Flashback, journal, moments, Poetry

Flashback: My First Swear

pexels-photo-192560

Time stalls on the window sill

My tiny feet grips past the gloss, straight onto the flaking wood, face pressed onto the window, hands by my side

Laughter from the living room reminds me of their harsh words

Their intent to scare me, to remind me that I was no more than a common fool a success

Tears work its way down my cheeks

My warm breath dents the cold glass as a silhouette shaped like my chin and nose forms as the rain on the other side collect into droplets

 

Finally, I let the pain go and give room for anger to emerge

It wrestles my body into havoc as I begin to kick out against the window, punch away the fabric within the curtains and let my tongue boil out a single word

“Fuck”

I scream it

Then stop cold in my tracks

Did they hear?

Did they hear their 8 year old sister collapse into a word forbidden in this household

I wait

I listen

And nothing.

So I say it again

Nervous giggles jolting the words out in a quiet whisper

The word feeling oversized but good, easing away my anger

 

Better.

 

I feel better again.

Continue reading “Flashback: My First Swear”

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Poetry

Childhood Lost

There are days where it just hits me 

Where the unspeakable mass of emotions

Holds me by the throat,

Slams my fragile body into my deteriorating mind

And an erratic heart beat applauds another loss

Of maddening success 

As birds twitch awake 

Ridiculing my drooling sunset

With a laugh and a tweet

Cruising the plummeting squeek of swinging defeat.

All while I cry

My god, do I cry.

Uncategorized

A Traumatic Childhood Relived

The worst experience of my life was, and always will be, my childhood. Although, when people around me claim it was one of the best times of their life, I just nod along like a spineless chicken. You see, if I go against the flock on this one, people would always ask me why and I wouldn’t really know what to say.

How do I even begin to explain the level of emotional and physical abuse at the hand of my father from birth? How do I explain my older sister’s physical abuse against me? How do I explain I was isolated throughout this time by peers in school? How do I explain my very turbulent year of repeated sexual assault from a childhood friend?

The sad truth is: I can’t.

So, I nod along because there is nothing in me that wants to lay claim to these traumatic events. There is nothing in me that wants to relive them over and over and over again in my memory. I just can’t because I don’t want to.

So I paint over these painful memories with the colourful, happy and generic ones that all my other peers share. Because at the end of the day, all I’ve ever wanted was to fit in and left alone.

That is all I want.

Nakedstreetkid out xx

Uncategorized

Contemplating the misery of university

I was thinking of going travelling next year. Well, the latter half of next year, when the new academic year starts.

I don’t think I can quite handle university yet, so I thought I would skip it for another year.

I have a lot to learn about the world that I just haven’t learnt. I’m not nearly as stable as I would like to be mentally. Actually, I am quite all over the place and there are days where I can barely function like a human being because I am so exhausted with life. Or, there are days when all I can do is look ahead at the gaping hole that is my future and how I shrink in comparison does is not an appealing feeling.

I say this all as someone who is contemplating not going to university. So, I am unsure.

You see, we are told from very young ages that is our destiny.

We go through Primary School being asked, what do you want to do in the future. And soon enough, our answer transform from the laid back response of astronauts and firemen to an elated eleven year old screaming university.

And then you have secondary school, same question is asked, but that elation diminishes into a small fear. Because no one knows what they want to do, and by the time you finish your Secondary School career, your heart is experiencing small palpitations because you think you’ve chosen what you want to do, but you’re still unsure.

And finally, you’ve made it to sixth form/college and you’re in your final year and the same question is asked “What do you want to do?” But this time, louder, as if someone is screaming right through your eardrums and to the pre-frontal cortex of your brain. And it’s like your whole world is defined on it, like once you get there, there is either a ladder hanging 2 feet from the cliffs edge attached to the steps of university. Or a gorge below you, where you must step off the cliff in order to reach the rich treasures that self-determination gets you when you decide to build your own ladder to reach the top.

It’s funny, because no one tells you about that horrendous fall you must endure. They are too busy preparing you for the bright lights of university. Which I still want to go to. Just not yet.

Not yet.

The question is, is six months enough for me to feel fulfilled? I don’t know.

Nakedstreetkid out x

NaBloPoMo

Childhood Fear

What was your biggest fear as a child? Do you still have it today? If it went away, when did your feelings change?

Fear… It’s an interesting concept.

Fear is something that I do not take lightly. It was an ever present looming force over the whole of my childhood. Omnipotent, in a sense. The one to create fear is the one with the power.

I could name the obvious ones. My father, being one. But I feel as if I’ve mentioned all of that. So, a “normal” fear as a child for me… It’s probably the trees outside my house.

You see, I live right outside a public garden and there are these huge trees (London Plane Trees) which stand a massive 35m tall directly outside my bedroom window. Every night, I would look out at them and quake in fear as the wind would rip past it. I was convinced that one day it would topple over and I would be crushed. For some reason, the idea that it would crush me didn’t scare me, just all the consequences after it. That’s what I was scared of. The unending pain of being crushed.

Did I get over it? Why, yes. Yes I did. I just stopped thinking about it so much. I assured myself that if the tree really was to fall, it would hit the top bunk before falling on me. And I could probably survive being crushed by the top bunk rather than being crushed by a tree.

Completely plausible. Both scenarios.

Nakedstreetkid out x 😛

moments

New Years Eve 2000

I can remember this date quite clearly. We were running around, and for once, my mother hesitated before telling us to mind ourselves as to not disturb the neighbours downstairs. Which I never understood. How could our neighbours even hear all our thudding around with a series of thick layers of wood acting as a barrier between us? I never understood. Not till I was older, of course. But it had always seemed to me that our small, childish feet made steps of a butterfly, not the monstrously loud steps we were actually making. But I digress.

My mum had hesitated to tell us off because she thought we were all going to die. And I was very aware of this fact because I had overheard grown-ups muttering such words over hushed whispers not to be listened to by a child my age. But I had already taken it upon myself to listen to everything these adults said. Even when I wasn’t supposed to. Even when they were whispered over loud music. I listened. Anyway, my dad had hardly hid it from us during the week of the proposed date.

He was sitting in his throne where he had his evening paper acting as a curtain for his face for a while. I’m not sure if he read it there, but he was certainly muttering it to himself in disjointed bouts of English and then Twi.

“Stupid old white people… End of the world?! I wouldn’t put it past them if it was another way to kill all the Africans.”

His crinkled old face had pushed itself hard into a frown. Lips puckered and nose scrunched as if he had smelt something bad, he exclaimed at the notion of death on New Years Day. But the fear on my mothers face as she placed his dinner on his lap had me more than a little bit frightened. She seemed to believe it. But then again, mum believed almost everything. So, I tried not to worry too much.

Plus, I was a child. I was going to heaven whether I liked it or not. Jesus would make certain of it. Or rather, my mum would.

She bathed us in a mixture of oil and holy water every other day till New Years Eve. She would’ve done it everyday, except we didn’t have the money for such a luxury. Dad controlled the money in the house. And dad wasn’t having any of it. Every time dad saw mum doing it, he would scowl and call her stupid. He even gave her a hit or two. But I don’t think mum cared too much. She just got on with it, like any other mother who feared the death of their children would.

There were five of us. I was second to last. My brother was the eldest, then you had my two elder sisters, me and then finally the new born – my little sister, Harmony. She was born in August. I never payed her much attention, much to everyone’s dismay. I think they were hoping for a reaction. But I didn’t give them any. And it wasn’t on purpose or anything, it was just that I couldn’t really care less that she was born. Not in a rude way, it was just that I was quite indifferent to her presence. She hardly woke me up at night, and I was never allowed to hold her because I was too small, so I guess we never really made that instant sisterly connection. I didn’t mind too much. But like I said, the rest did. In my personal opinion, I think they thought I had some type of hidden agenda. Which I didn’t. But, I digress again.

For purpose sake, I’ll name my siblings after the day they were born. You had my brother who was born on Saturday, my eldest sister who was born on Friday, my other sister who was born on Thursday and me who was born on a Wednesday. And then of course, Harmony.

Anyway, as I was saying before, my mum had hesitated but had swiftly told us off. And I can imagine her thinking:

“We may be dying, but we will still respect our neighbours like Jesus told us to.”

She didn’t say it. But she could very well have. It would’ve been granted given the circumstances. Even though my dad was a Muslim and would not have readily tolerated it any other day, I think he was scared as well, so wouldn’t have minded. He called this supposed “dooms day” hocus pocus, but I could see he believed it anytime I looked into his eyes.

And by amount of canned food he had purchased.

Anywho, it was time to sit down in front of the telly to watch the fireworks. Saturday had fixed the satellite really well to make sure there was little interference. My mum had bought crackers for us all. I mean, she bought it for Christmas. But I think she wanted to celebrate our lives a little bit more than she had Jesus’. Plus, Granddad had died on Christmas only two years prior, so she had lost her taste for celebrations on the day her dad died. And I couldn’t blame her. Though, when I was a child, I didn’t ever really understand. I just thought she was being stubborn and “wouldn’t Granddad understand if we had a nice Christmas?” I never said that to her, but I let the thought cross my mind one too many times that holiday.

But what would it matter? We were all scheduled to die this year. So, Christmas’, birthdays, deaths… It all wouldn’t matter. Because we’d all be dead by the time we’d open our eyes come morning.

So, imagine my surprise when I opened up my eyes and found myself alive in my bed. Sleeping alone, on the lower bunk that I shared with my sister, Thursday. I could hear my sisters snoring away and I was smiling in hope just before my smile faltered. I had always been the first one to wake in the real world, so there was a high probability that I would be the first one awake in heaven. So I just had to make sure. I had run to my mum as quickly as possible to see if it was all real.

I had pulled open the heavy door to my room and bolted out of it. Down the corridor I ran and into my parents room. I stopped, stalled by the emptiness of the bed. Harmony was sleeping quietly in her cot but no one was there. My worry started to slowly increase. I jumped onto the bed and turned around on it for a second. I thought about bouncing on it but decided against it. I had already guessed that dad wouldn’t make it into heaven, but where was mum? I jumped off of the bed and sprinted to the kitchen. Empty. The bathroom. Empty. Until I finally reached the living room.

There sitting with her legs hanging gently off the sofa sat my mother. Tears dripping one by one down her shiny brown face, she had turned her blood shot eyes towards me and motioned me towards her.

I wanted to ask her if this was heaven and why Friday and Thursday wasn’t awake yet but I thought to wait a bit. This moment seemed important to her.

So, I crawled into her outstretched arms, careful not to harm any bruises. Her arms wrapped around me and she began to rock me back and forth. She cuddled me to her chest, praying loudly to God. She was smiling but sad.

“God, thank you for giving my children another year. Thank you for keeping my children alive. Thank you for being there for them.” And she continued this way, until finally she closed with “in Jesus name, Amen”. I echoed her and we sat in silence, me and her.

She continued to rock us both, stroking my hair ever so gently. It gave me time to think for a bit. I began to think about her prayer. And how she never referred to herself. How she never once thanked God for her survival. And I thought and thought about it. Because I should’ve realised. As soon as I had saw her crying, I should’ve known it was real.

I turned my head up to hers and kissed her cheek, haunted by her still, timid movements.

Maybe we were supposed to die.

Poetry

Upside Down World

When I was four
I would hang my head from a wooden chair rather than my legs
I would walk on my hands rather than my feet
Treading carefully across the cold ground
Kissing it softly with the grip of my hands as I aimed to remain in balance

Seeing the world upside down had its perks
The sofa no longer looked like a torn, ragged throne that my father would occupy
It now looked calm, transforming into a radiant fire as the sun slapped against it
Allowing silver, red and orange to sparkle

The mirror no longer looked like a sheet of reflection
But rather a portal to another world where the fire of the couch rained above me
And as I held onto the lava floor
A floor made from circular patterns spinning against my palms
I walked towards the portal on my hands
Slowly at first and then suddenly, running towards it

I regretted it instantly
A ray of sun had hit me against my face
Searing my skin with its fiery vengeance
Mercilessly hitting me again from another angle

I tumbled down clumsily, trying desperately to dodge its rays
And suddenly upside down world was gone
Disappearing behind the mirror

As I lay down on the carpet
Waiting for my mother to find me