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It never occurred to her that I might go to sleep and decide none of this was worth it, pack all my things and leave...never to return. I mean, I know it all too well to not get axhausted of the same dance
I've lived two decades of complete contradiction. I know days when she used to plant seeds, water her garden and harvest the most amazing kinds of potatoes, spinach, carrots and strawberries too. Days, when she instilled in us the necessity to serve tea on a saucer over a tray with cup of sugar, a cup of warm milk and the shiniest teaspoon in the drawer to our father. To never look him in the eye, to receive whatever he gave with both hands, even magazines written in a foreign language. Days when I'd polish his shoes, when he was my Dad and deserved respect. Despite his untidiness and inability to cook or clean or do anything for himself really. When I used to be one of those people, with both parents living under one roof and having dinner and praying together before we slept . Days when I knew we never talk about stuff, but also thought it wasn't a bad idea either way. Because you know, we're family.
I also know days when none of this mattered anymore. When she'd demand we lock the gate and the door just before d add comes back from work. When we'd be told to cook and have our dinner, forget his plate because he didn't deserve to be served anything...never did. Days when we were told stories of how abusive and decieving he was...how she never should've gave him children, or herself to begin with.
When they'd sit on the same couch they've been sitting on for years and yet the atmosphere was the exact opposite, stiffening, thick enough to choke everyone in the living room and beyond. Instead of what I had assumed was casual silence in the past, now a storm rose from her gut to her mouth and all that came out of her lips was violence. Even her voice threatened everything we had thought our family was about. You'd swear it was the only thing she was ever capable of doing...this fighting. He'd protest,try to ignore it, defend himself and then apologize only to conclude that she was crazy after all, just as everyone kept saying .
You see, this is when I learned how to be invisible. What could be more important than war? Certainly not the fifth and last child in her late teens. Not any of them really. You'd think I'm exxegarating when I tell you that she anticipated the evening hours of my dad's return from work so she can breathe out fire. The morning and afternoon hours are spent recalling every negative thing that was ever done or said to her by anyone. The rambling became a normal part of our daily lives. And we loved her and hated our dad, till we despised them both for making us go through this with them, until how we felt wasn't relevant.
And now, years after my dad was forced out of the house...years after our home turned into a battle field, after the divorce and remarriage and another divorce, after everyone was asked if they agree that Dad should leave for good so we can we have peace . Nnmothing much has changed except we and every other person are the replacement for the role uBaba played in the drama . We are wrong and she's always right. We are against all she believes in and are holding her back from from being truly free . We are ungrateful little fucks who refuse to acknowledge that we are nothing without her .
The same evil spirit that worked through my father to sabotage her every move now works through us and we don't even know it. She can't think of anything except to escape, leave all this behind and die in peace. At age 62, none of have made her a proud mother and she no longer has the heart to nurture our wretched existence.
At least that's what she tells us, while we're asleep in the morning and she roams the kitchen pretending to be busy so we can wake up and be productive humans who listen to her rambling and agree that we are after all... nothing. She says all this while praying in her bedroom, loud enough for everyone to hear. She says all this on her way out of the house to the warehouse to check out prices for building materials do she can finally build herself a tuckshop since none of us are willing or capable of doing anything good. She comes back tired, still rambling, complaining about how hungry and in pain she is from the heat if the sun outside and all the effort she's putting in to give us a better life.
I think we all realise it's not us or the weather or the high prices or skipped breakfast that's making her tired and in pain. It's the terrible buggage she's carrying, the trauma, the grudges and regrets she's gathered her entire life. It's the locking up if doors, the deathly repression of any real emotion that isn't anger, the pretending , the God who doesn't answer prayers sometimes and the diabetes she won't take medication for because it would defy her faith in a relentless God without whom she'd not be who she was. It's the seemingly permanent end of the relationship with her sisters, her friends and ultimately anyone who has ever disagreed with her.
It's the weight of everything. And it weighs on all if us, unevenly. No one talks about it, scared to trigger a ticking time bomb that keeps imploding within itself. Even though we all suffer the consequences regardless. Give it a name, say it out loud, repeat it to yourself. .. like a mantra. Let it break you, gather all the pieces the next morning and do it all over again before the end of the day . Two choices , be the phoenix that rises from the ashes or remain burried forever. Who do you become?
I've lived two decades of complete contradiction. I know days when she used to plant seeds, water her garden and harvest the most amazing kinds of potatoes, spinach, carrots and strawberries too. Days, when she instilled in us the necessity to serve tea on a saucer over a tray with cup of sugar, a cup of warm milk and the shiniest teaspoon in the drawer to our father. To never look him in the eye, to receive whatever he gave with both hands, even magazines written in a foreign language. Days when I'd polish his shoes, when he was my Dad and deserved respect. Despite his untidiness and inability to cook or clean or do anything for himself really. When I used to be one of those people, with both parents living under one roof and having dinner and praying together before we slept . Days when I knew we never talk about stuff, but also thought it wasn't a bad idea either way. Because you know, we're family.
I also know days when none of this mattered anymore. When she'd demand we lock the gate and the door just before d add comes back from work. When we'd be told to cook and have our dinner, forget his plate because he didn't deserve to be served anything...never did. Days when we were told stories of how abusive and decieving he was...how she never should've gave him children, or herself to begin with.
When they'd sit on the same couch they've been sitting on for years and yet the atmosphere was the exact opposite, stiffening, thick enough to choke everyone in the living room and beyond. Instead of what I had assumed was casual silence in the past, now a storm rose from her gut to her mouth and all that came out of her lips was violence. Even her voice threatened everything we had thought our family was about. You'd swear it was the only thing she was ever capable of doing...this fighting. He'd protest,try to ignore it, defend himself and then apologize only to conclude that she was crazy after all, just as everyone kept saying .
You see, this is when I learned how to be invisible. What could be more important than war? Certainly not the fifth and last child in her late teens. Not any of them really. You'd think I'm exxegarating when I tell you that she anticipated the evening hours of my dad's return from work so she can breathe out fire. The morning and afternoon hours are spent recalling every negative thing that was ever done or said to her by anyone. The rambling became a normal part of our daily lives. And we loved her and hated our dad, till we despised them both for making us go through this with them, until how we felt wasn't relevant.
And now, years after my dad was forced out of the house...years after our home turned into a battle field, after the divorce and remarriage and another divorce, after everyone was asked if they agree that Dad should leave for good so we can we have peace . Nnmothing much has changed except we and every other person are the replacement for the role uBaba played in the drama . We are wrong and she's always right. We are against all she believes in and are holding her back from from being truly free . We are ungrateful little fucks who refuse to acknowledge that we are nothing without her .
The same evil spirit that worked through my father to sabotage her every move now works through us and we don't even know it. She can't think of anything except to escape, leave all this behind and die in peace. At age 62, none of have made her a proud mother and she no longer has the heart to nurture our wretched existence.
At least that's what she tells us, while we're asleep in the morning and she roams the kitchen pretending to be busy so we can wake up and be productive humans who listen to her rambling and agree that we are after all... nothing. She says all this while praying in her bedroom, loud enough for everyone to hear. She says all this on her way out of the house to the warehouse to check out prices for building materials do she can finally build herself a tuckshop since none of us are willing or capable of doing anything good. She comes back tired, still rambling, complaining about how hungry and in pain she is from the heat if the sun outside and all the effort she's putting in to give us a better life.
I think we all realise it's not us or the weather or the high prices or skipped breakfast that's making her tired and in pain. It's the terrible buggage she's carrying, the trauma, the grudges and regrets she's gathered her entire life. It's the locking up if doors, the deathly repression of any real emotion that isn't anger, the pretending , the God who doesn't answer prayers sometimes and the diabetes she won't take medication for because it would defy her faith in a relentless God without whom she'd not be who she was. It's the seemingly permanent end of the relationship with her sisters, her friends and ultimately anyone who has ever disagreed with her.
It's the weight of everything. And it weighs on all if us, unevenly. No one talks about it, scared to trigger a ticking time bomb that keeps imploding within itself. Even though we all suffer the consequences regardless. Give it a name, say it out loud, repeat it to yourself. .. like a mantra. Let it break you, gather all the pieces the next morning and do it all over again before the end of the day . Two choices , be the phoenix that rises from the ashes or remain burried forever. Who do you become?
