I always wondered what it would be like. To have a little thing that i could walk around with, attached to my tummy with the fancy carrier things. A little thing that would come running to me because they thought the world of me and i would hug them and say the beautiful words that mothers find somewhere.
I do not wonder anymore. I have two of them now. Shaba and Bella. Shaba, because his daddy was young and hip then and Shabaranks was loud in our ears. Bella because i was the sensible one, it is short for Elizabeth. I was and still am a sucker for the romantic English books, Jane Austen's especially. I had planned to call the third child Catherine but she didn't make it past three moths in my womb. That was a long time ago...well two and a half years ago actually.
I watch Shaba and Bella together sometimes and i know i am a happier and better person because of them. I want to be everything i can for them. When they ask me now, at age 8 and 5, where their father is, i am torn. What do i say? The truth? or do i tell the good girl lie that people tell to "make it easier on the kids."
Shaba is an intelligent little thing, he reads me like those books with a predictable ending. He will smile at me when he knows i do not have the answer to the difficult life question Bella has asked and then he will distract her with a card game. They adore each other. That consoles me. They have one another when i need to hide and wail.
Do not get me wrong. My life is not terrible. I wail because it seems like the most natural thing to do when you are alone. Yes i am alone. I never knew my mother. She died hours after i was born. I was raised by my aunt, her sister, because my father did not know what to do with me and when he remarried, the new wife didn't want me. I never saw much of him. I saw him when i was 26 but we had no connection. He died shortly after and a year later, so did my aunt.
I do not have friends. Mostly because Gerald, thats my children's father, drove most of them away. He was a jealous man and never liked me having people i could talk to. People get tired of abuse eventually, however much they love you. I watched them apologise for leaving me and leave anyway. It didn't matter, i had Shaba and Bella. These two are my life.
Shaba is a lot like me. He is quiet and never fights. Bella however is her fathers child, she is loud and entitled. She demands attention and i know that we spoil her by constantly enabling her. She asked me the other day why she did not have a daddy. Shaba grabbed her hand and took her to the fridge to write her name with the new magnets. When she was done, she came back and asked again.
I argue with myself, even as i try to raise my voice and inquire whether her room is clean, to distract her.
I wonder if i should just tell her that her Daddy is in jail. I will have to explain that it is a place where people who have done a bad thing go for a period designed for them by the system. But i know she will ask what bad thing he did and i will have to tell her, that her father beat her mother until she miscarried her little sister, and then picked up a knife and stabbed her grand mother...my aunt who raised me. That is what killed my aunt, the stab wounds. The year after my father died.
It is a long story really. Shaba had seen it all but i think he blocked it all out of his memory. I remember screaming at him to run, but no, he wouldn't. He stayed screaming at Gerald and telling me there was blood everywhere. He is such a calm and happy child now. I envy him that. I wish i would forget but these memories are here. I wonder if it will all come back to him in future, i am torn. Part of me, would like to tell them but the selfish me wants them to have nothing to do with the man whose blood they carry.
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Macharia
It was going to happen eventually. She knew it, she just did not want to accept it.
She stared at wall clock...there was still time. She allowed her mind to wander.
They made her feel dirty, for no fault of her own.
She had been raised well, to stand for right over wrong. And that is what had gotten her here. She should not have let her conscience allow her to carry this shame. She rubbed her stomach and pressed the warm cloth as she had been told. She reached for the remote control and flipped through the channels. If there was anything that would get her mind off things, it was good reality TV.
She pulled the comforter over her thighs and rested her head on a cushion. As soon as she found her comfort spot, she heard the faint but distinct cry. If there was one thing she had leant in the last five days, it was that it would be a long time before she could fully rest.
She eased up in the chair and leaned as far as she could into the cot and stared at the little bundle. She didn't have the heart to carry her but she knew it was feeding time and soon there would be wailing. She had gotten a wailer, the nurse had said. And she had wondered why for all her pain, the heavens had not found it fit to give her a silent little thing to hide her shame...but No, this baby could cry and cry loud.
She felt the tears begin to well up as she heard her mothers soft footsteps. What she hated the most was the sorrowful looks they gave her. She watched as her mother picked up the baby she had failed to give a name up till now and coo her. She wondered if one day she would be able to give the child even a piece of herself.
She slid back into her comfort spot and allowed the tears to flow. She shouldn't cry, she knew. It made her mother cry too but this was not something she would easily let go of. She heard the tyres on the gravel outside and knew they had come. She wiped her eyes and nose and smiled weakly at her mother. She could do this. She would tell all and perhaps the weight would be lifted, perhaps she would be able to look at the child and not want to retch.
My name is Macharia, i have a five day old baby and i am 15years old. I grew up in the church. I never had a boyfriend, my parents said i had to wait until i was 16. I do not drink and i pretty much spend my free time at home or in church groups. Months ago, a girl i was friends with at school invited me to a party at her house. I was trying to get her to come to church and i didn't want to be this stuck up person who couldn't have a little fun. My parents said i could go and i did.
One of the boys at the party raped me. He had seemed nice enough. He had brought me a drink and asked about church and all. I woke up in my friends room and she was crying and staring at me. We figured there was something in the drink because i do not remember anything after the few sips i took. I didn't go to the hospital. I was ashamed and i was angry. We didn't tell anyone. She would get in trouble and i thought my mother would be angry. I realised i was pregnant a couple of weeks later.
She started at the woman in front of her and wondered if she understood. She was nodding politely while her father looked at the floor. Her parents had encouraged her to talk to their counsellor friend, they thought she would help. She continued with the lines she had said over and over in her head the last few hours.
My mother says i shall love the baby one day. I couldn't bring myself to give it up for a adoption but again i cannot even bring myself to nurse it. My mother places it near me all the time so that maybe i will be drawn to it but i find that i just stare. Perhaps one day i shall care. Perhaps one day my story will give courage to someone else. Just now, it breaks me to think it, to remember it, to live it.
She stared at wall clock...there was still time. She allowed her mind to wander.
They made her feel dirty, for no fault of her own.
She had been raised well, to stand for right over wrong. And that is what had gotten her here. She should not have let her conscience allow her to carry this shame. She rubbed her stomach and pressed the warm cloth as she had been told. She reached for the remote control and flipped through the channels. If there was anything that would get her mind off things, it was good reality TV.
She pulled the comforter over her thighs and rested her head on a cushion. As soon as she found her comfort spot, she heard the faint but distinct cry. If there was one thing she had leant in the last five days, it was that it would be a long time before she could fully rest.
She eased up in the chair and leaned as far as she could into the cot and stared at the little bundle. She didn't have the heart to carry her but she knew it was feeding time and soon there would be wailing. She had gotten a wailer, the nurse had said. And she had wondered why for all her pain, the heavens had not found it fit to give her a silent little thing to hide her shame...but No, this baby could cry and cry loud.
She felt the tears begin to well up as she heard her mothers soft footsteps. What she hated the most was the sorrowful looks they gave her. She watched as her mother picked up the baby she had failed to give a name up till now and coo her. She wondered if one day she would be able to give the child even a piece of herself.
She slid back into her comfort spot and allowed the tears to flow. She shouldn't cry, she knew. It made her mother cry too but this was not something she would easily let go of. She heard the tyres on the gravel outside and knew they had come. She wiped her eyes and nose and smiled weakly at her mother. She could do this. She would tell all and perhaps the weight would be lifted, perhaps she would be able to look at the child and not want to retch.
My name is Macharia, i have a five day old baby and i am 15years old. I grew up in the church. I never had a boyfriend, my parents said i had to wait until i was 16. I do not drink and i pretty much spend my free time at home or in church groups. Months ago, a girl i was friends with at school invited me to a party at her house. I was trying to get her to come to church and i didn't want to be this stuck up person who couldn't have a little fun. My parents said i could go and i did.
One of the boys at the party raped me. He had seemed nice enough. He had brought me a drink and asked about church and all. I woke up in my friends room and she was crying and staring at me. We figured there was something in the drink because i do not remember anything after the few sips i took. I didn't go to the hospital. I was ashamed and i was angry. We didn't tell anyone. She would get in trouble and i thought my mother would be angry. I realised i was pregnant a couple of weeks later.
She started at the woman in front of her and wondered if she understood. She was nodding politely while her father looked at the floor. Her parents had encouraged her to talk to their counsellor friend, they thought she would help. She continued with the lines she had said over and over in her head the last few hours.
My mother says i shall love the baby one day. I couldn't bring myself to give it up for a adoption but again i cannot even bring myself to nurse it. My mother places it near me all the time so that maybe i will be drawn to it but i find that i just stare. Perhaps one day i shall care. Perhaps one day my story will give courage to someone else. Just now, it breaks me to think it, to remember it, to live it.
Friday, August 21, 2015
The days are slow because i have to watch them
My back window overlooks the backyard of a couple that i know just recently got married.
In my idle moments, i push my chair to the window and sit with my magazine and cup of tea, well sometimes there is wine in the cup, and then i flip aimlessly through the magazine i have read over 10 times. I watch them sit on the tiny stools at the back of their house sometimes. He with his beer and she with her pen and paper. She is always writing something. It looks like he talks, she listens and writes. I wonder what that is about.
I like to imagine what it is she could be writing. It is too far away and i have never owned a pair of those fancy binoculars. Besides, that would count as snooping. What i am doing now can be excused as the view i get for the many shillings i pay in rent.
I imagine she is a writer, she looks like one. She wears fat spectacles, the fancy ones that the girls wear these days. She is probably in her 20's. I imagine she is writing his memoirs. He does not look like he uses his hands much anymore.
His head is always bent in thought but his look is distant. I imagine he misses home. I wonder why he just doesn't go back.
I never see them laugh...well except for that day when she wore the dress and he wore the suit and they came back and sat outside drinking expensive wine. They seemed happy and i was envious.
Now, she is always writing. He is always talking. They never raise their voices. It has been two months. I watch and count days because i have all of the time to do that.
You see, i used to be a busy bee. I never knew my neighbors, never knew their habits. I had my own life and lived in my little bubble with my fancy friends. It was a quiet exciting existence. I took a bike to work everyday after i woke up one day and sold my car because hours in traffic were not worth it.
That bike threw me one rainy day when it tried to make a turn and the calculation was not good enough. Plus the road was slippery. The oncoming car didn't see me until it was too late i think, and then i think the driver swerved hard because all he hit was my thigh. They tell me it is a femoral shaft fracture.
I am 26years old. When the doctors start to talk, i zone out. They do not say the words i want to hear and so i choose to not listen. But my brother does. He stands there taking it all in because he likes to know things, he likes to be intelligent. Also, he wants me to be okay.
He stayed with me for a while but even he couldn't stand my new found attitude as a recluse. He checks on me now and again to bring food. He doesn't know that i pay the maid extra to buy me bottles of cheap wine and hide them where he cannot find them. If he did he would be mad and he wouldn't bring money anymore.
Or he would take me to live with him and then i wouldn't ever know how the story of the old China man and his new bride ever ended. Perhaps i should give up wine and use the money to buy those binoculars.
In my idle moments, i push my chair to the window and sit with my magazine and cup of tea, well sometimes there is wine in the cup, and then i flip aimlessly through the magazine i have read over 10 times. I watch them sit on the tiny stools at the back of their house sometimes. He with his beer and she with her pen and paper. She is always writing something. It looks like he talks, she listens and writes. I wonder what that is about.
I like to imagine what it is she could be writing. It is too far away and i have never owned a pair of those fancy binoculars. Besides, that would count as snooping. What i am doing now can be excused as the view i get for the many shillings i pay in rent.
I imagine she is a writer, she looks like one. She wears fat spectacles, the fancy ones that the girls wear these days. She is probably in her 20's. I imagine she is writing his memoirs. He does not look like he uses his hands much anymore.
His head is always bent in thought but his look is distant. I imagine he misses home. I wonder why he just doesn't go back.
I never see them laugh...well except for that day when she wore the dress and he wore the suit and they came back and sat outside drinking expensive wine. They seemed happy and i was envious.
Now, she is always writing. He is always talking. They never raise their voices. It has been two months. I watch and count days because i have all of the time to do that.
You see, i used to be a busy bee. I never knew my neighbors, never knew their habits. I had my own life and lived in my little bubble with my fancy friends. It was a quiet exciting existence. I took a bike to work everyday after i woke up one day and sold my car because hours in traffic were not worth it.
That bike threw me one rainy day when it tried to make a turn and the calculation was not good enough. Plus the road was slippery. The oncoming car didn't see me until it was too late i think, and then i think the driver swerved hard because all he hit was my thigh. They tell me it is a femoral shaft fracture.
I am 26years old. When the doctors start to talk, i zone out. They do not say the words i want to hear and so i choose to not listen. But my brother does. He stands there taking it all in because he likes to know things, he likes to be intelligent. Also, he wants me to be okay.
He stayed with me for a while but even he couldn't stand my new found attitude as a recluse. He checks on me now and again to bring food. He doesn't know that i pay the maid extra to buy me bottles of cheap wine and hide them where he cannot find them. If he did he would be mad and he wouldn't bring money anymore.
Or he would take me to live with him and then i wouldn't ever know how the story of the old China man and his new bride ever ended. Perhaps i should give up wine and use the money to buy those binoculars.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Salina
The little bundle held heavy in her arms. She wasn't sure if it was because her arms had gotten tired or because the rain water had added to the weight of her bundle. Either way, there was nothing she could do now.
She kept her head low and quickened her pace. It wouldn't do to slow down now. It wouldn't do to catch cold and pass it on to the little bundle she carried. There had been no sound or movement in a while, she hoped that it meant that there was no trouble.
The thought made her panic though and she was tempted to poke at the bundle with her finger. She didn't though. She figured there was nothing she could do to change anything. If she hurried, she might make it before the last bus but she worried that she might slip and fall.
She slowed her pace now and looked down at the bundle she carried. A lone tear undisturbed by the light rain drops slipped onto the baby blanket. It was not going to be just as difficult as she had thought, it was going to be hell.
There had been a time....she shook her head, she would not allow for the thoughts to come. This was her reality now.
Her eyes moved over the bundle, should she shake it a little? See if it made any noise? She jumped as she heard a noise behind her. She made out the form of a woman walking quickly toward her. Should she walk faster in case she brought harm or should she stay still and wait?
She turned and continued at her pace. The woman walked quickly past her, holding what looked like a large stick in her hand. Salina watched her walk a while and quickened her own pace. There was safety in numbers she thought. But the faster she walked, the more the stitches hurt. Her body wasn't ready yet. Her body would not be ready for a long time. She didn't know if that mattered anymore.
She felt the slow trickle between her thighs. Her head began to pound. Fear gripped her and she started to mutter a prayer under her breath. She knew that all too warm slow trickle, and she knew what it meant. The stitches had come undone, again, and she was beginning to bleed. Her five day old bundle was barely holding on and her 15 year old broken battered body was betraying her. She felt the tears begin to well up and spat. The bitter taste in her mouth wouldn't go. She spat again and pulled the baby closer.
The little warmth she had felt emanating from the baby at the start of their journey had slowly given way to the cold. The fear that clutched at her began to pull. She fell to the hard wet ground and pulled away the blanket that held her baby. She knew then that it was futile. She let out a wail and she began to rock the baby. There were no sound from him.
The woman ahead turned and ran back to her but Salina didn't notice now. She stared into space and cried, rocking the still body of her baby and wondering about how cruel it all was. The woman started to speak. And when she saw Salina wouldn't hear her, she began to drag her off the road hand over Salina's mouth. The loud wails from Salina were bound to draw trouble to them.
It didn't make sense. Hadn't she prayed against this baby? Hadn't she cried hard and done everything in her power to make sure there would be no baby? But no, none of it had worked and so She had taken the months of shame, she had held her peace when they had kicked her out, hadn't she known they would? She had known he would do the same too, but he had surprised her. He had taken her to a little room and told her he would visit her here and he had.
He had shown up every week with food and things. After the baby was born, he had come to take it away and asked her to go back home. But she couldn't then, she had been drawn to this life that had come from her. She couldn't leave him. She had taken the beatings in the last three days for every time she showed up at his house where his woman stared down at her and called her names. Until finally she had managed to run away with her baby after they allowed her to hold him for a few minutes.
She had taken him with her to the house of a sympathetic neighbor and sworn her to silence with half the money she had. And then he had gotten ill. Shaking and vomiting. Refusing her breast and crying endlessly.
She stared at the lifeless form she held and slowly looked up at the woman who was begging her to be quiet. What was the point of it. She held up her baby and showed her. The woman turned away and refused to see. Salina stood up and slowly walked the way she had come. She left the woman who wouldn't even look at her child. She would find a place to put the baby and then she would find a thing to do with herself.
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