to the puppets eye. She noticed and tried to comfort it. “Don’t cry Morah, don’t cry!”

    “Why I must Molaika. I’m your mothers last gift to you, and as long as you live in the chains of un forgiveness and sorrow, so does her memory... So do I... I’m afraid I must die once again... Goodbye Molaika... I will always love you.”

    “No! You mustn’t go! Not again! You mustn’t leave me! I need you! I need you!”
   

    “Forgive him Molaika. Cry.” And then the puppet spoke no more...

    A crescendo of tears worth twenty-six years begin with one slow streaming teardrop, and that is what it was. It began with one tear; then became two; then became thousands. Firstly she wept for her puppet who had left her once more; then for her mother; then for all the hurt she had felt over the years, and finally she cried for him, and she released him. She let it go. In her heart she did the impossible, she forgave him.

    And on that very day standing before the king of Kings a little girl ran excitedly into her saviours arms. “I once was lost, but now I am found. I was once dead but now I live. I was so far gone, but I’m home now. I once was lost but now I’m found!”

    “Molaika Nakupenda Molaika.” She was surely an angel, and after all those fierce tears, she never needed to ever cry again.