Mother Mother. 👩‍👧🌬

​“Mother mother, I did something wrong” I said, walking into her room. My hands were drenched in the blood of such a bastard of a man but I didn’t seem to care. I laughed maniacally, looking down at my hands and laughing more at the memory I got from it. My red hands reminding me of the red gloves Father Christmas wore that year. It was not funny though, when those red gloves rode up my skirt. It was not funny when I told ‘Father Christmas’ I felt uncomfortable and he asked me to sit right and be a good girl or I wouldn’t get any presents that Christmas. 

Ha! Good memories. 

I take in the scent of her perfume and get reminded of why I’m here. 

“Ah. Mother, I did something wrong.” Normal people would report to the church, screaming ‘Holy Father.’ and asking the pastor to help beg God for forgiveness. But I most definitely cannot. The dear Pastor of our local church detested me. Apparently, it was wrong to give a man of God a slap. But dear mother, what was I to do when he insisted a demon was in between my legs and he needed to excavate it with his “tool”? Dear mother what was I to do when he lead me and me alone to his prayer room and it appeared his tool, was in the same place this certain demon was. In between his legs too. 

It might seem sad to any random person as to why these things were happening to me but in my head, I was just another statistic. 

The internet says 81 percent of women have been harassed in their lifetime. 

Dear mother, at 8, I was a statistic.

At 10, I was a statistic with Father Christmas.

At 15, I was a statistic with the same boys that used to prostrate when they greeted you on the road, smiling and throwing knowing glances at me. Did I fail to mention that? When I was circled on my way to buy pepper that day or how my dearest uncle saw tears running from my eyes, looked down at my torn skirt and slapped me because I didn’t bring the pepper back? 

Even then, I was a statistic. 

At 18, I was a statistic too. A very special one though. A statistic banned from  the church I was raised all my life and termed a demon nobody should associate with all because I didn’t allow pastor perform deliverance on me in this secret room with his secret tool. But, nonetheless, I was a statistic. 

But dear mother, only a few percent actually fight their abusers back. Only a special percent. I’m special mother. I’m very special. 

He was special too. He texted me everyday and sent me food on the weekdays. He told me I was beautiful and made me laugh. Oh, damn if only I knew the meaning of special was so twisted.  Mother, you always asked me to stay away from boys and I listened but this boy crawled his way into my life. He made me smile and he made me laugh and he understood me. I mean, occasionally he sent me messages like 

“Act right or I’ll leave you the way your father left your mum.” or 

“You’re a sad excuse of a human.” or

“This is why everybody always leaves you.”

But mother, nobody is perfect right? He never said sorry and never apologized but it was useless and it wasn’t needed when I already forgave him right? 

He asked me to stop talking to my friends too Mother. He told me they were bad influences and they just wanted to spoil the bond he and I shared. He told me it was either them or him.

Let’s pretend I was too dumb to pick him.

But in reality, I knew what I was getting into. I knew I would be a loner and I would have nobody to rant to but he was enough. And for him, at that point, I thought I’d do anything.

Eventually I did mother.

For him, I became a murderer. 

Sometimes, I think the pastor was right. I was a demon or maybe I am one? Who kills the man she loves with all of her heart? 

But dear Mother, what was I to do? He had invited me over, yes. I had worn my favorite red dress not knowing that at the end of the night, they’d be matching my hands.  Maybe it was my fault. The red dress was too short, maybe I tempted him. And mother, you know how this thing goes. I remember it happening when Uncle Nzugbe came over that night and did the same to you too. Hands grip your thigh and it all feels wrong. Time flies mother. And memories fade because I don’t remember how I got pinned on the bed, punching and kicking begging him to let me go. I cried, I screamed but he was strong mother. Very strong. 

“You’ve had this coming for a long time. Do you think I care about what you do every morning?”

Mother, those words stung, they stung more than when Father hit my face and called me an “ashawo” for going to visit a sick female friend. What stung more? What stung more were the feel of his lips on  my neck. His hot breath disgusted me and the hands I thought I loved burned me with flames hotter than those in hell with every inch of my body they touched. Mother I struggled. 

Mother I struggled with him. 

He slapped me, I slapped him too. 

He was beginning to get very pissed, I could tell but I couldn't get myself to stop fighting Mother. He opened his drawer and brought a knife out, pinning both of my hands down with his other hand. I think the knife was to scare me, little did he know it was the weapon of his destruction. 

I always liked strong men mother. I thought they’d protect me from the big bad world but dear mother, I never thought of who was going to protect me from them? or at least from someone like him?

The knife was sharp mother. I could tell because when the blade hit my skin and tore my flesh just a little to serve as a warning to me, it stung but weirdly, I found my blood beautiful as it trickled down my arm.  I laid still, in absolute fear. That seemed to make him think I was going to be submissive  but mother remember when you told me I could never be a submissive wife? 

He started again. Threw the knife to the side, tearing the front of my dress. His lips travelled down my neck, kissing the same spot I had a scar on when Uncle Nzugbe used the hot rag to burn me if I told anybody what happened. I think that was when something in me snapped. 

Till now, I don’t know how I was able to get the knife mother but I stabbed him. 

I stabbed him until my soul felt free. 

I did it again. And again. And again.

His face changed formations. 

He looked like our pastor, then he looked like father Christmas, then he looked like Uncle Nzugbe and it continued changing. 

For every face, I stabbed him twice mother. 

For Uncle Nzugbe’s face, 4 times. For you and me. 

I plunged the knife over and over again into him.

Until I could feel a smile on my face. 

The knife’s still in my hands right ow mother. The beautiful knife I used to take the life of the one I loved. It’s my most priced possession at the moment. Everybody I love is dead Mother. I’m talking to you now, hoping you’re listening and looking down on me from wherever you are and sending me a hug. 

But mother, let’s face the truth.

Everybody I love is dead. 

I love myself too. 

It’s only fair I die too.

So dear mother, I raise this knife to my wrist now to fulfill my “destiny”. 

See you in a bit. 

But I’m afraid, I’ll be burning in hell.

Dear reader, I tried to come up with something to say about this piece as i promised myself to always leave a little note for you everytime. But, i can't. My apologies. Again, read. Just read.