SCARS

It was only six years tangle with Saint’s father Alex.

 Alex was  a preacher man and I had fell in love with him because of my background and his accent. Alex was a native English, he taught together with the Portuguese missionary at the time of their coming into Africa, where we finally met and we made a great time together as  couple… that couldn’t last forever.

It was until after I had him a son which I had named the boy Saint because of the very pictures of saints which were men and women who died for their faith, a daring illusion which could make you thirst for heaven at the very moment when it’s illusions triggers the mind.

Alex had a pointed nose that shoot out especially when you are looking at him from the side angles. Every black women would want to have something to do with him, they all wish they had even slept with him. I mean Alex was handsome and tall… A ladies man you could say he was.

At first I never wanted to do anything to do with him,  never the thoughts of we were getting married even crossed my heart back then. Not because I hated him or he wasn’t attractive but because he was one of them, and being one of them means that he would behave like them as well. To get the thought straight, I disliked his color and where-ever he came from then because of the way they treated my people.

Although Alex was innocent of these acts, but the plague remained in my heart.  Actually before you could hear the rest of the story. It was Alex that had left  me for my half sister… He seems to be running after black skirts. He could be a preacher man but he is stained to the best of my judgement. If I were a god to give judgement I would have caste Alex to the beasts and watch as they tear him apart and I would then laugh at him loudly reminding him how his people die my own…

Although despite humans can be unpredictable, It was Alex who took me in when I was rejected… I mean you need to hear this, I have been rejected by so many men who got married to me. I have lived till date to carry the burden of my predicaments with these men, whom I call beast lovers. They would care and love you till they’ve found another figure more fancy in their eyes than  they had kept you and then all of a sudden you don’t know where the breeze of war broke out from and all of a sudden your matrimonial  home is under a brimstone of fire. The lakes leaves nothing untouched until a divorce is filed and then they have their way leaving you deteriorated.

That was my case the first time and second and third until I think in have suffered enough to let these beast lovers drink up my entire milk. The milk of a woman is a foundation of her glory, never let any man drink it up till his satisfaction least it becomes sour to him and he looks for another cow to milk from. Of-course cows that’s what they see us as…

I had slept with four different men form the time of my marriage;  the beginning of me knowing a man and what is called love. Love is a beautiful thing I don’t need to tell you about, I don’t need to talk to you about what love is and what love is not…In a relationship you are your own artist so paint love in the ways and manners that you think is more creative and unique to other painters.

I had gambled games of love with life and I have sometimes questioned fate if truly there was someone always out there waiting for you, I mean meeting one stranger today at the very minutes this chemistry of love drenches both of you in its alcoholic spirit of no rejuvenation , all that is pleasure to be conformed and there’s no woman who doesn’t deserve pleasures.

If you were going to stone at me before, do you still wish to do so now? Or do you have mercy on me because of my story, a history. Look at me, look closely and deeply into my eye balls. Do you see a woman who is afraid of being stoned to death. Never, I am not ashamed to say things the way it ought to be. I have suffered to bear the pains of the past in my hearts, do you still want me to be scared of the past. The past has created in me a new spirit of survival. I am made to survive.

I have killed some men even though they were innocent but someone has to pay for the price of their brotherhood. Those men I tell you I sent to their maker were merely innocent in my life but do you know what wrongs that they had done to my brothers and sisters. My entire race, I will live to continue fighting to defend my history. Even if my home does not recognize me anymore, and even if the people of the blacks fail to accept me as one of their own, I will never relent fighting for the gods and the men who fought side by side to gain victory without peace.

I know one thing for sure and that is the heart of motherhood never rejects her own.

Mother is everything that the world needs to survive the history of many generations to come. Mother Africa never gave up on us,  she never despised anyone of us, even those that were used as measures to wipe out the history of her land, she forgives but she never forgets. She bores forth children and teachs them these history just as I am telling you now at this hour that they may defend the blood of the brothehood. That’s what motherhood does.

Never say a mother is wicked, I repeat never you utter such word. The heart of a woman Is like a bread when you are hungry but remains a stone when you are tempted. A good woman knows what is best to her kindergarten. Do not make an enemy of your mother a friend. This was the case of my people… I can never forget the very words that came out from my mother’s mouth before she was slain…

“Why die my people…?”

I watched her head separated from the torso and rolled on the earth blasted out aloud echoing in silence that I should never have mercy on these ones.

Now everything is changing...with everyone of us sweeping under the carpet the scars of yesterday's sins. Those scars are what kept me alive until you are all born to hear the story.