My memories of childhood are those of isolation and contempt. My parents were happy until I was born. I looked different from my older brother and sister. I was amazingly light-skinned while my siblings were darker than Sudanese tribesmen. My father accused my mother of infidelity: “why else would she be so light-skinned unless you slept with your white boss?” She hadn’t. She believed the devil had something to do with it.
As time went by, I came to accept that disturbing fact: there was a lot of things wrong with me because the devil lived inside me. My mother said that constantly. One day in a heated argument she blurted out, “You and that thing inside you is the reason for my many mental health issues! As a baby, you gave me postnatal depression! As a child, you drove me to alcohol and promiscuity. You are the devil’s child!” I prayed, not in the same way as my parents, but I prayed day and night for the devil to leave. Now as an adult I know there was no devil inside me I was just different.
A few months after I was born, dad kicked mum and I out. “This evil child has to go!” was all the explanation he gave. My siblings were left with him. To this day I have no idea what became of them. Rumour had it that he couldn’t cope with two young children alone, so he took my sister to live with his sister and married a younger woman to look after my brother. And in time she gave him what he called his ‘legitimate children’. When my mother heard he remarried, she lost it. She got drunk and blamed it all on me. “The love of my life is with another woman and it’s all your fault!” I was five but I remember her arms waving maniacally and landing on my face, back, butt and everywhere. I lived in a state of perpetual fear and sadness.
Just when I had given up all hope, something wonderful happened. She met someone, and not just anyone, a super-rich man who at first was indifferent towards me but came to love me as his own, well until his own children were born. For the few years I had no siblings, I was very happy; mum was happy too and nice to me. My new dad didn’t mind me calling him dad. He was nice and kind. He was generous too – he flew us to the beach to celebrate my birthday. This was the moment in my life that I will treasure forever. I was extremely happy and for the first time in my life, I had something to smile about.
A few months later, they got married in a lavish ceremony. I was the flower girl, I smiled so much that day my jaws hurt. Love radiated from their eyes, and I knew my stepfather’s love for me meant my mum could finally love me unconditionally and forgive me for breaking her marriage to the love of her life. I was wrong.
One year later, my mother gave birth to twins – a boy and a girl, and everything changed. My doting stepfather suddenly had his own golden children and I no longer mattered. In fact, I was not allowed to touch the children or eat what they ate. I was not allowed to eat the expensive fruits bought from the supermarket – apples, pawpaw, mangoes, pineapples and melons, I was only allowed to eat fruits (tree-tomatoes, passion, oranges, guavas and avocadoes) that grew in the expansive land behind our huge house. I became the ‘go-to-do-this-and-that-child’. At first, I was happy to run errands because it meant I was part of the family, but soon enough I realised I was being used because no one really cared about me. There was always something ‘wrong’ I did that made everyone mad.
At the age of 8, I ran away to my maternal grandmother’s home. “I don’t need no demon children in my house!” she screamed as she and her much younger boyfriend bundled me into a car and returned me home. My parents were outraged and that day for the first time in my life, my stepfather beat me. I screamed my lungs out, but no one came to my rescue. My mother and siblings watched TV like nothing evil was happening.
The beatings became a normal occurrence. I just needed to cough the wrong way.
After the umpteenth beating, I became numb. Nothing they did to my body registered as pain. Crying was futile. Begging was for the weak. This infuriated my stepfather, so he upgraded the weapons but still, I took it like a soldier. I longed for my real siblings, but enough doubt had been planted in my mind I wasn’t sure I belonged anywhere. Instead, I developed a coping skill – during a beating, or when I was lonely, or just before falling asleep, my spirit left my body and I watched my body from a safe distance.
At the age of 12, I was shipped off to a boarding school. These were the happiest days of my life. I had friends who loved me and accepted me as unique. I excelled in my studies, however, everyone wondered why my parents never visited or attended functions. I became an expert liar and coveruper.
“Are your parents coming on visiting day?” a teacher asked. “No….. because my mother is sick.” I gave explanations even when no one asked. My excuses became more innovative as time went by, “my father has been relocated to South Africa by his company.” That was the final lie I ever told because they ‘stayed’ in South Africa for the duration of my school life.
I dreaded and hated the holidays. My parents never denied me education or money for upkeep, however, I had to account for every penny when I returned home. But I didn’t care because I was also a thief. My stepfather had so much money – it was literally lying anywhere and everywhere, so I stole it. Every pocket in every jacket had money in it and I took whatever my fist could conceal. He never asked because he never realised any was missing, that’s how loaded he was. I used that money to buy myself sugary treats, and when older alcohol and cigarettes.
When I was 14, I realised I was different from other girls my age. I didn’t particularly enjoy the boy talk, at least not in the way my friends talked about boys. For me, boys were just people I could be friends with but nothing more nothing less. During the school holidays, I socialised with boys in my neighbourhood and enjoyed the same things they did. I liked cars and computer games much like they did. I liked girls much like they did. I was one of them – they dubbed me ‘tomboy’ and accepted me as me.
However, one of them told his parents. His parents told my parents. What followed next was the stuff of nightmares.
To be continued…….
Disclaimer: this is a real story that happened to a real person. To ensure anonymity and maintain confidentiality, names and places have been omitted.
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[…] [ 12th June 2020 ] Born this way Creative non-fiction […]