There was a dark and sinister way the walls kept trying to do her in. It’s like they were shouting, “See, we told you! You should have listened!” and she kept shouting back, “But you knew! You should have protected me, should have kept him out”.
She cried… and cried some more. She bawled and distantly heard the hollow sounding cries that racked her whole being. It was the second time a man would make her cry; she also hoped it would be the last. Alone on that couch that evening she could not think of a more terrifying place to be. Her heart ached…physically, and not for him. Her heart ached for her. She had been lied to; lied to in the most spineless, vile manner ever. She had asked him and he had looked her in the eye and lied. She asked herself what she had done to deserve it, scoured her brain, searching for a clue as to what she might have done to deserve him inflicting that lie on her. He must have known she would find out soon enough, a matter of days, but he did it anyway. She hadn’t known him all of three weeks, two chance meetings and the fatal one, the one at which he took he number right before that phone call. The phone call that would make her believe for a minute that maybe, just maybe this was no hoax.
She had known or at least suspected all this in her subconscious, been armed with the all the weapons…so why had she fallen prey? Why? She’d heard it all, read most of it, been told the other quarter and had learnt the rest via Experience, that wise old douche bag. How was she to know that this would be the worst of them all?
“ Experience!”, she screamed mentally. “You are supposed to help me see and smell these guys a mile off! What were you doing?”
Questions kept popping into her head and multiplying into more questions. Was she doomed to this? Was this her fate? To be forever falling into preconceived predestined and clearly pre-envisioned traps? Was she meant to feel as bitter as she did right now? Forever? Scared to death about the way she felt. Worried sick that this might happen yet again or just plain bitter at never finding love?
When I considered writing about my 24th birthday, I had a lot of stuff I wanted to write about. I wanted to write about how much I was grateful I was alive and healthy and that I had a family that loves me and friends that meant the world to me and make out that my life is perfect (it almost is by the way). I wanted to write about warmth and fuzzyness and cute things and love and popcorn. I did. And I would have.
Then I remembered that my mother, the woman who brought me flailing and screaming into this world against my will obviously, forgot to wish me a happy birthday.
We are a vain lot, us humans. I say us because there is no way I can be the only person on this universe who has been slumped by the ineptitude of being adequate. I refuse to believe it. Feelings such as these have caused world wars.
So anyway, I have been feeling incredibly unappreciated lately but because I am wired to know that thinking about me is vanity, I have also been feeling really guilty for desiring appreciation. I mean what have I done to deserve it, really? Yes, people have been good to me but somehow my reciprocation is lost on them because materially speaking, and emotionally apparently, you can only give what you have. In truth though, people want material, they do. Oh I know all that, “it’s-the-thought-that-counts” business. There’s even a saying, I forget, but I know it’s there, one about selflessness and humility and all that halo gibberish. You and I both know that’s just tosh, almost always.
Society has created norms that allow me to believe that on my birthdays all who know me (especially my mother) must find ways (material one if you please) to make me believe the universe revolves around me, just this one day. Don’t blame me, it’s the damned system.
So naturally, in the days preceding and following the given day, I fell into a near abyss of wallowing and self-pity, deciding that it was okay to feel sorry for myself, that it was okay to wallow now so that I can be overwhelmingly happy the rest of this 24th year of mine. The cosmos is making me pay for being extremely lucky earlier on this year, she does that, gives you really cool stuff and people then fails to live up to the ridiculously high standards she sets for herself or dangles these things before your eyes long enough for you to notice them before she snatches them away.
In my own special way I wanted to make it worse for myself I suppose, because I deliberately took my birthday reminder off of facebook this year. I wanted all the wishes I got to be from people who actually remembered that it was my birthday. It used to be possible before facebook came along, now I know it is impossible. People need to be reminded that it is your birthday. If I hadn’t removed it, it’s easy to deduce that I would have at least received phony cyber wishes from people who couldn’t care less (wishes none the less), which is also my fault because in all honesty, I probably only know about 250 of my 600 facebook friends personally.
Do not get me wrong. I am an African child, born and raised, so naturally I have not celebrated every single birthday. This birthday twaddle is Western but well, the West came to Africa. What I am trying to say is, there has not always been cake or birthday wishes. It was never always a spectacular affair except for the first few years where photographic evidence assumes otherwise. The only difference between all those birthdays and this one is that Momma always remembered. Always.
Momma never always did something about my birthday, but she always remembered; that made all the difference. I know she can’t always remember my birthday especially now that I am so far but I am taking time off to rant about it anyway.
Now that I am done with that, I have decided to grow up. I am obviously not a little girl anymore. I will remember this year for sure. The year I realized that my birthday or my life for that matter will only be as good as I make it (I have always known this but I see it clearer). I also probably need to get me a boyfriend (or have him find me); such that he can suffer on days such as these if I want to be spoiled because I am human and, it’s about that time; the boyfriend time I mean.
P.S: Also…I’d best enjoy these last birthdays before I am also somebody’s mother and under pressure to make sure I remember every single one.
P.P.S: Some more ranting: Momma still hasn’t called. It has been nine days! She is clearly unrepentant. Hehe…I love this woman but I am soooooo going to get her for this! For forgetting my birthday because my sister is getting married??????? How is this even acceptable? Huh? Even if it is her first wedding as a mother! Still! You are supposed to compartmentalize! Oba I should kill THE sister instead of the mother, for choosing the wrong weekend/month to announce the impromptu engagement? hmmmm
P.P.P.S: oK…I have finished. I have grown up now. Momma..I forgive you. Even if Even Birthdays are more important than Odd ones, I forgive you (you must see how difficult this is) I forgive you…yes..I do. *side eye
3.30 AM: Bad Dream. VERY BAD DREAM! Can’t remember what it was about. I wake up to an even greater nightmare! It is raining thunderously. Horses, giraffes and all the wild animals you can think of must be pelting out of the sky. Someone in the heavens is very upset; very very upset; they are shouting, loudly.
3:50 AM: I think moving back into my room was not the most brilliant idea. Ok, wait, maybe it was, I hear the doors of the other rooms clamming shut every few seconds.
Mental note to self if I survive tonight: SHUT ALL DOORS BEFORE GOING TO BED.
There goes the door again. Is that a thief?
3:57 AM: All the valuable things are in the living room, I left my handbag and my laptop where I dropped them when I got home from work yesterday so there’s even enough money for him to transport the stuff. Haaaa…but I had needed that money to take my boss out for lunch today, it’s his birthday.
4:05 AM: Was that a shadow under my door? Maybe I should be turning off that corridor light to avoid unnecessary panic.
It will be necessary panic if I see the shadow in time to jump behind the door. Maybe he will open the door with me safely behind it and decide the house is empty having canvassed every room (mine is at the end of the hall, opposite the boys’). Or maybe I won’t be fast enough so he will strike me dead right then and there…in half maybe? I hope it is a sharp machete because I would prefer to die immediately. I wonder what the headlines in the news papers will read. Will they show photos? That would be gruesome. I should probably start wearing proper clothing to bed; it would not do to embarrass my family by appearing indecent in the newspapers of another country…dead or alive. I might also look fat…oh men I hope this new dancing helps (If I survive).
4:30 AM: (Someone in heaven is still very mad! 😦 Maybe it is Thor? god of Thunder? Yes, maybe. It is Thursday today after all. Maybe he is mad at Loki again and is shouting. They must be both shouting though, because that thunder is too much for one god.)
I had texted my cousin last night to tell him to beware, I had started dancing sweat-inducing Zumba in their living room because of this lady. They were not to be alarmed if they came back from Uganda to find I had danced their living room into the ground floor of the absentee landlord’s house.
5:00 AM:
Reply from the cuz: The house must be reeking with your sweat…has it stopped raining? (How did they know that it was raining this minute? I was right, they run from the rain; they are trying to see if it is safe to come back now.)
ME: Nooo…it’s raining mad right now. I think the house just shook. If I die, tell momma I love her, even you guys I love you even if you abandoned me in Sierra Leone alone.
REPLY: If you die, bambi say hi to Jesus for me, ask him not to forget us.
DARKNESS!
ME: Ayaaa…power has gone! Aaaaah! Why did you guys give me a bed I cannot hide under? There is no under-the-bed!
REPLY: Try the closet.
NO COMMENT
5:10 AM: Lord oh Lord I need to get my door lock fixed! Procrastination will surely be the death of me! If I could at least close the door with a key, it will delay the murderer/thief a little bit. I need to tell these guys to send me the carpenter’s number. No, I should get all their numbers. All of them, the plumber, the DSTV guy, the electrician, the water guy…maybe they can fashion me the ultimate weapon. Wait, what if they are the thief??? Yalabi!!
5:30 AM: (Distant hum of the generator) Oh thank you Jesus the security guard is alive!
*Jumping out of bed at lightning speed (appropriately) to turn on the light.
*closing the curtain too…all that paparazzi business in heaven can be blinding
6:00 AM: Aaaaah 🙂 phew! It’s trickling to a stop…mice and dudus, oh crap! That is not a very comforting visual.
6:18 AM: *PEEPING BETWEEN CURTAINS: Aaahh…nice, the beginnings of dawn. Are those birds chirping? A cock crowing too? We are all alive?? No repeat of I am Legend…noooiiice 🙂
6:30 AM: I should have some cereal. Today is going to be a loooong day. Let me sleep for twenty.
7:00 AM: No, let’s make that popcorn, popcorn and ginger tea. Yes, popcorn will make me happy.
7:01 AM:I really wish I could sleep some more…Lord? Anyway, it’s okay.
Ginger tea and popcorn..I laid out everyone’s place mats just in case. But I made tea for just me!!! muhahahahahaha…yes, I am still sane, thank you very much
Yes, definitely wild animals, see what they did to a perfectly good road! It must have been a stampede. Stones, big stones have been moved!
Every year around this time, Kelaya did something to honor a man she never knew, not really anyway. A man, without whom she would surely not exist, a man whose DNA coursed through her…wait, what did DNA course through? Did it even course? Yes, aside from the fact that they shared a strain of genetics, Kelaya had slowly come to terms with not knowing the man her father was.
Her mother had been embittered by her experience with him. Consequently, she had told Kelaya that he had been a womanizer. The only concrete thought or memory Kelaya had of him, from a very tender age was that, he liked, no, loved women. So she had joked about it, to her friends, that, when God had said to go forth, multiply and fill the universe, her father had taken it personally.
She had stopped crying a long time ago; around the time she had re-united with his other children, her siblings, after ten years. It seemed she had found him in them; it was comforting, just, to be able to mourn in company. She had found comfort in seeing her father’s compassion in her sister’s eyes, his physic and features in her brothers’ heights and features. She had accepted that he was gone and that it was time to celebrate his life. A life she knew very little of. A life she had always heard about second-hand. A life style she was never to applaud.
It is 1 in the morning. I am lying on the living room couch of an empty house; a house that usually has at least six people a night. I was in my room earlier but somehow the knowledge of this emptiness makes me want to balance it out; leaving all the bedrooms unoccupied. So I have moved my mattress to the living room, but I cannot bring myself to sleep on it, that would be cheating. My ear is attuned to every sound, some comforting, some not so much.
There’s an irregular hum from the fridge in the hall way, it belches every so often so that it can resume its humming with renewed vigor. Did it always used to do that? The red and white Airtel clock on the wall behind me is not ticking reassuringly; it seems to have one of those fancy second-hands that slide smoothly in circular stealth. Up until tonight, I had no idea this clock did not tick. What happened to ticking clocks, who decided they made inconvenient noises? I have decided I do not like non-ticking clocks very much.
It’s dark except for the light from the hallway which never goes off even when it’s a full house. I can hear the distant barking of a dog. There are no sounds of crickets; either because they are being drowned out by the dog or there were never crickets this side of Freetown, it has never occurred to me to ask.
I am tempted to lay booby traps all over the house in the event that some night-lurker comes lurking around but I am feeling extraordinarily lazy; too lazy to eat even. And that, my friends, that would be something to worry about if I was not a little bit overweight. I haven’t cooked in three days and I cannot bring myself to eat the rice-crispies, chocolate or roast chicken in the fridge, which is just as well because things like this inadvertently race to the finish line that is my thighs.
I am meandering again.
This is day two of the final few days of my twenty-third year on this universe and I am ALONE! I am by myself, alone, in a new country with hardly any personal friends to speak of outside of work. This is a new one, one I am totally unprepared for. Yes, I know I embarked on a twenty hour journey on Christmas day once, leaving my family, but that was different, I did not leave them alone, I left them with each other, and boy are they many! It was also my choice which makes all the difference in the world.
My Ugandan family in Sierra Leone has gone home for the summer holidays! They do this every year. Interestingly though, or not if you look at it from this angle, the angle from my couch, there’s no summer in Sierra Leone or Uganda for that matter; in fact it has been raining very hard in Freetown lately. I suppose they run to escape from the rains, and to eat some matooke so they can return in a better mental shape to take on life and work in a place that is not home.
So anyway, I am alone, in this house for two weeks. I wonder if my being will spontaneously combust at midnight on the 3rd of September, approximately seven days from now, in anticipation of the twenty-forth year or in an angry case of aloneness. The latter would not be very wise but who am I to question the works of an alone body on a day of such great importance? How often does one turn 24?
There is a new fridge at home. That was the first intriguing information I received in my first week in Sierra Leone. This news would not be intriguing if it were not for the fact that the replaced fridge, Jack, had been with us for 12 years (I don’t think this is legal, but the head of the house is a lawyer 😦 ). Jack had in fact become more like a cupboard, because you see; only the lower half, the freezing compartment worked. We all used to pray he would retire soon but the head of the house seemed to see otherwise, and when you are not the bread-winner or the fridge-winner in this case, all you can do is pray.
Jack has been unplugged and laid to rest, probably in the store somewhere or converted into a proper cupboard because my parents do not throw things unless it is absolutely necessary.
I hope he was unplugged in a ceremonious manner but you can never be too sure; my family gets a little too excited over things. I can almost picture my kid brother jumping up and down on Jack’s carcass in joy.
The GATE
Today my baby sister (17 years old) joined the Whatsapp congregation. Momma bought her a phone and her big brother, who is my younger brother helped install it for her. I am excited!! In her profile picture, I recognized the wall behind her as part of the boy’s quarters (it really is the boys’ quarter, a separate house where the boys in our family have their bedrooms and baths, not like boy’s quarter of Ugandan fame to mean where the help lives) and commented asking whether I was right; I was. I have not forgotten home. She went ahead to regale me with tales of the changes at home.
The house has received a fresh coat of paint, all white and sparkly (this never happens, not often enough any way) which is probably why I was able to notice that wall behind her in the first place. It bore little signs of age as it usually does. To clarify just what she meant, she sent me a video of the house and the recent changes, occasionally chirping in to confirm that that was indeed the front balcony in its recently archived brilliance. It also appears the gate is greener than usual. To quote her (this is really how she speaks I might add. So I am recording for posterity’s sake such that I can remind her when we are older and she is forced to speak proper English).
KaJubilee: “Munange, I shud send u da gate, it is greeeen…I miin very”
Me: “Too green oba? No white anymore?
KaJubilee: “White is de naye da green is over over!”
She sent a picture to confirm.
The very green gate..which is only very green because it hasn’t been painted in 6 years or more. It’s bound to shock the eyes a bit.
This entire conversation was via Whatsapp.
I asked if anything else was new. She is complained of the subscription for DSTV which has not been paid for this month…I can see where the funds for the subscription went.
As of two weeks ago, I had never sat behind the stirring wheel of a car and actually moved the bulk of machinery. And now, after nine hours worth of education on how to maneuver a vehicle within the streets of Freetown, I have my learner’s permit. Yipeeeeee !! I can now DRIVE!!! No, I do not have a car. Yet. This is all about claiming what has been laid aside for me. I do not want to waste time when the car comes along. Here are my accomplishments so far. My “papers”.
Passport– keeping it myself was the real accomplishment. As with all “important” documents, I did not get to keep any till I was 16. It’s like it was with our “smart” clothes, the ones we wore to church. Every Sunday morning before I was 12, we’d bathe and get greased up and powdered then we’d have to seat and wait for momma to bring us the clothes from her room. We were not trusted to keep them in our closets.
Birth Certificate– This should have come before the passport but I did not want to re-explain the important document thing. I did not know what a birth certificate was until I was 18. Apparently I needed a copy of it to apply to my University. Momma claimed she’d given it to me along with my baptism card and O’level documents when I had become “of age”, about the time I was allowed to keep my smart clothes in my own closet. Here’s the thing, when my mother forgets something that involves two people, her being the adult, has to be right; she just must. So according to her I had lost it. I had to reapply for a document to prove that I was indeed born at some point in the late 80’s. I made an error in the information I gave about my mother’s name at the time of my birth. It’s fine. No one has noticed. When I showed it to my mother, she said, “Eh, kumbe that is what it looks like?!” I worry for my siblings.
Baptism Card – There are three of these cards. Because I cried to momma to change my surname; people couldn’t pronounce it right. She argued that I’d have to drop the name anyway, when I got married. I was 7; there was no reasoning with me. In retrospect, I should have stayed with the name, am using it more now anyway.
Bachelors Degree– Most people have some form of family celebration for this one. I didn’t. So the next time I graduate there must be a party! And I MUST give a speech! It’s that, or y’all will have to listen to a reeeeaaaaalllly long speech on my wedding day. Best if we cover some of the bases.
MBA– pending
Driving Permit– The real one…when I get it, will be my birthday present to myself this year!
Marriage Certificate– Yesu Kristo! Let’s not discuss this.
Back to the Driving permit, I am very excited. Please don’t laugh, I know it’s late. I was tired of hearing,” you can’t drive? Really?” I have one more paper to add to my collection of “important documents”.
P.S. I know at one point these documents are going to accumulate and I will hate them. In the mean time, I’ll enjoy the evidence that I am now an adult on my way to independence, a few years off the plan, but still on track.
There’s a photo in the living room back home. You will not see it unless you are really looking, you will have to be like those visitors who visibly crane their necks to see each and every picture in the room. You might have to get up even, and move around as you would in a museum because, you see, the days of handing out family albums as a form of entertaining the guests have long become a forgotten tradition. If you are interested in the photos, you’ll have to look for them. The pictures are not in one place like a mantle above the fire place (we’ve never needed one) or a cabinet stacked with various frames filled with Kodak moments the family has enjoyed. My family is not like that. The only photos you’ll see in the house are various portraits of my parents, their wedding day, and the pope and there’s even a big one of Mary and a chubby Jesus reaching out with his plump little hand and another of a pair cherubs; none of us, the children. It’s not OUR house, it’s clearly our parents’, but its home. We are only passing through. The living room is fashioned in the only way my mother feels comfortable; with photo frames mounted onto the dark mahogany curtain boxes punctuated by different tributes to her faith and her husband’s idea of art collections.
I digress, back to the photo. If you look hard enough, you’ll find it, in all its black and white glory, right above the living room door frame in between the miniature hut and the equally small blue and white porcelain Victorian styled mansion. It’s my favorite picture in the whole scattered collection. It’s not big; it’s a regular sized photograph. I guess mama doesn’t want to do it over any more than she has to; the original photograph had to be photographed to come up with this picture from which a few more copies were made. This picture depicts two plainly dressed, regal looking ladies, both perched onto invisible stools with their legs crossed at the ankle. One of these ladies is Tata, my grandma, momma’s momma. She is barely smiling, like the other lady who I do not know. Seated on this other lady’s lap is a little girl who could be either one of two of my mother’s three children, my younger brother and I. Except it is not, that little girl is my momma, at age 4, so by my calculations, the year must have been 1966. Behind these ladies, is the subject of this winding tale, a tall handsome light skinned gentleman in a dark suit; my Papa, momma’s Dad. On his arm, resting on his firm chest is a little baby, dark in contrast; my Aunt.
I have never seen Papa in real life like I have in that picture. I have only been told it’s him, I can’t say for sure because the Papa I know has never looked like that for as long as I have known him. The papa I know is darker wears a perpetual little frown and his looks are less daunting. Auntie says it’s the sun that darkened his skin and put the frown on his forehead. She might be right; momma’s not as light as I remember, she’s darkening too.
I know very little about this man; my mother’s father. I know he was a teacher just like Tata and because of that picture; I know he was a handsome fellow once, tall and slim too. Life and age robbers that they are must have taken most of him with them. They failed to take his English, which is just as well; it is inspiring, even now.
Well, Papa is ill. Papa is very ill. It’s been like that for a while. Lately, I suspect is the real deal. I don’t think he’ll see the New Year. I haven’t seen him in a while, two years may be. Not by choice but I realize I might have taken to him better if I had seen more of him growing up. He was always passive in our lives, like a visitor. The last memory I have of him is when he was standing in the front yard waiting to be picked up by a friend so he could go back home. He had laid his little tightly packed suitcase to rest at his feet. I know he is stubborn too, because momma has complained about how he never listens to her. Like that day, she had told him there was no way she was taking him back “home” in his state so he had called up a friend or one of the people he could bully to come pick him up as soon as she’d gone to work.
I don’t know if I’ll miss him when he is gone. I don’t think I will but I know momma and her sisters might, being their father and all. I should miss him, he is my grandfather. I should mourn too. People say I am a spitting image of my mother who I know takes after her father so I take after him too; this stranger of sorts. The way I see it though, I think he is tired. I think he has been in pain too long. I think it would be okay if he rested. I love him, I know, a lot like I’d love a lost friend; through memories, some real, some made up.
I always think about him like I see him in that picture which will remain long after he is gone. In my memory he is a cross between that tall handsome, potent looking stranger and Papa…older, smiling with that Museveni-hat of his and his ever present Kaunda suit. He won’t be gone when he leaves, he’ll be a lingering memory just like always.
Your song is playing on the radio; Adele’s Set Fire to the rain. It’s a song I forced on you I think but you were always so calm when you listened to it, you dosed off most days and were less tantrum-y so I guess in a sense it is my song for you. I wonder how old you are as you read this or maybe you won’t be the reading type. As I write, you are exactly one Year, seven months and twelve days old. You won’t remember, but you spoke to me over the phone yesterday. Your momma said to say hullo to Auntie and you were silent. So she said to say “bye” and you said “babye”. You’ve obviously grown, I called a couple of months ago and you wailed for the phone but when given it, you didn’t say a word even when I said, “Hi thweety, auntie loves you very much and misses you so”.
How’s your sister? Your mother says you are getting along now so am really glad. I haven’t seen you both in five months and it’s quite disturbing since I have seen you at least once a week since you were a week old. At the time Nesiah was born, your terrible twos had set in prematurely. I wonder how that’s treating you now, having to be a big sister so early. Have you stopped walking off when she starts crying? I would tell you to kiss baby and you would lick her, slobbering all over her face. You have beautiful hair by the way, but Nesiah’s seemed to fascinate you more. I don’t know if you thought I wasn’t looking but I saw you try to separate her hairs a lot. You won’t remember this either but when Nes was littler than she is now, you had acquired a new habit of trying to get your little figure into small holes, like wall sockets and two of those small holes became your sister’s nostrils. I found you by her baby coat once trying to reach far into the coat so you could touch her. I shooed you away from her. Your cousin, Neona and I had instructions not to leave you around your baby sister unattended. We worried you know…in good faith, but with good reason. Do you remember James? Here’s a picture. You made him cry.
I had to pry you away so I couldn’t take the picture of him wailing as you continued to do what you were doing to his head.See the finger?
P.s. I know it’s not that time yet but I hope we don’t have trouble when I take you to the bar next time. (Its the only place that had airtime) you got a free drink from the bartender (juice)… you refused to leave and threw a mighty tantrum when I insisted.
It was in the way she carried herself she suspected, the way she laughed, with such abandon. Yes, she suspected it was what drew him to her. Her mother had warned her about these things; about putting herself all out. But how could she not? For as long as she could remember she had been encouraged to express herself. And now they were saying she couldn’t? That it was unladylike to laugh till your insides contorted in pain as you doubled over holding your middle and wiping tears from your face. That it was uncalled for to sway to the music that was playing at a nearby party, a party you were not at. That it was unbecoming to cry openly in front of a man. That he was never to see you at your weakest; lest he take advantage of it or leave in disgust. She had promised she wouldn’t, that she would be as ladylike or even more just like her mother demanded. And so she had been. Until that night…because, you see, momma wasn’t always watching.
oneminutemind 