The First Bite of Shame
The first time I stole food, my hands trembled so badly I almost dropped it.
I was only three.
Too young to know what stealing meant. Too young to understand right from wrong.
But I knew hunger.
A bruised mango. Forgotten. Left at the edge of a fruit seller's stall.
My mother hadn't returned that day. My stomach ached, twisted, begged for relief. I had waited, hoping—praying—she would come back with something. Anything. But as night crept in, I knew.
I was alone.
The market was nearly empty, shadows stretching long across the dirt paths. The last traders packed up their stalls, their voices fading into the evening hush.
No one would notice.
I told myself this as I stepped forward, heart pounding.
The mango was within reach. A little closer.
I stretched out my small hand, snatched it—
And ran.
I didn't get far.
A heavy hand yanked me back. I gasped, my tiny body jerking as fingers closed around my thin arm.
It wasn't the fruit seller.
It was the meat seller. He had seen me.
His arms were thick, his fingers rough as they dug into my skin.
"A thief, ehn?" His voice was full of anger.
My breath hitched. My lips parted, but no words came.
"Hungry? And so? Is it my mango you will eat?"
By then, the crowd had gathered. Their eyes burned into me, their voices sharp.
A woman whispered. A boy snickered.
"She's the mad woman's daughter."
That name again. The name that followed me everywhere.
My head dropped, heat crawling up my neck. My fingers twitched around the stolen mango, not knowing whether to hold on or let go.
"Like mother, like daughter," someone spat.
"First, she steals food. Tomorrow, she'll steal our money!"
Their laughter crashed over me. Loud. Harsh.
I did not cry.
I did not speak.
I only stood there, my small body frozen, the mango slipping from my fingers.
I was just a hungry child.
I did not steal.
I only took what I thought had been left behind.
B
ut none of that mattered.
Because in their eyes, I was already guilty.