Hey You

Hey you.

Hey you, yes you.

The one who sneaks into her room at night while your wife is deep in sleep.

Yes you, the one who pulls up skirts when no one is around.

Yes you, who whispers,"Don't tell anyone."

How do you walk around our society unchecked?

How do you lead meetings knowing very well what you do behind closed doors?

Maybe it happened to you when you were young too, but how do you rob someone's future when their life has barely begun?

Surely a two year old would not have called this upon herself.

How do you sit around your friends and toast to the good life when there are screams that you muffle in secret? When there are tears shed in the dark?

How do you show up for work and get through the day without your conscience eating you alive?And how do you kiss your wife knowing you've betrayed her trust?

How do you sleep at night?

In fact, what drives you to get up at odd hours to perform acts that violate, to inflict pain?

And sometimes you don't even care if it's your own flesh and blood.

You don't care if it's your wife's sister or cousin. You only care about yourself and your urges.

People should spit at you when you walk.

Flies should accompany you wherever you go.

Disgust should be the only face that people give you.

You deserve the very worst thing a human being could imagine.

How dare you harm instead of protect?

How dare you destroy instead of build?

How dare you tear to pieces instead of encourage growth?

Your arms should be a shield, not a cage.

Your voice should be a guide, not one that silences.

Do you know how hearts bleed because of you?

Do you see the trail of blood that follows you?

And while society may call you "Bwana" they have no idea that you are actually a monster.

How do you sit with yourself, downing a cold beer when there’s a life that will never be the same because of you?

What you deserve is a crown of insults, a belt of disgust and shame, a confetti of every derogatory term imaginable.

You should walk around with a permanent stamp of pedophile on your forehead where everyone can see.

But instead, you walk among us—hidden.

Sometimes you are called uncle, brother, friend, colleague, brother, manager, teacher, neighbour and heartbreakingly, father.

This is your letter,

Signed by the tears you have caused to fall from the eyes of children that should have laughed instead of cried.

Written by CJ Moono