A woman called Mom

Trigger warning: violence, self harm, mental illness.

My aunt Beth withdrew the contents of the package we received from mukobeko maximum security prison a few days earlier.

 Right after the declaration of a mass execution of death row inmates following the discovery of one hundred and fifty five heads of teenage boys in the basement of a prominent business man's farm house just on the outskirts of Lusaka.

 "timro daka" an act of suspected ritual killings.

Ritual killings:( the act of mutilating body parts or killing of people in a particular way similar to serial killings, for the purpose of sacrifice to religious or satanic cults in exchange for wealth, health, favor and power.)

 None of the presidents who had taken the seat after " Dr Kenneth kaunda" the first president of Zambia. Signed the death warrant due to religious reasons.

But with the news of the boys, the . Protests and petitions for the enactment of the death sentence, no death row inmate was to be spared.

I wasn't proud to say I hadn't seen or visited my mother in twenty years after she murdered my father by smashing his head with a hammer repeatedly till there was nothing left of it but blood, broken bones and tattered skin, right in front of me when I was just six years old.

I still remember the metallic taste of his blood in my mouth, the smell of iron on my blood drenched skin.the pain in her eyes as blood splashed across her face and her peach dress as she pounded away at his head . The shaggy hair that crowned her head and the black rubber band that held on to the coarse string of hair, like my mother was trying to hold on to her sanity that seemed to slip out with every hit she made.

That image was all I remembered about my past. I didn't remember anything else, the hypnotherapist had helped me forget everything except this particular scene which played in my mind for the twenty years that followed. 

The reason I spent half of those years in and out of hospitals and rehabilitation centers, including mental asylums for my severe OCD, ADHD, depression and anxiety. 

" These are for you"

 Aunt Beth said placing two letters and a brown box with the words"Clara mute" curved on it, My name. A large black metal key sat next to it.

" I think she wants you to read the letters first." 

Aunt Beth suggested. Her voice as void and empty as her expression.

I didn't say a word. no did I move from my position on the couch,I was hugging my legs tightly against my chest with my head on my knees and my eyes intensely fixed on the box. Contemplating whether or not I really wanted to Know the truth.

"Clara?" Aunt Beth sat next to me and touched my head with such caution I wanted to laugh. It was as if she feared I might pounce on her like a rabid dog. I didn't blame her though, on a bad day I would; I didn't like being touched.

She must have seen the crazed look on my face, because she quickly withdrew her hands and quickly added. A "Don't worry, am clean." Statement.

But that wasn't my concern. all my mind could think of was the mouthwash I saw in the bathroom drawer

And the disinfectant on the bathroom sink.

Those letters came from a prison that had no sanitary regulations whatsoever. And this useless woman just touched my head with her dirty hands.

My fantasies took me to the bathtub filled with Scorching hot water doused in a whole bottle of disinfectant, a shaver to shave the hair that had been contaminated and the minty cocktail of mouthwash I would drink.

"I need to get clean."

 I thought to myself. 

My mind couldn't separate truth from fiction, I was numb and I craved for pain like an alcoholic craved for alcohol.

Like hurting myself Was the only way to heal or feel something, anything.

Somehow I thought associating myself with my mom made me dirty, I spent years trying to purge myself of her, of them and that night. But here we were and I still couldn't get over it.

I began to rock back and forth as the sound of police siren's from that night began to ring mercilessly in my head.

" Help me!" I cried as I fell off the chair to the cold wooden floor. 

" Why am I like this? Why can't I just be normal?" Then I was scratching my skin so hard, I dug into the flesh not relenting until a reasonable amount of blood gushed out.

" Stop it!" Aunt Beth begged. But her voice sounded far away.

She didn't move close to me or attempt to stop me, for her sake I hoped she didn't, because I was as dangerous as danger came. 

" You're hurting yourself! Please!" I knew what she would do next, so I did what I did next.

I stood up from the floor so fast to pick up the brown box from the table and in one swoop I knocked her out cold, before she could call the "chinama mental health center." I had been doing okay for the last three months.

But something about knowing I would lose my mom and the fear of what truth was contained in that box triggered me like I knew I would be more damaged than I already was to such an extent I would never be okay. As if I was ever okay.

" Make it go away! Make it stop!" I shouted to the heavens. " What did I ever do to you?" I cried my soul crushed against my body and spirit screeching and desperately trying to escape.

 How do you run away from yourself? I wondered.

I was on the floor paralysed by my own pain, my mind lapsing and losing focus. I didn't know why I was on the floor anymore.

all I knew was that I was in pain and my mother wasn't the one who killed my dad, that I was certain. She was going to die. I wanted to join her but could never leave my aunt Beth alone even though I knew I was broken and knew I was never going to recover.

I somehow found the courage to pick the broken pieces I was off the floor. I was sure I didn't want to know what the truth was. whatever the truth was.

My mother must have wanted me to forget it for a reason.

Thirty minutes later my aunt Beth and I stood over the fire burning in a trash can, after she had woken up from her unconscious state.

Off course I let her live, I wasn't a murderer.

I threw in the letters and opened the box to empty the contents in the fire. And no. I didn't read it, nor did I feel the need to.

But Then I saw a DNA test and it had my aunt Beth's name on it. Wait why did it have Aunt Beth's name? She wasn't there at our house that day. She was out of town, I tried to remember the events of that day but it was like trying to see the road ahead on a foggy day.

whether she was at our house or not. No one would ever know and she seemed relieved as the evidence and proof of her crimes where set ablaze in the orange flames that willingly swallowed them up.

And there in that moment for a split second, I knew what the truth was anyway.

 And this is because at the corner of my eye, I saw her swing an axe that soon logged itself into my head.

I honestly thought I had killed my dad and my mom had switched places with me, but all along. It was a woman I thought I knew. a woman I could have easily called Mom.