It was back in the 90’s as she rushed to make it to hospital before my time was due- strong woman she is. She took a whore’s bath after feeding me through tubes. On the back of a quick bicycle she got, hopeful, tired, but still beautiful, she was ushered into a room filled with experts.
I could feel her heart bursting with pace. I could feel tears stream down her cheeks. I could see the knife as it slid down her belly bearing me- I was born. A brown shade of gold or rather brownish- yellow glowed off my skin. “It’s a boy,” she joyfully gasped as she held me in her weak arms. Blindly, I smiled back and she chuckled like a little girl in the garden of love.
Her suffering had just started. I was a machine. I cried all day, all night- sleep was a myth to her, but she kept me steal- never once did she leave me down when I cried. Her back was my cradle.
Two years later, another boy would be born and dad would be no more. Gone, to dance with the Angels. Just that he didn’t leave her dancing but rather weeping, mourning, dumbstruck. She wasn’t alone, granny was by her side- wounded, in a worse position [He was her first son].
Meanwhile, I bullied my kid bro about as everyone wept. We played about, dancing to the sorrowful music in the compound.
She looked at us, and she wept more, she was screaming. Not just because we reminded her of him- the love of her life, her prince, her man. But because deep within somewhere, she was looking for the words to use when explaining to us- that dad would be asleep for a very long time…
…To be continued.