Diary of Night Nurse.

So, a friend of mine who is a minister, started this reform programme for night nurses. His mission was to restore their dignity, sanctify their souls and guide them to committment in a new life that is pleasant in the eyes of the Lord.

He set out on his mission with resolve and determination, and before long he had already gathered a flock. He provided shelter and food like a good shepherd and engaged them in daily church activities as they set sail on their spiritual voyage. He had also set aside a fund to sponsor them in exploring income opportunities or furthering their education for those that wanted it.

On the outside their professional choice looked like an income issue. He believed that only financial despair could drag someone that deep an abyss that they start selling themselves. To add context on this bias, he grew up in abject poverty and watched his mother work the corner to provide for them. He often anguishly recalls his mother being berated by her clients, sometimes coming back with bruises and steadily getting addicted to drugs. She eventually died at the hands of her pimp after her mental health deteriorated and she became a liability to the business.

A church then took them in (him and his younger sister). They later met foster parents from the same church who sponsored both their education to the fullest, an act he attributes today to divine intervention. Therefore, when his bread was already buttered on both sides with quite a significant portion of margarine still in the pantry, it was only logical that he decided to give back to the sanctuaries he first learnt to adore. An empath birthed from tragedy.

After a while, he realised some of the women got bored and went back to their pimps and madams. On the periphery and as it was soon to be clear, money was the least variable in their insistence on the trade, atleast for a majority. Their stories were heartbreaking. Years of psychological trauma, and sexual abuse and neglect. All compounded and culminated here. Without knowing it, it was the only way they took back their agency.

Catharsis to the pain inflicted on them at a time they were tender, vulnerable, defenceless and voiceless.

Freedom from customary valuations.

Money was always the by-product not the root.

For a moment there, he descended into a pensive tension as he reminisced about his mother. Trying to draw answers on what the poor woman could have gone through before they were born. What the fathers they never knew, were like. If their existence (kids), piled up more pressure on her already over-burdenned psychological weight. The grandparents and relatives they never knew, how much of it was intentional from their mother to hide from them and hide them from them.

Then suddenly the great realisation of how much we judge situations in a vacuum, and maybe the best change is allowing people to explore life without the constraints of ideals. Without feeling cornered to perform and posture for certain values, and most importantly being open minded enough to allow different perspectives regardless of our hierarchical positions.