The red-coloured
dress I used to wear, which would run down to sweep the soil as I walked, would
assure me of elegance. My figure would be well formed with the waist and chest
protruding few inches away. Everyone – my classmates, friends, and my mother would
complement my beautifulness as being superior to that of my two sisters,
although they were all in college, where you have to considerably care about
your looks. Even my CRE teacher would encourage me to take part in the
township’s monthly beauty context.
Mum was the kind
of a woman every child would have liked to be associated with. She could
instill the spirit of academic excellence in me- from teaching me how to write
with a stub of the forefinger of my right hand to narrating “hare and hyena”
stories. From nursery school to class eight, I was a bright pupil with an
ambition of throwing myself into books. And emerge with a favourable grade
which would open the door for university.
During these
days, mum could ensure that my knees got used to the carpeted floor of my room
– and my fingers meditatively caressed my Holy Rosary for God’s interference. The
heavens didn’t frustrate my efforts. A positive answer materialised and I
joined the university. Here, life proved to be containing both sugar and
pepper. Mum wasn’t around to tell me to take heart for she would buy me some
fried chicken in town, at chicken fries. Only fellow students who didn’t care –
boys who were ready to strangle each other in competition of her ‘fresh’
thighs. The books and all the exams were also threatening to shatter my brains.
However, my grandmother’s persistent spirit encouraged me to bear it all.
Days swept by
into months, which gave birth to and found me in second year. By now, I had
developed into a ‘Bathsheba’. If David would have seen me, he would of course
have taken me as a concubine – if not a wife. Really beautiful I was in my
favourite ‘pencil’ trouser pairs, high-heeled shoes – the kind we used to call
“no hurry in Africa.” My France-based uncle used to import sweet scented
perfume for me. And I which I regularly applied. Its scent would mostly sneak
into everybody’s nose.
However, despite
this splendour, I had a feeling of lacking something. Several of my friends
were juggling learning and working. Not that I lacked in anything. Mum was
there for me. In fact I had the freedom – as free as the birds of the air – to
do whatever my heart desired. Severally would I welcome my boyfriends in the
house. I became the proverbial chicken which couldn’t stay with a single cock.
My agricultural basics lecturer often used to say that it’s the ripe tomatoes
which buyers go for.
My ripeness, like bees to roses,
attracted lots of buyers to me. “They are sugar carriers, let them come to my
home,” mum would happily remark when the visitors came, and sonny was barking
and threatening to spill blood. After, leaving, mum’s pockets half-full of money
and other sugary items, she would tell me; “Sweetie, you are just as opportunistic
as your mum. You are a true daughter of your mother.”I knew that mum would be ready to do anything for me – even if it meant cutting off one of her fingers. Even when my eldest sister accused mum of “baby-sitting and pampering me,” mum stood by me. With a momentary laughter, she cemented that a last born must be brought up well. (Story continues later)
©2013 Peter Ngila
No comments:
Post a Comment