SOLITARY: I Got Weaned At Three

…This story started here: SOLITARY: Mystery Natal Day.

Don’t forget, “it could be yours just as it is mine”.

At a very tender age I left my mother to stay with my aunt and her husband. It was my grandmother’s last wish that my aunt takes care of me. In her wisdom she didn’t see my mother as someone who would give me the privileges a female child deserves especially education. I was only three years old at the time she handed me over to my aunt.

After that “transaction”, my mother never sent for me to come spend holidays with her, not to mention the thought of visiting me. I sat by the window waiting to see the woman that gave birth to me. I was always the one who ran to answer the door. Whenever we wanted to go out I was always the first to get ready thinking my mother had sent for me. I waited for days, weeks, months, and years but never saw her. Like an animal I was weaned. My aunt became my mother and her husband my father.

My aunt did all she could under the context of caring, but something was missing. The love between a mother and a child wasn’t seen or felt. My aunt defined caring for me as providing shelter, feeding, clothing and perhaps the education my grandmother emphasised. I don’t even recall taking choice meals or eating whenever I wanted. And as a child, snacks hardly found its way into my stomach. But good a thing I wasn’t starved.

As I grew older, I had to do things kids my age couldn’t do. I was always indoors, didn’t have friends to visit and none came knocking to see me. It appeared as if I was grounded as punishment for not being with my mother. Though I wasn’t imprisoned, but every errand I went seemed to me as paroles.

Presently almost every day on Facebook, I see updates of photos and texts describing some fun kids had when they played back then. Funny enough everyone comments except me. What on earth would I comment when I know nothing about how kids played together back then. Most times among friends, I have nothing to contribute regarding childhood fun. I feign smiles as everyone takes turn to tell their story, but my experience is never aired out.

My Date of Birth wasn’t the only thing missing, my childhood was also. It was rather strange. No remarkable and humorous memories I could connect to that would make me smile. There were no fun times nor silly moments. All that took place was a repeated routine of house chores. I was deeply in isolation from the entire world and not just my mother. I was “weaned” for good.

solitary! to be continued.

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Copyright © 2017 by Hope Emmanuel.  All rights reserved

 

Remorse: Prickle Made Me Prick You

It was about 10.pm last night; I went to the back of our house to check on the chickens and to ensure my younger ones had tidied up the place. I tried to empty a basin of dirty water which I saw but couldn’t lift it so I took a bowl and began to scoop out the water gradually. As I threw the water on the floor, I noticed a repeated sound whenever the water gets close to the fence. I listened carefully and I could hear a sound that was in between a chirping bird and a croaking frog. As I threw more water towards that direction, I pointed the torch I was holding to lighten up the place.

Suddenly I noticed an awkward movement that sharpened my senses with adrenaline. The hair on my head prickled as I held my breath, straining my neck from a distance with every ounce of concentration to identify what it was. With the calmness at that hour, and being the only one there, but I could hear my heart beat in fear and trembling, even as I took the brave decision of tackling it myself.

As I continued to pour the water, it kept moving as if it was trapped or restricted to certain directions. I was carried away that I didn’t know my brother was behind me. I had obviously taken longer than I should have and he came to find out what was wrong. As soon as I heard his voice (asking what was wrong), the hair on my head prickled again at its root, and it was a dreadful sensation. This time around I couldn’t hold my breath, but began to gasp heavily.

After explaining to him, we both tried to know what was really there. After some time we were able to bring it out, and to our greatest surprise it was a crab. Yea! Surprised because we wondered where it had come from.

I also don’t know what live crabs look like. I’ve only seen them in documentaries. I have even watched them move around and seen people keep them as pets. But that was in the documentary. It did look like the one in the documentaries. Yes, that was a crab. I could see the large cheliped in front and the long walking legs as it moved sideways. Now I understood why it kept moving like it was trapped and restricted to certain directions.

Unfortunately, we only remembered we could keep it as a pet after piercing a hole through it. I guess the thought of how dangerous crabs could be and how poisonous one nasty pinch is, made us kill it without a second thought. It could have been someone’s pet or meal. I got prickled and I pricked a carapace.

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Copyright © 2017 by Hope Emmanuel.  All rights reserved.

In response to One-Word Prompt from Daily Post: Prickle