Better Days
I opened my eyes to see the spirogyra decorated white ceiling of my room. It was not intended to be that way. It was usually just white
The Women of Sunny Street
It is that time of the month again. My mum has already collected the donations from each person in our street. My mum and our next-door neighbor had gone to the market a day before to get food items, clothing, and other things to give back to the community. This usually made me happy.
Unclean
My eyes fly open courtesy of the sharp pain shooting through my lower abdomen and instant panic grips my heart. Please let it not be what I think it is. It is way too soon: I am not ready. “Do not be it. Do not be it. Do not be it.” I whisper to myself like the words can change anything. I look down to check my undercloth and instant relief floods my heart. It is not my menstrual period. Hopefully, this sharp pain in my stomach is just indigestion and not a sign that my period is about to start. Looking out of the window, I see it is getting bright outside. I should start getting ready for church. I love Sundays, not because of the going to church part but because I get to sleep in. Every other day, I have to wake up early to fetch water from the stream before the sun comes up, clean up the house, and go for lessons. Sundays are the exception because according to Mama, “it is the Lord’s day and we ought to rest just as God did”. I get up and stretch my hands as high as they can go, then roll up the sleeping mat and place it in the corner of the room where I usually keep it. Is that a new crack in the wall? Oh well, it is one more crack to go with the millions of cracks that make up this rickety house. As I walk out of my room, I notice how quiet everywhere is: Mama has already left for church. I would hear her moving about if she were home. I head to the kitchen so I can take out some water from the drum. The drum is big enough for a child to drown in if they get stuck in it. I know this from personal experience: I nearly drowned when I climbed into it when I was younger. I can still remember the sound beating Mama gave me after she rescued me. The beating had the desired effect because I did not go near the drum for years after that. I remember believing Mama hated me for the longest time after that. Those were the times I wished for my parents the most. My parents died in a ghastly car accident when I was an infant so I have lived with Mama, my father’s mother, all my life. I do not know anything about my parents or the accident that took their lives. Mama never talks about either no matter how many times I ask. She always says I do not need to know more because she is my mother and father now. Sometimes, I feel she is sweet for that. Other times, I feel she is selfish for hoarding information about my parents. I fill up the bucket beside the drum and take it to the back of the house where the toilet is located. The water is cool to the touch but I do not let that bother me as I quickly freshen up and head back to my room. Squatting in front of my small pile of clothes neatly folded at the corner beside my mat, I pick a dress at random to wear. Mama has mentioned a billion times that I should put more care into how I dress for service but I really do not care about impressing anyone with what I wear. I make quick work of dressing up, pick up my Bible, and head to church. I always take a leisurely stroll to church because I love the sight of nature – the slight wind blowing the tree leaves, the occasional scurry of small animals across the path, the sound of wildlife, and the view of the spectacular sunrise. I have watched it since I was a little girl, up until now that I am the full old age of sixteen. It is all so beautiful and it never gets old. I wish I could stay here forever. Unfortunately, there is church service. I do not like church. It is filled with the hateful and judgemental people of our community who gossip from the start of service till the end. I can never tell Mama this though… she will think I have been possessed by an evil spirit and take me to the pastor for special prayers. To be fair, it is not just the church I do not like. I do not like the entire community, their small-mindedness and nonsensical traditions make me so angry. I hear raised voices singing hymns from the church and sigh, I hate that too. The church is less than a five minutes walk from our house so I get there quickly. I take a moment to stare at the church building like I always do. I should be used to it by now but I am not. It amazes me that such a standard building exists in this community. It is tall enough to tower over every other building in its vicinity with its grey walls and ever-clean window panes. I wonder how much money was sunk into it, money that could have gone into improving the community. I snap out of staring, take a deep breath, and head to the church entrance with an ingenuine smile on my face. I am already dreading the long hours I will be stuck here for. I enter the church and walk to the back with my head down to avoid having to make eye contact with any of the gossips. Why are the doors at the side of the building and not at the back? I know I ask this question in my mind every Sunday because it annoys me every Sunday. I finally get to the back. I sit in the last row of seats and watch the spectacle that we call a Sunday service. It starts with Sunday school which is taken by one of
