FIERY SURVIVORS

I HAD been wallowing in a pity party for quite a while when I bumped into a friend who manages a cafe. She told me to visit her at her workplace the following Monday, 11 a.m. Though I love that cafe for the positive energy that pervades, I didn’t go.

But guilt got on to me, so Tuesday afternoon I headed to my friend’s cafe.

She was at the billing counter. “It’s not Monday today, it’s not 11 a.m., and I’m not free to talk to you now,” she said.

I apologised for not coming the day before and said that I wouldn’t mind sitting in a corner reading my book.

Instead, she put me on a high stool by the counter, provided me with hot chocolate (on the house) and told me to watch the bakery section across the COUNTER WHERE IVE OR SIX LADIES WERE baking pastries and cakes with a smile and an occasional song on their lips.

Was it their cheerful countenance that hid it from me, I don’t know, but it took me a while to notice that THEIR FACES AND HANDS WERE DISIGURED. SCARS OF IRE ACCIDENTS FROM DOMESTIC violence, I was told.

The meticulousness with which the ladies went about their work amazed me. Apparently, after rehabilitation, they’d been given training not only in baking but also on cleanliness, personal grooming and appropriate behaviour.

The greatest challenge the trainers faced was getting them to speak POLITELY, FOR IRES NOT ONLY SCAR THE SKIN but damage the very core of one’s soul.

I asked my friend if I could write about their stories. She said, “No, they don’t want their stories written. They have all moved away from their pain and are now living a glorious life!”

I was left speechless.