Maybe, just maybe

Dear Diary, 

It feels like Christmas, but there are no cheery songs or sparkly trees with neatly wrapped presents beneath them or freshly baked Christmas muffins or that harmattan smell that comes only in December. It feels like my birthday. I would have convinced myself that it truly was, but my birthday excitement usually ended after I've had the last piece of cake hoarded in the freezer. 

For weeks, I had watched to see if the fluttery feel would fade, but it has grown exceedingly. The more I stare at his perfection, the more I ask myself the same question that may be wondering in the mind of others, "why would he choose me? " He used to be someone that existed only in my imagination, like a blind date who managed to win my soul while harnessing the secrecy of his identity. Now that I have him right beside me, I can't take my eyes off. His nose made breathing look beautiful. Flat and well rounded as it was, it sat greedily on his face. His skin was effortlessly smooth. Unlike mine that bore dark patches of leftover melanin, too stubborn for the bleaching cream to take away. For the first time I loved my hair, not because it reached the "rapunzel" length I had craved. It was still short and kinky, but I loved it because it was the one thing he and I had in common. 

Then I think again, "why would he choose me? " I never even wanted him in the first place. Now, I craved his presence, and I'm scared to close my eyes.

 "What if I wake up and he isn't there anymore? " 

"What if my darling child disappears just as I had initially wished?"

Dear Diary, 

The pastor's wife came to visit today. I pretended to sleep the moment I heard a car drive in. She was the only car owner I knew, but I still dreaded her. Besides, I hadn't slept in days, so this was a great opportunity for a nap. I was already buried in my blanket when mum "woke" me with heavy taps on my thigh. In less than a few minutes, I found myself in the sitting room eating crackers and peanuts with the visitor. The pastor's wife didn't preach to me this time. She was probably distracted by my pale face and decided to make a topic out of that instead. She asked why I looked so tired. I didn't want to talk so I pretended not to have heard her question, hoping she'd let it pass. I knew she was uncomfortable by the silence, but silence was the only friend I've known within these past months. 

"Why can't you answer a simple question?!!! ", mum exclaimed. I knew my mum would do anything to put the pastor's wife at ease. In fact, she was the only one who was allowed to visit. Not even my friends were given that privilege. Mum would shout at them for staying too long. Too long was five minutes. Anything beyond that would attract insults. She accused them of influencing me negatively even when she knew whose fault it really was. The last time I heard from them was when she asked them to leave, with the consolation that they would contact me via phone calls. She was unusually nice that day. It was suspicious. After they left, she locked the front door, grabbed my phone and soaked it in boiling water. I was angry, but I didn't fight it. I saw it coming, but it was too late to turn back. I was already 7- months pregnant. 

If my friends had done their calculations right, then they'd know that my baby is now 5-weeks old. My only pain is that they haven't seen how beautiful he is. I had promised to send them pictures of him. At that time, I said it with no intentions of doing so. In fact, I had harboured the desire to give him away for adoption. But now I really wanted them to see him, his hair, his skin, his beauty. I knew that one glance would make them as obsessed with him as I am. 

Dear diary, 

My breast still feels heavy and bloated. Ironically, It looks really small. There are a lot of things that I didn't understand about myself. Even though experience had exposed me, age deserted me. I thought that the heaviness would reduce after my pregnancy, but it only got worse. I'm confused. I complained to mum about it. Then she cackled and said,

 "Maybe you should stop sleeping too much, lazy bone. " 

First of all, I barely ever slept. She'd have known that if she was a good mother. I wish I had someone else to talk to, but my step sister is too little to understand. She's 11 years old, five years younger than me. Now, I have to choose between being misunderstood and being mocked. 

Dear diary, 

The pastor's wife sent us another wad of cash. Mum didn't mention anything about any money, but I always know when she's got some; her nagging tongue will replaced by the adamant stench of alcohol. I'm used to both phases of her life. None is more preferable than the other. However, when she threw up on the parlor rug, right beside my baby, I literally lost it. With adrenaline fuelled by disgust, I ran over to lift him from the mess. I carried him from his armpit and looked at him closely. Some mustard coloured streaks of vomit was splashed on his face and his thick hair absorbed a scoop of it, but he was giggling. He made me wish I still had the mind of a child, that unparalleled innocence and ability to forgive. With a heart like his, I should have forgiven my step dad whose only crime was dying untimely. He was never mean to me, and he wasn't nice either. He was the only dad I ever knew, but we never crossed paths. Like oil and water, we never mixed. I was much darker than him and the rest of my family, even outsiders could tell that we didn't share the same blood. That was when I started bleaching. I felt that, maybe, if I looked like the rest of them, I'd get the same treatment. My mum had some bottles of the bleaching cream in her saloon. Although they were up for sale, I never hesitated to sneak a bottle into my backpack. I wanted to bleach, I had to. My friends said that's what big girls did. I wanted to be a big girl. 

Dear Diary, 

The pastor's wife came around today. The parlor stunk of alcohol, and mum was asleep, wasted in her bedroom. I did my best to act normal, to keep quiet, to stop myself from asking her the questions I had desperately held back. At first it wasn't so hard, we just stared at ourselves. Having mastered the language of silence, I could tell that she was trembling with guilt even though she seemed so tough. Finally, the perfect time to strike.... 

"Ummm.. Would you like to see your grandson? You haven't seen him all week, " I asked as I threw off a calm smile. 

"Yes, bring him to me, " she said. 

"So now you accept that he's your grandson?? I thought you said your son never raped me? ". At this point, my warm smile was replaced with a devious smirk and an arched brow to make her feel more intense. 

Most people correlated her regular visits and concern to her Christian inclination as a church cleric, but I always knew it was deeper than that.  

A lot of things changed after Paa died. Mum was so devastated that she started drinking. Her siblings mentioned that she once had a drinking problem but that was a long time ago. Mum exhausted all the money she got on alcohol, nothing else mattered to her. My step-sister's relatives had to take her with them. She cried and promised me she wouldn't stay long, but I wanted her to stay long. I wanted her to stay forever because I'd do the same if I had the slightest opportunity to leave this dreadful home. With no where to turn to, the church became my second home. Paa was training to become an evangelist, so his death attracted great sympathy from the church. Even with mum's new bad habit, I was able to eat and go to school. 

As a child, I was used to getting what I asked for. Paa died, and that privilege disappeared like a mice in summer dusk. My survival instinct kicked in, and I became a scavenger. When mum's saloon business crumbled, I complained to the clerics and the pastor asked me to work as an apprentice in his family's tailoring business. I never hesitated for one second. There's nothing to lose, I thought. I could do anything to leave the the sickening atmosphere of my house. The tailoring workshop was in their residential home, so I was also going to get paid and fed. I couldn't think of a better bargain. After school, I'd trek to their house. Although it was a little bit far, I'd do anything to save a little money. Tailoring gradually became a hobby rather than a job. I'd stay there all day. If I ever got tired I'd sleep off on the armrest, then wake up and continue my duties. One day, after I had a sumptuous meal. I slept off at my usual spot, but I woke up somewhere else, somewhere I had never expected. I was never a heavy sleeper, so when I woke up to find myself covered with only sheets I knew something was not right. My eyes were hazy, but I was still able to see my flowery dress and underwear on the floor. The bed around where I laid felt soggy. I had heard of stories like this, so I checked around for blood and there was none. I heard someone in the shower. I needed to know who it was, maybe I could get an explanation. I pipped my head slowly. I saw the pastor's son. He looked at me with disgust and said, "so you weren't even a virgin??" I am a virgin. Atleast I was a virgin till he did what he did.

I quickly wore my clothes and ran back home. I felt strange, and I walked even stranger.  When I got home, I told mum all that happened. She was still drunk, but I spoke anyways. She looked at me with her bloodshot eyes. She didn't say anything, she just looked. Then she stood up, walked to her bedroom and sobbed. She didn't drink much after that night, but that night marked the beginning of my marathon sleeplessness. The night when I began to master the language of the midnight crickets.

Dear Diary, 

With the humiliation I gave the pastor's wife, I doubt if she'd care to give us help again. I know I took a rash step, but I couldn't pretend to be okay with the falsehood either. I needed to give her a glimpse of what I had endured. Anyways, we're running out of cash. Meaning that, mum would soon become sober enough to take her phone back from me. There were a lot of people I needed to speak with, so I had to act fast. I used my mum's phone to call two of my friends. The first phone line kept declining and no one answered the second one. I didn't call them because I missed them. No, I'd outgrown people. I called because I wanted to know what was going on in their lives. Caring was the least I could do for those who once stood by me.

One of my friends called back later that afternoon. I didn't even have to introduce myself before she knew it was me. 

"Your voice hasn't changed a bit!! " she said. I took it as a compliment since almost every other thing about me had changed: my weight, my mentality, my hair style, my fierceness, my sleeping habit. She apologized for not picking my call earlier.

"You know our final exams started last week. We've written three papers since then, " she said.

Well, I didn't know anything about the exam schedule. I had been out of school for a year, but it feels like ten. I don't even remember what exams feels like. The only book I know is my diary. And everytime I write, I think of what my life was; the beautiful times I took for granted. I think of what my life is, and I think of what my life will be. I know it'll turn out great because I've survived and I still will. Maybe, just maybe.....