Unraveling – Deborah Usidamen

“There is something extraordinary about being rejected by one’s mother. It impoverishes the soul. It leaves holes everywhere and you spend your life trying to fill them up. With whatever you can find. With food. With drugs and alcohol. With all the wrong men you know will leave you, so maybe they will replicate the original hurt you felt. You do it to feel abandonment over and over because that’s the only thing you know of your mother. And it’s all you know to do to bring her close.”

-Susan Abulhawa

I’ve learnt to hide. In the bodies of men. In books. In my head and in my writings. And when I cannot hide,I blend in with the peeling brown walls of my father’s house. I have been running away from lovers whose hands never learnt gentleness.

I was in nursery three when my mother ran away. Mornings in the house became sober. I did not understand the reason she left. At first it was wonderful how untethered I became. Free. But with independence comes a price. I wasn’t ready to fight. I prayed silently, tears running down my cheek; I mumbled the name of Jesus to summon a miracle. I missed her. It ached until a part of me died, at my graduation ceremony.

She called to say she was coming home to attend, and I allowed myself to imagine what it would be like again. We would become a complete family. She’d drive us to school, cussing out drivers in Hausa when they took wrong turns. I missed how her lips curled into a smile when she turned to me. I waited in the scratchy fabric of the gown, surrounded by my brother and sister. Pupils were called to the stage to dance, sing, recite bible verses and facts about Nigeria. I came first, won lots of gifts but the sadness in my heart was deeply rooted. I scanned the hall for her, anything that would tell me of her presence – a scarf that almost covered her eyebrows, the smell of her perfume lingering in the room she shared with my father. My teachers tried to fill the gaping hole of her absence. It was drawing me in. The shoes she left were not to be filled. Days grew into years and the love I thought I was riddled with hate. I am aware of its contradiction and ashamed. Her rejection permeates everything I have done until now.

There are no photos of that gay day. I burned them when I was sixteen, soon after my first suicide attempt.

It is Christmas Eve and the house is a beehive of activities. My father retreats to his study, surrendering the kitchen for only a couple of weeks. In January, the harmattan dries out all the joy our house carries and we are left looking over our shoulders least he explodes. We walk on eggshells around him and each crack is a song without a voice.

My sister leaves the next morning.  I do not beg her to stay or say that I will miss her. She has found friendship within the four walls of the university, a haven where my father’s breath will not frighten her anymore. It is often said that violent men are often romantic and I believe them. I have learnt to worship my father as a rainmaker does the clouds but my wounds are wrapped in bitterness.

He calls my mother names and once pushed me out of the house while it rained. He asked  me to go where she went  because I had asked a harmless question.

When I was younger, my parents were super heroes and could do no wrong. With age comes a sense of knowing that love is not enough.

My mother ran away with her life and left me to nurse an empty grave. Her existence lost its evidence and I stayed with the stranger my father had become.

My childhood was marred by aunts teaching me to stay quiet. Their words sharpened with so much venom it cut to hear. I cut my hair and began to listen to songs my mother deemed secular. Did she even care? I’d think. For years I blamed myself,  father’s behaviour. But I rebelled, looked him in the eye and argued. He did what most parents did to expel the demon that has found home in me. I cried every night for three months. At school, I became an example of a good girl who lost her way. The darkness was thick. And there, I basked in loneliness until I met a boy.

He came armed with awkwardness, small eyes hidden behind his wire rimmed glasses. Barak, with mahogany skin and a permanent grin on his face. We shared a desk and during lessons I’d catch him staring at me, trying to meet my eye. I had ignored boys because  they brought trouble. My older sister almost lost her thumb when my father caught her with a boy outside. He pulled it  and asked if she was pregnant. He called my mother’s name and said she had killed him repeatedly. We scurried like rats, he was a grenade exploding and a random tiny shrapnel was fatal. He told me how he got a small scar on his left eyebrow and I conjured stories about mine.

The house was volatile. We became matchsticks begging for rain.

He wrote me a note, the boy from class. I told him to leave me alone but secretly liked the attention. He wore me down, his giant hands holding mine as we’d kiss at the back of class after closing hours.

Before long we found hidden under our clothes maps of pleasure. We were explorers discovering new grounds each day.

I told him everything. Removing details about my parents. What happened at home was a partly covered secret. I told half truths and lied about my depression and anxiety. He looked at me and for the first time I was aware he could see me. I wasn’t invincible. He held my hands under the desk while the teacher taught. And stayed through the dark spells. He let me cry on him countless times and when we got into a fight, I’d avoid him until he begged me to take him back.

I was broken. I knew my jagged ends would cut but I let him come close, hugged him until he bleed. And still, we didn’t let each other go.

I was insecure. Each Hi  he muttered  to the other girls in class was a debate. I wanted to talk to him all the time. He was like a drug I had to take to get whole. Once I said I couldn’t imagine life without him. He became so still I could hear the ants sing. He said I’d outgrow him with his eyes filled with tears. I didn’t say a word. It was a couple of weeks before our final exams. We were moving away. He called, texted and became a joke to me. I ignored all, going under the excuse of my mental health and saying I’d ruin him. I told him I was a lot.

His friends called him mumu, for going after damaged goods. He didn’t care. I was selfish and now I long to him with an apology stuck in my throat. The last time we met, I was a coward. I watched him cry. I didn’t offer my shoulder as he’d done for me. I knew not all love stories were ill fated. I didn’t know what love is. He said we could get through my darkness. But I had become my mother. Running away from things. I learnt to run even when they didn’t bite. I felt like a burden that would drown him. I watched him become a crumpled version of himself, those hands of his I loved, pushing his glasses backwards.

My house was still a battle ground. When I had finished sabotaging what I had with him, I took a small dose of the rat poison. I lay still on the bed. I convinced myself the world would be better, I fell asleep.

When I woke, the sun was a giant eye in the sky. The clouds held something beautiful. My mothers head was bowed. Her lips moved, a drunkard’s prayer I thought. She tried to hug me. I turned away repelled. My father told the doctor I wanted attention. I was silent.

When Barak came to the house with my other classmates, he didn’t look at me. I was glad. His memory now a ravaging desert storm under all the lovers I have buried after him.


About Deborah

Deborah Usidamen was born in Kaduna. She fell in love with books as a child. She was shortlisted for The African Writers Awards and long listed for The Hafsat Abdulwaheed Women Short Story Prize. Her works have appeared on The Lilac Journal, Writers Space Africa, The In-Between anthology and her short story is set to appear in the Bakwa 11. When she isn’t writing, she listens to music in the dark and finds joy in the mundane things of life.

1 thought on “Unraveling – Deborah Usidamen

  1. Fuad Hassan says:

    This was really nice to read….nice flow. I love it

    Reply

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