July Seventeen II

A detailed description of significant life events. They explain how I got here. They explain why I am the way I am. They explain why I need so many pints of beer to calm down. They explain why I love the way I love. They explain why I write this. July Seventeen. Eighteen years later. I have grown into a light skinned. Gap toothed. Not so tall. Narrow hipped. Small waisted. Flat assed. Not your typical head turning young African woman. That is besides the point. Let me get into it.

I do not remember much of my childhood. I do remember the parents were not always there. Do I know where they were? Yes. Do I know why they were wherever they were? Yes. Does it make sense that they were where they were at that particular time. No. Would I change any of it if I could? Yes. Do not get me wrong. I appreciate that I had cabbage and chunks on the table. I appreciate that I had a blanket to keep me warm as the three of us snuggled up on that single bed. I appreciate that my uniform was changed when it became too short. Question is. Was it the best you could offer? Is that what parenting entails? Who raised me?

My sister. She helped me with my first period. At grade six. Clueless. Thinking I caught a stomach bug. Where were you? I do not remember getting hugs for my birthdays. Gifts are a far cry. Where were you? I do not remember anyone asking which activities are you currently participating in? Do you enjoy them? Who are your friends? What do you do for fun with them? The only time I was given attention is when my report card came in. Top of the class always. Is that why I am an over achiever? Is that why I suffer from anxiety when things are not going the way I planned or wish they would? I filled my life with books. Alice in wonderland. Rumpelstiltskin. The three pigs. Books. They remain an escape. Question is. Was it the best you could offer? Is that what parenting entails? Who raised me?

High school heightened my anxiety. I remember coming home after a good day with the friends at trade fair. (An annual exhibition in Bulawayo which offers exposure to both trade and public visitors, the multi-sectoral, multi-national expo provides a convenient trade hub for the region). Door open. Lights on. Empty house. About forty minutes later. She comes in. Packs her bag. Your father tried to kill me. I’m leaving him. The series of questions that came after were. Choose one. Him or Me? Are you staying or leaving with me? I struggle with making decisions that are good for me in fear of hurting the next person. Could that be the reason I lick butts and kiss izishwapa? At fifteen did I have to choose one parent over another? Question is. Was it the best you could offer? Is that what parenting entails? Who raised me?

I remember my first father-daughter date. I wore heels. If you know me well. You know that is a big deal. I was so excited. On our way to the cocktail party. He picked up a woman. I could feel my lungs fail to take in air. I rested my head on my hand. Breath Lwandle I whispered to myself. She got into the car and greeted me with a big smile. I smiled back. Weakly. I watched how he was like the whole night with her. Gentle. Caring. Protective. I had never seen him that way. Ever. He looked happy. I questioned loyalty. Both mine and his. I questioned right and wrong. I questioned fulfilment. I questioned the other woman. I questioned life. It is never in black or white. I questioned parenting. Question is. Was it the best you could offer? Is that what parenting entails? Who raised me?

“Butterflies are beautiful, but the process of emerging from the chrysalis and spreading your wings can hurt like fucking hell. But still, you will survive the transformation (over and over again) and you will fly. Remember this when it hurts the most. This is the metamorphosis, the going down to liquid, and the rising again. It’s no joke but damn, it’s one hell of a journey. Embrace your wings and sour!”

Jeanette LeBlanc

Imagine me. A teenager being told. “I am leaving your sister.” Three children later. I ask why. Because she was raped by a neighbour and never reported. Ufela what was done to her at high school? Ufela that she trusted you with the details of such a life changing experience? Ufela her childhood traumas? Yet you claim to love her. To have loved her. Is that why I do not believe it whenever a man tells me he loves me? Is that why I respond to actions more than words? Why couldn’t she run to her mother or father? Our parents. Question is. Was it the best they could offer? Is that what parenting entails? Who raised us?

All but memories. Memories that remind of where I am from. Memories that remind me of what I want to do different. Memories that propel me forward. Memories that remind me of how I want to be loved. Memories that remind me of my breaking points. Memories that remind me of my strength. Memories that remind me of how far I have come. Memories that make me cast into the deep for a bigger catch. Memories that remind me that God has carried me through all the seasons of my life. Unto old age. He is He. He has made. He will bear.