Filed under: press Release | Tags: children, nonfiction, press Release, thrill
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Flower:
We had our first argument last night, and he said a lot of cruel things that really hurt me. I know he is sorry and didn’t mean the things he said, because he sent me flowers today. I got flowers today. It wasn’t our anniversary or any other special day. Last night he threw me into a wall and started to choke me.
It seemed like a nightmare, I couldn’t believe it was real. I woke up this morning sore and bruised all over. I know he must be sorry cause he sent me flowers today. I got flowers today, and it wasn’t mother’s day or any other special day. Last night, he beat me up again, it was much worse than all the other times.
If I leave him, what will I do? How will I take care of my kids? What about money? I’m afraid of him and scared to leave. But I know he must be sorry because he sent me flowers today. I got flowers today. Today was a very special day. It was the day of my funeral! Last night, he finally killed me. He beat me to death.
If only I had gathered enough courage to leave him, I would not have gotten flowers today……. Fear: I woke in a pool of pee to see my father peering into his snuff tin. The container was empty—I could tell by the expression on his face. He had forgotten to refill it the day before and, in a moment, would be looking for someone to blame. Lying still atop my urine-soaked sleep mat, sweat beginning to bead on my skin, I watched Dad carefully with one eye, waiting for him to smell my offense.
It was already growing warm—any moment the pungent scent would reach him. My brothers and sisters lay on their own mats, unmoving. If they were also awake, they didn’t show it. Nor would they. Not until he was gone. No matter what. I closed my eye, wishing he would just leave for work, and then I opened it again. He had not left. He was staring at me.
He knew. Exploding in an instant, he lunged and dragged me onto the floor.
He kicked me so violently in the head that stars shot wildly in front of my wide-open eyes and I thought my skull had shattered into tiny pieces. Through the roaring in my ears, I heard my mother’s voice: “For God’s sake, stop! He’s only eight years old!” But her pleas meant nothing to him and never had.
He would beat her to a pulp, too, while his other children (his real children) hid away in fear under their sheets and pretended not to hear. As always, there would be no response from any of the families who shared this public house with us. They had their own problems and didn’t need ours as well.
I cried out for mercy with what I thought might be my dying breath: “Papa, please forgive me—Mama, please—Mama, please help me!” But there was no mercy. He kept beating me, driving me into a dark place, while my mother cried out for him to stop. From that black hole, I listened as he turned his rage on her.
“Get up, woman!” he screamed when she fell. He demanded—as he always did—to know where I had come from. I could not possibly be a child of his. When he had reduced her to a sobbing heap, he grabbed me up again and shook me violently. “Where did you come from, you stupid, useless child?” I couldn’t answer because I couldn’t breathe.
If you are against domestic abuse, please pass this along to everyone, NOT just women: www.warchildnet.com
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Filed under: 1 | Tags: press Release, children, nonfiction, flare, ghrd, brug, bruce, cerew, long, road
Long Road: Four: Demons
I kept my secret, and as the years went by and my invisible bride continued to haunt me, certainty grew that she was real and that if I searched for her, I would find her. These thoughts pressed me to run away from home, for Nexus was white with blue eyes and long golden hair—I would certainly not find her anywhere in Aba. Perhaps not anywhere in Nigeria.
I became obsessed with the idea of leaving to find her and marrying her in the Real World. I paid for my obsession with my social life, for I remained completely aloof from my black-skinned female friends. In Aba and Amata, that was the only color to be seen.
If you want to transcend this relationship, she told me, you shall find me in the real world and marry me.
I didn’t contemplate the improbability of that. It was simply made my goal in life, a goal that required me not only to avoid the girls around me, but also to actively dislike them.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t something I could keep to myself completely. For some reason, I felt compelled to mention it to my mother. “I cannot marry a black woman,” I said, not for the first time, as we prepared to go to market one Saturday morning.
I wasn’t surprised when she scolded me. “When will you stop making these senseless comments?” she demanded. “Who else would you marry?”
She was annoyed with me, but I wasn’t afraid of Mom like I was of Dad. She was my friend, my confidante. So I persisted in sharing this uncanny message that seemed bent on escape.
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Keep your dreams alive and shoot for the stars. Stay out of trouble and effect change in the society. You should not sit down; rather stand up and try to do something. Keep your minds at work. Remember, so many did not make it through. Many died in the arid desert, others prey to ocean fishes. Everyone has a talent; you should just discover what you are good at and work on it, to be meaningful to yourselves and our society.
