You can only give what you have.
In a twinkle of an eye, my life went from that of an untroubled, laughing, playful, irrepressibly-curious child to one of jumpy fearfulness and watchfulness. In a twinkle of an eye, mine had changed from a childhood of carefree attitude to one of constant alert and calculation: calculation about what to say and what not to say; how to say and how not to say; when to laugh or if I should laugh; when to speak or if I should speak. Should I ask for food when I was hungry, request a blanket when I was cold or spoke out when I hurt? Could I lie down when I felt unwell without getting my ear boxed or pulled and told that I was ‘bone’ lazy and useless? Was it okay to complain (again) that I was still being bullied and flashed by the teenage son of another labour — especially since my first complaint had earned me a querulous ‘Did I send you to fetch water or look at boys?’
As you can imagine, I was a frightfully fearful, confused and sad child.
But I couldn’t show it. I was not allowed to show how I really felt.
Aunty didn’t like me displaying any sign of unhappiness and discontent. That was another thing that got her really angry with me. She hated it when visitors picked up on my misery and asked what the matter was. She used to say that I was lucky to be living under her roof and saw no reason why I should act sad or look sad. But pretending to look happy when I was clearly sad was not easy to manage. But even that…I was determined to master. I could have done anything to make my uncle’s wife like me. I could have done anything to make her look at me with an expression other than the one of pure distaste that coloured her face and pulled her lips razor-thin whenever she looked at or spoke to me.
Instead of achieving the desired result, my efforts to get Aunty to like me seemed to aggravate her the more. It wasn’t long before the verbal assaults, and hard slaps became a frequent occurrence. At first, my uncle protested, but though book-brilliant he was socially inept, and therefore no match against his wife’s easy taciturn attitude. When it came to words, Aunty knew just what to say to make him back away, hurriedly. Besides, my uncle was known for his hatred of confrontation. He cherished quiet and calmness above all else and was the kind of person who could exist in the same home with other people for weeks without their realizing that he was even there. He was known to avoid anything that had the potential to create disharmony. And so while his wife ranted at me, pinched, punched and backhanded me across the face; while she humiliated me before my little cousins and made me feel stupid; while she made me stand in a corner with my hands raised for what seemed like an eternity, Uncle would quietly retreat into his bedroom, closed the door and bury his face in his books and newspapers.
