The man was banging on the door for a few minutes. The three of us sleeping in that room were fast asleep, when our Auntie opened the door, to ask him to stop yelling.
It was our father. The conversation turned quickly into an altercation. One minute he is struggling to lean on the door jamb, within a few seconds, we woke to the alcohol on his breath. Incoherent, he pushed his way past Auntie, holding her wrist tight and dragging her to her bed.
Shaken at his unspoken insinuations, she protests and pleads her way out of the ensuing event. He ignores her comments about sleeping young children, dragging Auntie onto the bed. She resists for a few minutes and then giggles once they are under the sheets, oblivious to the children in the bed nearby.
The two sisters lay side by side, in deep sleep. But once the giggling starts and stops, their eyes open, both briefly startled and listening. They soon realise their father is in the room but laughing and playing with Aunty. The little ones are frozen, afraid to make a sound, listen keenly and wondering what is happening. No one has addressed them and like good African children, they wait to be invited to play. Something gives them a sense they should not be here or take part in this ‘game’. The sheet covers them head to toe and they remain perfectly still, afraid to turn or even look at one another, let alone hold hands.
Minutes later, the play is over and their father rises from the bed, pushing away from Aunty. He stumbles out of the room and back to their parent’s bed. His belt buckle clanging, as he makes his way to their parent’s room. Seconds later, their Aunty locks the door and jumps back into bed.
The girls are shocked and confused. One is eight and the other four. They dare not move or let the other one know they are awake, as they try to understand what just happened.
In the distance, their parent’s voices are raised and then simmer down. Their mother’s pleading voice goes unanswered and then falls silent. All they can hear are the loud snores of their father.
The next morning, the memory of the night before is distant, foggy. Both little girls have not slept enough and they are a little groggy. They wake up to find Aunty’s bed made up. Her suitcase is missing and the house is still. They run to the kitchen, expecting to find her making breakfast. Instead, they find her running out of the compound with her small suitcase and their mother throwing sticks and stones, as she chases her. The girls stare in shock and confusion sets in. There is an exchange of words, more yelling and Aunty runs I get torn clothes down the road, with a lady and man chasing after her with stones. The neighbours had joined in. Aunty outran them and hopped onto a waiting bus and hides inside, not wanting hear the insults directed at her.
Mum is back in the kitchen, angry and short of breath. She tells the girls to give her a minute to prepare their breakfast as she washes her hands. The girls watch her, fearful and nervous, unwilling to ask any questions.
‘Okay, girls. I’m making you something to eat now. Are you hungry?’
The girls nod and watch her intently. They wait for her anger to dissuade. She begins to hum and they know they are safe.
‘Girls, Aunty has gone away. She is not coming back ever again. She did something wrong and I don’t waist her behaviour to hurt you. I know you will miss her but she not a good person.’
‘Okay, mama!’ Each girl tries to mentally assess what had gone wrong but they only have one specific memory; the game under the blanket. It does not make sense but since daddy was only meant to sleep with mummy, they have a rough sense this episode was the cause.
Bread and hot cocoa for breakfast. What a treat. Our little selves engage their Mum, asking questions about everything else and the tension in the air wafts away. It seems to follow their Aunty and never returns. Mum’s demeanor returns and laughter rings out in our little house.
Father never visited the any Aunty ever again. The girls never found out what their mother knew. The little one forgot this event entirely . The older one’s memory was seared but tucked away. They never heard about it ever again, but each one was scarred differently.
Short Stories & Poems by WarmBreezeBliss 