Morning bells from the church sounded, who rang the bells, the masserver, the security official, or the Priest? Those bells meant a lot to me. Mum and Dad fought a lot, I did not know why.
On Saturday night, Mum had hit Dad’s scrotum with the ‘banku-stick’ and Dad had yelled.
I saw Dad squeeze Mum’s breast too. They shouted and run around. I never played like that. But these old people did. I was only nine. The only child.
I heard Mum say, why did you kiss that girl? I heard Dad call Mum a whore. What did that mean. Their relationship was interesting beyond understanding.
That night, I slept in the couch, Mum used the second room and Dad, the first room. Mum cried all night. She was hurt. When I spoke, Dad said ‘You don’t understand’ Mum said, ‘Take it easy’. Saturday passed, as I lay in the couch, I cried. Cried but did so quietly, nothing made me happy.
I heard footsteps, I was almost sleeping. It was Dad, he was leaving. I asked softly, Dad, are you going? He said, I’ll be back. He left the house. Six minutes later, I saw his counterpart, she tiptoed, and followed Dad. It was funny how she moved. But who was I to laugh now, I smiled and sat down, I slept.
At about 2 in the morning, I heard shouts, two people screaming their throats out at each other. It was Mum and Dad. Curses, insults and blows. Dad never raised his hand. If he did, Mum would’ve died instantly. He was tall and had a cool half cast look. Muscular and had curly hair. Mum was okay, but she had become big after giving birth to me and being addicted to fatty foods. She had bloated, she cared less. That is when all these troubles began.
They entered the house, and still fought. Dad slapped Mum. She cried. He locked his room and slept. Mum cried and no one saw me, although they did all that right under my nose. It was intense.
I was walking to church because I had to serve mass. Divided attention, pain, hurt, anger, confusion… All in this little mind. The sky was cloudy, as if it were describing my mood. The roads were rather empty, it was Sunday, the neighborhood was always quiet on Sunday mornings.
I wore a black trouser, and a white T-shirt. A mass-server had to be simple when he was to serve at the Altar of Christ. I walked slowly, I had forgotten I was crossing the road. I moved slowly, and I did not see when and how that happened. I got hit by a car. “Braaanng” and a brake sound. Those were the last sounds I heard before I went unconscious.
Who drove the car? My Mum! Mum did.
My life was cut short, my new seat was a metallic chair and wheels. Pain flooded my heart. Real pain. But that did not stop me, I achieved something. Mum and Dad became the best of friends, it makes me happy, but it makes them sad.
Today, in my wheelchair, I stand a testimony of all children who have disabilities of any kind, I confidently say, most of us have no stake in our conditions. But we will fight, and fight.
A story by bobbywrites
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Photo credit: http://www.mayanz.com