I sit on the floor, taking in the chipped paint on the walls, the packets of condoms accidentally left on the floor, and the two young woman who called this room home for now. Grace (name changed) is a round ball of sweetness. I asked her where her new fun wig went as the last time I had seen her she had just had it put in. She sits on the sagging bed with faded, dirty sheets, telling us about being beaten, how her neck is now in extreme pain and that she had to have the wig taken out because it got half ripped out when the guy grabbed her by the hair. I listen with my hand on her’s as she tries to pull up her revealing tank top with the other. She brushes the abuse off as normal and acknowledges that this is not the first time and it won’t be the last. The truth that these men don’t view them as human, rolls off her lips as if to put a period on the end of not only her story, but the whole book of her life so far.
A knock on the door interrupts our conversations as one of the “guest house” employees comes in to collect the nightly rent for the room. I watch as a dance of power, control, lies, and yet, understanding goes on in front of me. The girls tell her they don’t have enough money to pay. The employee seems to take it in stride and writes in her book what they gave her and adds to the line of what they still owe. It is adding up for Grace, compounding every night she doesn’t make enough. She is bound to so many things I think, as I watch the employee leave. She gives a smile that seems to imply, we have you until you pay. And the lies, control, and manipulation among both parties continues.
As Noriah shares a Bible story in her own language, I let my gaze rest on the little side table which is the only piece of furniture in the room besides the old beds. It holds all the tools of her trade; random lipstick, body spray, and boxes of condoms. All essentials that eat away at the rest of her meager earnings. There is only a few Kwacha left in hand to give an account to the men that have used her the night before.
I ask Grace if she misses her children (2 and 4), who are hundreds of miles away with a sister. She hasn’t seen them in months. She sighs heavily and says she misses them greatly. Her sweet smile quivers with the loss of hope, health and well, all that life had once offered.
I sigh too, and we kneel to ask God to speak and intervene and pour out His grace upon Grace.
