Rinsed out
Esther Nnaemeka@esthernnaemeka604300
7 months ago
"Mami, they said you can slow down if you are struggling". She literally trembled when I said those words. My mother was a strong woman. A traditional woman. The kind of woman who would keep her marriage till the end for the sake of her children. The kind that would kill her husband a thousand times in her head and still serve him pounded yam and his favourite soup every night. She knew what it meant to struggle quite well. What she didn't know how to do was slow down.
She turned slowly, as though she were meditating her response to what I had just said. When she finally turned, her eyes met mine. They seemed darker now and I couldn't tell if she was sad or angry.
"How will you do that? Will you walk backwards or what? Will you sit down for five minutes? Tell me! She walked up to me and stooped till she was at the same level I was where I sat. She clasped her hands in mine and pressed firmly; like she wanted to connect with me and telepathically share her thoughts with me and mine with her. I don't know what I felt when she grasped my hands or stared at me so coldly, all I know was that I lost words at that moment. I couldn't tell her that her pain was obvious; that the heavy layers of brown powder she laid as foundations on her face, paying extra care to cover the purple blotches on the corners of her mouth and eyes didn't cover everything she wanted to cover. It didn't cover the noises and the loud thumps that reverberated through the walls each night Sir P laid his hands on her. I couldn't tell her that though she had mastered the art of silent whimpering throughout the years, her ever misty eyes easily gave everything away; the abuse and the misuse of her love and her passion. In the end all I could say was,
"Sorry. I don't know what I was saying."
