Parts of mama

By Kisauti

He's got stories that talk to you..

When I got pregnant at fifteen Mama cursed and threw her wig on the floor. “I did not raise a harlot,” she screamed. “Who is the boy?” she barked after two hot slaps sent me to the floor. “Is it Ken, the mannerless one? Or Patrick, the makanga you call Pato?” She picked me up and another slap sent me to the floor, once more.

After my child was born Mama forgot all about it. There were rumors that my child resembled parts of her but she dismissed them. “Enemies of progress won’t keep me from enjoying my granddaughter,” she said more than once.

When I got pregnant again at seventeen, Mama didn’t curse, throw her wig on the floor, or slap me. She wore her Women’s Guild garb and disappeared.

After she left, parts of her came into my room. I had stopped screaming and fighting their advances. Retaliation only worsened the ordeal. Parts of Mama knew not to hurt my face. It was my back that was whipped, my ribs that were bruised. All places my clothes hid from eyes that could ask questions.

I wore their favorite dress only for them to unwrap it with hurried hands. I lay in bed as they got in and out of me. While they moaned, I mourned. While they felt good, I felt scarred.

Mama came back happy. She told me she had been fasting and praying for the spirit of immorality to leave me. She told me I should be happy that God had forgiven a wretch who had two kids out of wedlock with two different men.

When I got pregnant again at eighteen Mama didn’t scream, throw her wig or fast and pray. She held me by my hair and dragged me outside. “Any woman who can get pregnant thrice can feed herself and her kids.”

After she was calm, I went back for my kids and my clothes. For three years I made makeshift camps in between friends’ houses and men who rubbed their skin on mine for a meal and a roof over my head.

It’s been ten years since I spoke to Mama and since parts of her walked into my room. My kids have grown up; Liz wants to be a teacher, Sarah a singer, and Jack a technician. It’s been ten years but I still feel parts of Mama inside me; squirming, burning. But I can’t speak up. How can I tell the world that the scars I carry are from my father, my mother’s husband?