They told me I was born free.
But no one asked
if I wanted to be born
in the first place.
I was “free” to cry in my mother’s arms,
as long as it was the right hour,
in the right tone,
so neighbours wouldn’t call me difficult.
“Free” to run barefoot in the fields,
but not too far —
lest I stray beyond
the unmarked fences of fear.
“Free” to dream in school,
as long as I dreamed in the syllabus.
Free to think,
as long as I thought in answers
that came in pre-approved manuals.
Adolescence came with new liberties —
the freedom to fall in love
but only with the right god,
the right gender,
the right shade of skin.
Free to rebel,
but only on weekends,
when rebellion could be washed off
before Monday morning prayers.
Adulthood arrived dressed as democracy.
Free to vote for whomever I liked,
as long as it was someone
who could afford to buy my choice.
Free to earn money,
but not enough to matter.
Free to speak,
as long as my voice stayed smaller
than the ears listening.
They said I was free to die for my country.
No one mentioned
I was also free to be forgotten by it.
And when I tried to love this idea
you call humanity so dearly,
I found out
it was a gated residence
with a dress code,
an entry fee,
and dead humans in dustbins inside.
They still tell me I am free.
But freedom, I’ve learned,
is just a leash
long enough to make you forget
you were born to be owned.
Life is a commodity
consent isn't a prerequisite to.
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