I am not the mask of makeup I wear

I am not the style of my hair 

I am not that voice whispering to end it here.

I am the choices that I make 

The hearts that I break 

The things that cause my hands to shake.

I am the words that I speak

The whispers of the trees

The sound of falling leaves.

I am the music I sing when I'm alone

The words I share with only my phone

The pain I felt with every broken bone.

I am each freckle and scar upon my skin 

The love I carry deep within 

The joy I feel when I'm with him.

I am the places I've been to

The people I thought I knew

The feeling I get when I'm laying next to you.

I am the weight on my shoulders

My faded band shirts getting older

That feeling when your heart grows colder.

You see, I am not what they believe me to be

I am not my own worse enemy 

I am not the pain that eats at me.

Because every day, I get out of bed

When I could just give up instead

And though I may get wrapped up in my head

I am still here

;

I promise you Susan

the void was better yesterday

Now when I stare into the abyss

It stares back at me

Our love was eternal

It was carefree

It was the stuff of fantasy

Our love

It filled the void in my heart

Filled the void in my soul

When we took our vows

We said until death doth us part

And now it has happened

Death has taken you

Away from me

I promise you Susan

The void was better yesterday

My Dad has more patience than all his five children combined. He believes in good honest hard work. He has forgotten how to lie or keep his thoughts quiet, and it gets him in trouble a lot with Mom. My Dad is stubborn, opinionated, but more wise than I give him credit for. He can't feel his feet, so he walks as though he's always drunk. But he's been stone cold sober all my life. My Dad is larger than life, but I've seen him shrink. I've seen him cry three times. I never want to see it again. I love my Dad for all that he is and because, even though I'm stubborn, opinionated, and more honest that I ought to be, even though I walk funny, and I put on a tough front, I know he loves me too. 

The ‘f’ in my own ‘family’ stood for flogging. We were bred with it. It was a dietary requirement. And no, don’t be fooled by the title, there was nothing sugary about the experience. Not to us. It was only sweet for our parents, especially Mama. Mama could be too tired to cook, but let her find out that we left a chore undone, or an errand unattended. Her muscles would spring to life. Yes, for beating. She was always, it seemed, gunning for some sort of cane prize.

It wasn’t as though my younger brother, Akin, and I liked to be mischievous, sometimes we were simply unlucky—like the day I was bringing my parents’ meal from the kitchen and was about to set it down when Mama asked me to bring her an extra plate. Then some accursed, godforsaken witch of a housefly found no better moment to perch on my earlobe. Both hands occupied so I couldn’t swat it, I raised my shoulder to attend the itch—a motion, most sadly, Mama would misinterpret.

“Eh-ehn, am I the one you’re shrugging your shoulder at because I asked you to bring me a plate? Go and bring me that cane.” That was the format for guaranteed punishment: a rhetorical question, masquerading as an investigative inquiry, followed by an imperative statement. To attempt either answering the question or appealing the order only fetched a bonus pre-punishment slap, so what was the point? Discipline received (with swollen arms and a bruised knee as testament), and dinner forfeited (my favorite àmàlà and ewédú), I made sure I killed off all the insects I could find in the house that night. And the next day.

Mama’s motive for beating us, as she put it, was that the world was just too rotten and she couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow her two boys be corrupted by indiscipline. Her mantras included the Proverbial “…a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame,” and “Train up a child in the way he should go…” The day she would upgrade our caning ration, she invited us both to sit down and lamented how we—I, actually—had not been taking my studies seriously considering I had the Common Entrance exam in a few months. Then she tasted her tallest finger and leafed through her unclothed Bible before proclaiming, “Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod…” Akin and I went flat on the floor at ‘rod’. As I begged her to be lenient, and Akin pretended to pass out, she continued reading, “…if thou beatest him with the rod he shall not die.” There was no going back.

While it was the most popular, flogging was not the only method of instilling discipline. Mama could also ask us to ‘kneel down, raise up your hands and close your eyes’ as our school teachers did, with Mama’s version including, ‘and face the wall.’ I never quite understood the eye-closing and wall-facing part, but I understood that an unexpected lash would attend the buttocks if our raised hands showed any sign of drooping. Alternatively, it would be the dreaded ‘Lọ f’ìka ẹ d’ólè s’íbèyẹn!’ meaning “Go and plant your finger on that spot,’—a punishment that was akin to the posture in hopscotch when you are about to pick up the stone, but in this case, you would be forced to freeze. The actual torment was the clear instruction to never change legs or switch fingers. It wouldn’t take more than 15 minutes for a union of sweat and tears to begin the solemn procession of tumbling off the tip of our noses.

Did I mention that Mama had uncanny prediction accuracy? If she told us ‘Spoil that mousetrap and see what I’ll do to you,’ we could as well begin to weep in advance, because by either extreme caution, or a complete absence of the same, we would engineer the fulfillment of her prophecy. Was it when, while pouring her some drinking water, gravely mindful of her strict, not-too-low-but-not-to-the-brim policy, Akin’s trembling hands overfilled the china cup, wetting her wrapper? Or how, despite warnings against handling hot things without a cloth, I would attempt removing a clay pot of fresh gbègìrì soup from the fire with bare hands, ending up with a shapeless, canary-yellow sea dotted with black shards staring back at me from the sandy kitchen floor? After earning a fat knock on the head that he would nurse all week, and after I acquired her fingerprints across my cheek, Akin and I needed no telling: Mama never threatens. She assures.

Still, all too often, my brother and I seemed to discard prior warnings and revisit our old ways. One Saturday afternoon after chores, Akin and I left the house without permission. Not that we could have sought it, because neither parent was home. The whole thing was my idea; Akin hardly had the courage to break rules anymore. I, on the other hand, was bored out of my wits and needed some rowdy company. We just had to make sure we were home on time.

We visited our neighbour’s farm first and climbed and plucked and consumed all the cashews we could stomach, throwing up when we could go no further. We had spent over three hours there when Akin suggested we head home. I was about to succumb when I realized how bad an idea it was: our shirts were littered with cashew juice, one of the most stubborn stains I have encountered in this life. If Mama spotted or sniffed it, our alibi was blown. So I suggested we go play soccer with our friends. The dust would mask the cashew stains as long as we ensured that we slid and rolled abundantly on the pitch. It seemed like a brilliant plan but when we got to the pitch, and our team kept winning, it was almost impossible to leave. Akin pressured, but I kept reassuring him we would go home after the next win. It wasn’t until a teammate kicked the ball far into a thick bush, and no one volunteered to retrieve it, that everyone dispersed. Our curfew was “6pm sharp” so when my teammate glanced at his watch and casually declared that it was “past 7”, I took some relief in knowing I wouldn’t face our parents’ wrath alone. Chastisement is worse without a partner in crime. At least in this case Mama had no basis for her “Can’t you see your brother? Is this how he behaves?” statements. When I searched, sang and screamed to no end however, I realized how undone I was: Akin had gone home without me.

Stopping two doors away from home, panting like my heart would find its way out any moment, I bent down and locked two straws of spear grass together, then plucked a lash from my left eye and buried it in the hair atop my head—two of the sure-fire charms my school friends told me guaranteed their parents forgot to punish their wrongdoings. Remembering how little of an amnesiac my own mother was, doubled my pace. And my blood pressure.

I approached our front entrance, hesitant. The door was ajar. I peeped in between the door and its frame through the gap occasioned by the hinge. I squinted, widened, cupped the edges of my vision, but the lantern’s flickering light was inadequate to make out anything. Two taps on my back and I instinctively went flat on the ground, confessing, “Mama, the hosts of heaven are my witness, I went in search of Akin not knowing he came home by another route. He went out, plucking cashew all afternoon. In fact, his friends also told me that while they were playing ball…” I paused. Something was not right. Mama would have cut me off mid-sentence, even for the most valid of excuses. As I contemplated looking up at her face, and considered whether I could afford the extra penalty that would attract, I heard a sound. A cackle. Then sniggering.

It was Akin.

I sprang up, bent on vengeance—both for his ditching me and now for disrespecting me. Pleading filled the air, as we swapped positions. He gobbled my forgiveness before I was done cooking it up. Then he gave updates: As expected, our parents had been asking of me, but he covered for me, telling them I left my shoes back where we went to play ball. I thanked him, although I wondered how such explanation could fly. How would I trek over four kilometers and not realize I was barefoot? He said Mama was busy in their room and I only needed to make it to our own room unnoticed and start snoring. Tomorrow morning, we would outwit her in the time-of-arrival debate since she was not there when I came in; he was. My tense shoulders caved in as I smothered Akin in an embrace reserved for brothers.

So, tip I toed, hoping to make it safely to our room. In the low light of the lantern dimmed by its smoky shade, I saw two long, thick sticks—bigger than I’d ever witnessed—behind the kitchen door. To think, retribution had been chilling by the corner all this time, awaiting my arrival.

I was almost out of the passage when: “Olúwamúmiboríogun.”

Now, that was disturbing on two levels: One, my full name was only mentioned when I had committed a serious offence. Two, that was Papa’s voice. While Mama beat us as frequently and as soundly as she could, Papa hardly did. But whenever he had to, it was a guaranteed grand style thrashing. And knowing Papa, this was about more than flouting curfew.

“Y-ye-yes Papa.”

“Welcome,” he greeted, punctuated by the sound of the main door latching behind me. In slow motion. Paka…paka…paka. Triple-bolted. Fate sealed. No neighbours could intervene. “Come,” he said, grinning. He was just a couple feet away but reaching him seemed like a holy pilgrimage on foot.

“Father, I’m not worthy to be called thy son,” quoting the prodigal son from our Sunday School memory verse, as I prostrated right where I was. If disownment was the alternative to death via thrashing, my choice was clear.

“What nonsense! You’re indeed my son. And will always be.” Disinheritance bid unsuccessful. Then he motioned at something. Now, unlike Mama, Papa always went to the imperative statement; he had no time for rhetorical questions. He would only summarize the purpose of the thrashing after it was over, like, “Next time you won’t go and break somebody’s louvre blades with a ball.” So, I stood in front of him and awaited the imperative statement.

“Go and bring those canes.” He added for effect, and apparently to heighten my torment, “They are ALL yours.”

My eyes followed his outstretched hand from origin, across my head and to, my goodness, the back of the kitchen door. Yes, where stood the two skyscraper sticks that would draw the curtain on my sojourn in this world of sin and flagellation and death. This was the end; it couldn’t be any clearer. From far off in the galaxies, I could hear Papa’s favorite song from his phonograph playing in my head, my thumping heart replacing the bass drum as Jim Reeves sang, Take my hand…precious Lord, lead me home.

But Papa would interrupt the flow and abort my levitation, bringing me back to the parlour where I was now inching my way towards the kitchen, bum and boxers united by sweat. He smiled.

“Your headmaster said you passed your Common Entrance exam so I stopped to buy you some sugar cane. You like them, don’t you?”

(Excerpt from a novel in progress. Please see comments for context*)

      The minstrels’ lively tune wound to an end beyond the looming doors, and Anna’s thoughts flitted to Andre. She wished he could see her tonight, and imagined a look of unfettered love on his face if he beheld her dressed in her finery. It would be disheartening to feel lovely and be greeted only by the callous reserve of her betrothed. For one night only, she reminded herself, but nagging guilt accompanied the thought. She suddenly hoped Ungar would be as cold and stoic as usual; his disinterest would make her feel less villainous. Soon, a booming voice filled her ears. “Lady Anna, bride of Lord Ungar of Kaskani.” The introduction shot a shiver down her spine. She forced herself to breathe.

      The doors opened, and vibrant sensations rushed to greet her. Savors of ham and goose made a heady cologne in the air, blending in a strange mélange with ladies’ perfume, wood smoke from the furious blaze in the fireplace, and the dewy sweetness of the roses adorning each corner. Women gowned in every rainbow hue lined the walls, accompanied by well-groomed gentlemen, all illuminated by the hundred candles of a shameless chandelier.

      Two hundred eyes flew toward her. Anna’s stomach tied in knots, shrinking from the intense, curious stares. She did not know the faces; they were a massive jury of strangers, evaluating, intrigued, awed. She scanned the crowd, searching for any familiar glance…

      Then she saw him.

      He stood beside the fire, isolated from the hovering masses. The blaze cast shadows upon his face. She gasped: obscured by the darkness, it was as if his every scar and blemish and boil had been erased, and all she could see was the regal cut of his nose, the way his coat strained over broad shoulders. In an instant, Ungar’s eyes met hers. They were impossibly breathtaking, like ice reflecting an azure summer sky.

      As he beheld her, his expression transformed. His eyes widened, and his chest rose as he drew a sharp breath. His taut lips parted, grown tremulous, and he gazed at her, unblinking. She did not recognize the emotion in his eyes, at once fraught with longing and pain. She felt her heart accelerate and offered a small, hesitant smile. For the first time in their acquaintance, neither broke their gaze.

      She could tell he hesitated to leave his shadowed refuge, yet he emerged, and approached her quickly. In the full light of the ballroom the spell was broken; his features were ghastly once again. Yet Anna saw only his eyes as they arrested hers. Soon he was before her, in all his towering height.

      “Lady Anna,” he murmured, his voice deep and rich. He bowed low before her.

      “Ungar,” she greeted him cordially, and his eyes flashed to hers again, filled with admiration, as if to hear her speak his name was a treasured gift. She lowered her gaze shyly and curtseyed, willing her heart to stop its eager, fickle patter, lest he hear it.

      He cleared his tense throat. “Shall we?” She obligingly took his offered, black-gloved hand. Slowly, he led her to the center of the ballroom, then drew her toward himself, placing his right hand at her waist. The minstrels launched into their piece, and the two were dancing. Anna hardly had to think about her movements – they came effortlessly with Ungar’s massive arms guiding her. The music bewitched her; despite Andre’s absence, the violins crafted a hypnotizing lament.

      In response to Ungar’s closeness, Anna’s heart pounded against her ribs like a raging convict. Could he see her thoughts with those frigid, piercing eyes? His vast chest was inches from her tender breasts, and she wondered if, beneath that hardened muscle, his heart leapt in giddy panic as hers did.

     She avoided his intent gaze, looking over his shoulder to witness the room sparkling and spinning around them. The peering faces were rouge blurs now. Tafettas and silks of persnickety waistcoats and haughty dresses swirled together in a glorious mess, the vibrant palette of an indecisive painter. As the room spun faster, the wash of color faded until all Anna knew was Ungar’s warmth. The sound of the minstrels’ serenade drowned her. She couldn’t think… All she longed for was to know his heartbeat…

      Caught up in the strangeness of his proximity and rapture of the music, she did not notice that she tripped, until suddenly her body was pressed to his, the omnipresent space between them but a memory. His arms tensed around her and restored her to balance before she could fall. Her eyes flew to meet his, and her world stood entirely still. 

      She had never been held by him. The very thought of his close embrace had seemed so impossible and frightening. Yet here, clutched in his arms, she did not want to pull away. The tightness of his grip, his scent, his sharp intake of breath, the shimmering beauty of his eyes, filled her awareness. The song and artist’s palette were details of a forgotten dream. His heartbeat… where was his heartbeat? Surely he could feel the war drum in her breast. She yearned to lean closer, to rest her ear upon his chest, but fate did not permit it. The moment was past, as if it had never happened. The dance continued; he kept moving, making their momentary closeness part of the choreography as he re-established the space between them.

      Anna’s head swam. “Thank you,” she whispered breathlessly. She sought his gaze, but he would not meet hers. His jaw was set firmly; his cheek paled. They danced on in silence. It amazed her how sensational his hand felt upon her, even through his leather glove, her stays and layers of sapphire silk. Fleeting thoughts entered her mind before she could check them… ponderings of how his skin would feel, that skin he always concealed, and how she might like it if his warm, bare hand were to rest… wander… upon her own delicate flesh…

      A blush scorched her cheeks. At once, the fog lifted. What strange spell had captivated her, she could not be sure, but awareness now sharpened in her like a knife. She was dancing with a tyrant, a hideous creature, who had bought her for himself and then abandoned her to loneliness.

      The spectators were clear now. She could see her mother following her with a predator’s gaze. It no longer felt like the room spun; she knew it was just she and Ungar who circled in their silly, half-hearted dance. Two marionettes appeasing their audience. Music-box figurines inseparably bound in a ludicrous embrace.

      She knew, too, that outside in the gardens, someone was thinking of her, someone whose touch she craved, the man she loved. She wanted to draw away from Ungar. She needed air…space... time to think. She needed to make her escape, to run to her lover, to taste forbidden fruit. Her body tensed and she increased the distance between them.

      “Are you alright?” Ungar murmured with concern, softly so that the brightly-plumed birds of prey surrounding them would not overhear.

      She managed a faint, “I am tired.” From the way he slackened his grip on her, expanding the void between them as much as possible while continuing the dance, she knew he sensed that fatigue was hardly what troubled her.

      “The dance is nearly finished,” he muttered solemnly. She felt a nag of guilt that perhaps she had hurt him, but she could not bear to search his face for proof. She concentrated on her movements; without his closeness, the dance grew more difficult.

      A familiar, uncomfortable silence hung between them. Anna was grateful for the swells of the violin to fill the emptiness.

      “Do you enjoy the music?” he asked quietly.

      “Very much,” she answered over his shoulder.

      “Really?” He sounded surprised, and moved ever-so-slightly nearer. “I suppose a song has much the same magic no matter who plays it… but I worried the violin would not sound so sweet to you in different hands.” His tone was nonchalant, but she knew the weight of his words. Indignation stirred inside her, but she stifled it.

      “How the song is played matters more than by whom.”

       His eyes flicked to hers, surprised, and she met them steadily. “And how should it be played?” he prodded.

      “A true minstrel knows that of his own intuition. The song itself will tell him, if he allows it.”

      “Tell me,” he uttered earnestly.

       She felt her resolve falter. She hated him, did she not? Something in those topaz eyes…

      “The song is almost over,” she softly replied. “You should listen to it while you can. If you cannot learn its secrets now, you never shall.” He could not know what she meant, yet there was a tormented look in his eyes that made her wonder if perhaps he understood.

      “If only the song could last longer, perhaps I could learn to do it justice.” His tone was pleading. His eyes begged her for something – could it be forgiveness?

      “If you had paid better attention, you could have known it in its opening phrase,” she whispered wistfully. The space between them halved and she felt his strength again, his unexpectedly tender touch on the curve of her spine.

      He bowed his head and replied in a murmur so soft she could barely distinguish the words. “I have never had an ear for music; no one ever taught me. But should you impart its secrets, I would honor them. I swear it.” With this sincere entreaty he met her gaze, and the unwonted vulnerability in his eyes struck her to her core.

      Where was this coming from? Why, in these last moments together, did she understand him better than ever? Why, before she would abandon him forever, did she feel for the first time that perhaps she could be… happy with him? That perhaps, the man whom she had thought an emotionless tyrant could… love her?

      The song crescendoed, nearing its finale. Ungar drew her closer. “Please,” he breathed. She felt the warmth of the word upon her cheek. Then, in time with the rhythm, he led her through the traditional choreography. The room whirled as he guided her in turns and spins and finally lifted her off her feet, his great hands spanning her waist as she clutched his shoulders. He spun her around in the air, her long curls tumbling down to meet him with their sweet perfume. And then she was being lowered, slowly and with great support from her partner’s powerful arms. Her body slid down against his, their eyes locked all the while. As she looked upon his tortured flesh, she felt no longer fear, but grief, and, somehow, longing. Longing that this night had happened long ago, before everything became so irrevocably complicated. Before her heart pledged itself to another.

      Soon, too soon, her feet were firm against the ground. He still held her wrapped in his arms, and she did not pull away. She felt a curious urge to weep. At last, at last, she felt his heartbeat, and it gave her bittersweet satisfaction: it pounded with such force it could have burst from his chest. She wondered that it did not hurt him.

      Then, she realized that perhaps it did.

      With a mournful minor tone, the minstrels struck their closing chord. “You see? It is too late,” she whispered to his eyes.

      His brow furrowed and Anna felt certain he could read her thoughts, could sense her plan to flee. “I will remember it. I will learn as best I can. Won’t you help me?” he implored.

      But the dance was over. She stepped away from him with a sorry smile and, remembering himself, he backed away and finished the dance with a low bow.

      The colorful blurs were humans again, smiling and applauding in their fragile-china way for the alleged lovers.