How To Step Out of Your House

Warning: There are dangers that lie in the darkness we cannot see, and there are dangers right in front of us that we choose not to see. This is one such danger. Proceed at your own risk.

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Proceeding…

Step 1: Inspect your House

The sofa cover is a bit scrunched up, but it’s okay— your three-year-old toddler was playing with her toys there. The kitchen is wiped clean. You smile; after all, your househelp is finally doing her work the way she’s supposed to. Yes, check the fridge. No onions? No worries, you can make something else for dinner tonight. Perhaps go out for a family dinner? The chai is about to spill out of the pot when you hurriedly switch off the gas. Good save. The chai isn’t sweet. In fact, it’s terrible. You reach out for the assortments, hoping for a good evening—only to find everything empty. Your child is wailing, and you’ve just spilled your bitter tea. She’s hungry for baby formula, and you have none. You can’t ask your husband for help because he’s at work. What do you do?

Step 2: Get dressed

The mirror stares back at a maroon burqa and a tired face. You’re already sweating and you haven’t even moved yet. It’s 37 degrees outside, and you’re wearing three layers. Not sufficient—your mother’s voice lingers as you touch the niqaab on your desk. Your child spills water on herself. You wipe her face, the burqa absorbing it all: water, sweat, your patience. You stare at the mirror, lipstick in your hand. Should I? Should I not? The questions cloud your thoughts as you tie the strings at the back of your head. Your breath fogs up your glasses, but it doesn’t really matter; you’ll have to cover them anyway. It’s important you do. Your child is still playing with her toys.

Step 3: Equip Yourself

Weapons. Pepper spray.

The drawer sticks when you pull it open. You have to tug—it’s decades old, after all. Inside: old receipts, a dead torch, mismatched batteries, the spray—small, pink, absurdly gentle-looking for what it promises. Expired. The label peeling. You test the cap with your thumb. It resists, then clicks. It might work. It might not. You clip it onto your keys. Metal against metal. The sound feels louder than it is. Perhaps it’s reassuring you. Perhaps it’ll be your safety net. Or perhaps you’re paranoid and it’s nothing but a false solution. Your hand curls around it instinctively, knuckles whitening, as if your body remembers lessons your mind was never formally taught.

Step 4: Are you sure?

Look at yourself. You’re tired. You’ve been looking after your child the entire day, and the thought of going out is just—no. You could always ask him, right? He’d get the baby formula, the groceries, whatever you need when he gets back. He might get the wrong one, sure, but he’d get it. If he comes back today, that is. Mama, she mumbles, hunger creeping into her voice. You’re scared. It’s okay. Everyone is. But sooner or later, we all have to step out, don’t we? Walk the streets. Walk among shades. You’ll have to cross the threshold. You’re scared, but it doesn’t matter—you’re a mother after all. You can’t let your baby girl starve. What do you do?

Step 5: Step Out

You take a step, then another. The sunlight stabs you right where it should. The street is loud, crowded, indifferent. You hold your bag closer and keep walking—not because you’re brave or ready, but because you don’t really have a choice. The spray inside is your only defence, and your child awaits you. You focus on where you’re going, on what you need to get, letting everything else blur into the background. Fear is there, of course, but so is responsibility, and one of them has to win. There’s a man walking behind you—fifteen minutes now. Same route, or is he following you? You want to believe people aren’t inherently evil; that’s what you’ve always been taught. Your skin is too aware when bodies brush past, every instinct sharpened into alertness. The shop is in sight now, glowing like a promise you’re not sure will keep. The man behind you hasn’t changed his pace. Neither have you. You think of all the times you were told to be careful, to be quiet, to be grateful nothing happened. You think of how survival was always mistaken for safety. Your hand tightens around the spray, your child waits, the street keeps moving, and for a moment the world holds its breath with you—because this is how it always begins, and no one knows how it ends.

So, what do you do?

Process complete!

May a streak of light find its way into your darkness.

May the masks fall off the clowns in the light.

May the odds be in your favour.