The Consent of Hagar

“And he said, ‘Hagar, slave-girl of Sarai, where have you come from and where are you going?’” — Genesis 16:8 (NRSV)

I wonder what she thought, lying there, waiting to be taken from herself. 

Half convinced of duty, half signed to exile…

Maybe she asked God, hearing nothing but the blindness of His Eyes. Maybe he wasn't blind, but waiting and preparing to world through her wounds.

The ones you didn’t know you would suffer through. The ones you shouldn’t have had to. 

You were confused because he came in smile.

Another Tuesday, he wouldn’t have looked your way, but brokeness you smelled of so a body you would sell of.
And you were already sold, anyway.

They gave Hagar names—thousands. Each one trying to speak what pain had already named, older than time, familiar as breath—Rape.  

Coerced.

“Consented”.

Emotional. 

Stoic.

Spiritual. 

Godless. 

God-led…

Today, her name is Bellamy. Tonight, it will be another. 

I wonder what I thought, cutting all 582 of my locs in the mirror. Sistered in the funeral of the man they were dying for. Genie Man. The mirror didn’t flinch. I wanted it to scream before I did. Like he wanted. And nor did he flinch, signing love letters the same way the ex he reminded me of did.

Losing me the way he did, too.

I told myself I was cutting them loose.

One for my mother. One for the other. One for the father who didn’t know he had a daughter..

I wonder what he thought, holding me in his arms for the first of five times. Was he overjoyed in the world’s delusion:

A Father and Son To Last The Times…

Or did he know that would require a son to work? I heard he got to the hospital late. I watched him leave me too early. 

Today, his name is Carlos. Tonight, I call him Daddy. 

I wonder what God thinks, seeing me now. 

Bald under wigs, confused under men. And when He saw them take me from me, what was it that flashed in His mind? Unbothered by yet another man who stole my flowers for his grave, as He Himself is known for claiming little girls for divine purposes—unconsented.

Maybe He thought my pain was a path to my purpose. 

Maybe He thought “She’s strong enough.”

Maybe He thought wrong.

Today, her name is Hagar. Tonight, its me. She weeps while I run, but I stop to look back now.