by Mattie Mutare

Created on: January 22, 2009

My father had dark eyes. The pupils were black in a frightening way. Looking into his eyes was like peeping into the dark entrance of an ancient cave. His voice was rough and whenever he was angry, which was often, it rasped on the ears like the grating of a heavy boot on a sandy floor. He was also an alcoholic.

What I called home were two round dwellings of pole and mortar. One was the kitchen, which held household goods and served as a bedroom for myself. The other held everything else we owned and was the bedroom for my parents. We had no domestic animals. The one cow and three goats we used to have had been sold to raise fees for the little education I had. What was left was a handful of thin fowls. Our life was an endless dance of hope to a tuneless song of despair.

One late night, when I was nearly eleven, I heard a noisy row going on in my parents' bedroom. My father had just come from a beer drink. That was the first time that my father beat up my mother. From that day onwards life at home became hell. I had the impression that my father had begun to hate me. Several times I caught him giving me a look so baleful that my blood ran cold. When I told my mother, she said all would be well.

About a year later there was a noisy row, which I can never forget. I got out of my hut and crept across to my parents'. Through a crack in the wooden door I peeped in with frightened eyes.
A bright fire was in the centre of the hut, throwing a yellow light on the sorry scene. My mother was sprawled on the unpolished earthen floor. Her flimsy dress was shredded from what must have been a thorough beating.

When I saw the gag in her mouth I knew why her cries had been muted. Her face was bruised and swollen, as were the exposed parts of her body. Some of her wounds looked like they had been caused by fire. She writhed in slow motion. My father bent forward and wrenched the old sock from my mother's mouth.

"Now , tell me again!" he demanded, his grip tight on a pair of leather thongs.

"Devi, you were a sick and dying man. There was no money with which to pay the witchdoctor for your treatment.
The man who gave me Manana is the man who gave you your life."

"Whaa..a..at!" my father emitted a questioning scream, his brow knitted into a thunderstorm of anger.

"I gave myself away to save you..," my mother said quietly.

The leather thongs came down hard across her face, tearing an ugly cut across the temple. She whimpered in renewed pain.

"I debated hard before I gave myself to the witchdoctor.

• 1
• 2
• 3
• Next Page >>