Playing with my thoughts

Struggle of an average african girl child 2

I And mum grew  further apart, she would always tease me in presence of my brothers or family sometimes even among strangers ,she would coldly repeat , saying I was getting old and ugly because i was always frowning, these broke the little bond I had left with my mother and made me alienate her , I promised not to tell her things, the straw that broke the Carmel’s back , was the moment she accused me at age thirteen of having sex for a wrist watch  or to obtain cheap material possessions .

      The abuse continued , I remember on my next birthday,  I got gifts from my friends , my birthday was on the 11 but I lied it was on the 14, I wanted the valentine spot light.Even though I never got anything from my family it was still okay because, I got so much gift from my school mates, I remember there was one specific gift, from a crush which was a valentine frame that contained romantic words, I was the youngest in my class , every one was way older. I felt the need to hide it knowing my parents over reaction , I unwrapped the gifts on my bed staring at them and smiling, thinking of a spot to hide them till I find an excuse to use them.

“You are back “ mum said dashing into my  room.

“Hum” she exclaimed “who gave you all this these”

“My friends“ I replied with a shaky  voice 

“Which friends?”

“Ma , my class mates “

She picked up the glass frame, looked at it and read the words , I vaguely remember them as “if wishes were horses i would ride a thousand and keep wishing you will are in my arms, when you speak with with your tender voice I picture your lips against mine, the beauty caged within that i can’t wait to explore, happy valentine’s day to the woman of my dreams blossom in beauty”

I was in my last year in junior school at this time, my mum smashed the glass frame , exclaiming at the top of her voice , 

“I will follow you to your school tomorrow un less you tell me the name of  the guy that gave you all this, I give you now till am back from work she said furiously ”, she seized all the others hid them in her room and stormed out of the house , confused and sad,I bent down to pick up my broken frame, I got cut by the glass as tears dropped from my eyes, I removed the paper neatly folded it and safely kept it inside a book in my shelf then I sweept out the glass.

       The distance between I and my mum grew, to an extent that she knew absolutely nothing about me, during breaks I would offer to go to work or do summer jobs just to avoid been in the same space, I will frequently skip work to go hang out with my friends and juvenile shenanigans , I timed my self to avoid suspicions,at some point I became a complete stranger to even myself , trying out almost everything she accused me of doing , I was exhausted of the constant humiliation and abuse , I tried getting close to her but she pushed me away ,I would confide in every other person than her.

   It’s sad to see that Our african mother’s believe their harshness, or tough love and beatings correct us but it doesn’t always, in most situations it leaves kids emotionally pale and withdrawn ,  causing them to revolt at the slightest chance of freedom , they become the un imaginable, an average african child has that mark and a permanent scar on their body, that tells a sad story of beatings or abuse from parents or guardians , the acheic mindset of girls doing all the chores, of preparing us to be nothing but good wives of limiting our ability to create an impact in our society should be completely eradicated.

 We are much more than just wives and mothers, there is so much beauty and knowledge contained in a girl child and our society needs to develop it instead of beating down the spirit of a child .