Flamingo

This was all my fault.

To be born as a disappointment, to have lived a dishonest life, and then to have died as a discontent being. Yes, this was all my fault.

You see, when I was born, I was dressed in pink, and placed in a blue crib in a blue-walled room. I cried in suffocation. It was my fault.

As soon as I started waddling in my diaper and started joining the dots of what people said to me, about me, and after me, I sensed I wasn’t welcomed into this world with a happy heart. I was held half-heartedly by those who would have loved to dress their newborn in blue. I let their resentment poke my heart and slit my tongue into two: like a viper’s. And it was my fault.

When I was old enough to climb up a guava tree, straddle across its smooth branch to pluck out the unripe guava nestled among the delicate white flowers, chip away its bitter skin with my teeth to find the closely packed ball of seeds, and marvelled at the slightly sour taste of it, I got thrashed on my legs afterwards. I was told it was improper to climb trees wearing skirts. I whimpered and agreed. It was my fault.

At school, there wasn’t a subject I didn’t like, and there wasn’t a person who believed that. There were a few smirks and snide comments when I aced any test or debate. To be fair, there were a few pats on the back and claps too. Just enough to keep me going. When it came to being popular though, it didn’t matter how sharp my mind was, it only mattered how round my body was. I refused to take it. It was my fault.

College was a bubble. It didn’t matter if I got pinched or groped on the bus ride while getting there, once I got in, it was a whole different world. Everyone looked like they had just escaped from the leashes and believed they were the budding architects of an upcoming utopia. I too got carried away a bit. It was my fault.

Years as a young worker taught me one thing; the workplace was the antithesis of utopia. But I kept at it, partly as I wanted to pay my bills and partly as I wanted to prove myself to those who put blue cribs in blue rooms before time. I wasn’t shrewd enough to know I was a derivative of a function that can’t be proved. It was my fault.

You don’t want to be a single career woman for long. Believe me, it’s a crime worse than wanting to annihilate civilization. A young woman who wants to be respected ought to marry and multiply. Period. I didn’t completely believe it, but still succumbed to it. It was my fault.

A woman can’t have it all. If she has, then she is not a woman at all. I scoffed at it. But somewhere along the time, as I hobbled between changing diapers, typing presentations, hiding milk stains under the jacket, and warming the bottles- I agreed with it. It was my fault.

There was joy in growing up with kids; there was pain when they come home with scraped knees. And there was a period of perfect harmony at home just before when the hormones hit them. Soon, there were minefields, asteroids, and everything in between, that tested the last bit of my pre-menopausal patience, already running thin. See, how well I phrased it- just the way I was fed. Somewhere, I had lost my fangs. It was my fault.

There came a moment when those weird, wonderful bundles of energy who were once part of me but had moved lightyears away from me in every which way but for the physical resemblance, waved goodbye and moved to the dorms or a distant town. It was the worst pain I had endured in a long time, but I felt liberated as well. I was finally free to dig out old slights and hurts that had come my way that I had safely swept under the carpet of raising the kids. And examine them. Instead, I chose to create something that healed me. It was my fault.

I had failed to see I couldn’t be my own mistress yet. Healing was not an option. The exhibits from my unremarkable life were pointed at by the people in my life to show my worth. And they kept advising me on how to improve myself even as my hair went grey. I smiled and promised them I would try. It was my fault.

I could feel my body losing the bounce, muscles turning mushy and the bones turning brittle as I bid farewell to many around me. I was ready to follow them when my time came. But I still listened to a nagging voice inside me. Had I lived my life? I knew it was too late to be having such thoughts. It was my fault.

My mind started playing tricks as well. Maybe it was my age or maybe it was just me. A woman who didn’t have the temperament to feel content with her lot and kept aspiring to better herself usually ended up losing her mind- I had gathered it from the annoyed people who struggled to help me get on with my daily life. I had difficulty making up my mind about whether I agreed with them or not. It was my fault.

I was glad that the moment I had been waiting for had finally arrived. I wasn’t sure I could have held myself together for much longer. In the split second, before I left this body, just after the montage of my life had finished playing in front of me, the answer to my question flashed before me, clear as a crystal.

Every choice I had made landed me exactly at the same place where I had started from. A pink-clothed baby in a blue crib. And it was all my fault.