Touch Not My Anointed.

One day you have your daughter. Your very own daughter. With the semblance of you, smell of you, a complete replica of you in the dazzling body of a woman; even better. All you will want to do is to shield and to brighten her, be her moon in her hottest and sun in her darkest and you will try your best.

Sentient of the dangers posed by today’s world — plunged in rabid evil with sole predilection to destroy — you will protect her with a double binding moiety; one to destroy and another to save; but it may not be enough. You will peek deeply into the empty pouches of this world and you will understand that sometimes, more often than ever, you will give in your best and it will be anything, your all, sundry, everything, but it will never be enough.

You will cling on to religion and its messengers, because it is the only thing that promises hope, however vague it may be, hope in its minuscular form of existence is better than no hope at all and so you will take it.

You will have two great loads threatening to sink you into the very abyss of nothingness. You will, with empty hope, place both on a scale to decide which to jettison, hoping for equilibrium but it will tilt to one side.

With evident pantomime sculptured into the depth of your face, you will hope she sees just how much love you can give her at the expense of religion. She will understand this. She will realize that you will be her sun until religion comes in to eclipse the light in her darkest and she will learn to be satisfied with this.

I will give you the world. But my own edited version of it.

One day you will have your daughter, a product of your sweaty thrusts, resilience, coming together, rubbing of bodies; your seed planted in a culture medium set to bloom, to blossom, to stand the test of time and man. And man.

The girl, maybe then a woman, whom you have sauntered with love will come home one day and break you. Only you will break in a different way than she had envisioned.

She will fill you in, on how she had gone to the messenger, the pastor, how he had filled her, gone into her, taken her in a way she didn’t imagine he would do. He had called it spiritual cleansing but she didn’t want to be clean. She had said no. He had pleaded, begged, threatened, and then forced himself in. She had fought and later caved in because she knew. No one would believe her over the messenger. He was eternally clean. In the eyes of men, he was impeccable, glistening in whiteness, walking with an everlasting halo. She had known from the moment he forced his way in, and she had caved, she had known no one would believe her. But even then she had trusted you. You her parent. You who had sauntered her with love, who have threatened to jeopardize her existence with protection. You who had built great walls, walls that trump invaders.

She will tell you all these things like a forlorn daughter talking to her knight in shining armour parent. And you will stand akimbo, with gaping mouth, burning vitals, perspiring skin, shaking voice, doubting countenance. Immediately you will be struck with ague so much so that you will go pallid with failing vocal chords. Then she will blubber and you will understand that you need to say something.

Again she will decipher the pantomime in your face and she will affirm her allegations. You will stutter and she will jerk. You will tell her it couldn’t have been the pastor, it must be the devil, anyone else but him. He couldn’t do that. You will remind her that he was holier than thou, the priest in shining robe. What will people say when they learn you attempted to smear the name of his holiness? You will say all these things, only they would never come out.

When you finally open your mouth to speak, she would have already known the content. “Touch not my anointed…” you will say, she will glower at you, and do my prophet no harm…but the harm will already have been done.