My mother looked at me in confusion.
There were only two people I referred to by pronouns and she knew it.
I saw the recognition in her eyes before she added, “Oh, dear. Where?”
I proceeded to tell her how and where I saw Mark, not failing to show the disgust I felt. My mom sat there looking at me for a while after I finished talking. I knew she would not have much to say. She had learned to be careful with her words when talking about this kind of issue.
My first attempt at suicide a few months after the rape was meant to be successful, but it had failed woefully. I had taken a knife from the kitchen when I thought my mom was not looking, went into my room and slit my wrists. Both of them. Then sat on the floor staring at them bleed hopefully to my death.
My mom had barged in, yelling on top of her lungs. She quickly tied both bleeding openings with scraps she had torn from her wrapper. When she was sure the bleeding had reduced, she began hitting me left, right and centre, raining insults upon me. I had remained mute as she hit me. Not until I saw she was out of words and energy to continue.
I took up the knife and attacked her with full force. She was fast to grab hold of me but not fast enough to prevent a huge tear across her chest, which luckily was protected a bit by the thick shirt she wore.
I struggled with her, giving her insults of my own, ravaging like a wild lion. I then broke down in uncontrollable tears and she joined me. We stayed that way for a long time. That was the last time she ever insulted me.
“You are past that now, Ife mi,” she said quietly. I tried to nod but my head didn’t move. I wanted to tell her how I really just feel like taking his life and not mine when my phone rang. It was Juliet.
To be continued…
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