Houses on fire
The pope leads Hail Mary, and the congregation shuts their eyes and sinks into their knees. You shut your eyes, too, even though your mind wanders from the hot streets of Ugbowo, to the girl vomiting blood on the carriageway, to the crowd around her—the women exclaiming and snapping their fingers above their heads, and the youths videoing with their phones—to the people, especially your mum, that pass by as if nothing had happened. It is rumored that the girl was used for money rituals. You were about to shoo the crowd away and call an ambulance for the girl when your mother dragged you forward, your hands under her armpit. "We're going to church, no distractions!" She said. You’d murmured, wanting to yank your hand away from her but you’d remembered the last time. You’d told her you were no longer a kid, that you were sixteen, a young adult! The slap that had followed etched into your cheekbone.
You shut your eyes, too, even though your mind wanders to the day you’d confronted your dad. He’d beaten your mum, again. You’d walked to his front, after he’d flogged your mum with his belt, and asked him why he’d done it. You hadn’t wanted to shout, you truly never intended to, but words flew out of your mouth faster—and louder—than you could catch them. He’d looked you up and down and shot an angry look at your mum. You still don't know how you found yourself on a hospital bed the next day.
You shut your eyes, too, even though your mind wanders to the day you asked your mum why dad flogged her, why guys say wThe pope leads Hail Mary, and the congregation shuts their eyes and sinks to their knees. You shut your eyes, too, even though your mind wanders from the hot streets of Ugbowo, to the girl vomiting blood on the carriageway, to the crowd around her—the women exclaiming and snapping their fingers over their heads, and the youths videoing with their phones—to the people, especially your mum, that passed by as if nothing had happened. It's rumored that the girl was used for money rituals. You were about to shoo the crowd away and call an ambulance for the girl when your mother dragged you forward, your hands under her armpit. "We're going to church, no distractions!" she said.
You murmured, wanting to yank your hand away from her, but you remembered the last time. You’d told her you were no longer a kid, that you were sixteen, a young adult! The slap that had followed etched into your cheekbone.
You shut your eyes, too, even though your mind wanders to the day you confronted your dad. He’d beaten your mum, again. You walked to his front, after he’d flogged your mum with his belt, and asked him why he’d done it. You didn't want to shout, you truly never intended to, but words flew out of your mouth faster—and louder—than you could catch them. He looked you up and down and shot an angry look at your mum. You still don't know how you found yourself on a hospital bed the next day.
You shut your eyes, too, even though your mind wanders to the day you asked your mum why dad flogged her, why guys say women are sluts, why women can’t be ordained in your church, why guys whistle at you whenever you’re outside. She hadn’t shouted at you as you’d expected. Instead, she’d stared into the air, a smirk on her face, and said, "Loveth my child, women are weak." But you refused to believe it.
You tossed it away the way your father tossed her away. You wouldn't believe women are tissues that can be trashed anywhere for another. You wouldn't believe women should be beaten for correction, like goats. You wouldn't believe it. You would poison your fourth boyfriend for slapping you, but he wouldn't die. He would tell people you were insane. You would hiss at everyone that would sling insults at you. You would curse Eve for eating from the forbidden tree. You would blame God, for everything. You would cry, reconcile with God. You would shout, talk, tweet, write... You would study the Bible, for days, months... before you'd see Jesus treated women equally. This would be before you shouted at popes and complain on your WhatsApp status.
You would study the Bible for days, months... and see Paul's rebuke to women wasn't for all women, but those women gossiping and causing dispute those days. You would cry, shout, fight, talk and talk to people. You would tweet and tweet, write and write against patriarchy till it loses its last breath.
houses on fire…
a rat scuttles out
of tainted roofs.
Redefinition
what do you do when society empties
her intestine before your feet;
when your heart calcifies into stone?
i entered my room & mockery etched my chest
into a chimney. i entered my room & my
roommates sifted my face into a crumpled wrapper. they
launched laughter at my baggy trouser, flung gazes at my bald head & plain top.
they said women wear clinging clothes,
put on makeup & grow out their hair; they smashed "thumb boy" against my ears,
again. they said the sounds rumbling in my throat
were deep. "she has a voice only a mother can love."
& those words slung me to the
thousand & one women that have thrown kisses
across the air like paper planes; to the
thousand & one people that have asked if I were
a woman or a gay man; to the
thousand & one suggestions of surgery.
i've spent too many decades combating stereotypes, caressing self-hatred,
kissing shame in this shell. society emptied
her intestines; what's next?
yes, mockery etched my chest to a chimney but i'll remold it to
gold. i'll dust the laughter & gazes off, for women come in all forms.
About the Author:
Grace Alioke is a Nigerian writer and poet. She currently studies at the University of Benin. She documents her thoughts and writes with the hope of correcting injustices. Her works have been published in Praxis Magazine, Analogies & Allegories, Havilah Woman, Serotonin, Havenshores, Artmosterrific, ‘Happiness, A Crazy Choice‘ anthology; and is forthcoming in others. She won the 2020 TYWA Short Story contest and is the ambassador of The GoodFelo. She was shortlisted for Abubakar Gamba’s short story contest for June 2021.
Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay
Isele Magazine 