“Girls! We need to leave now otherwise the food will go cold,” Hearty ordered at the top of her voice, “and I’m not preparing dinner,” she added. Hearty loved to joke, but this wasn’t one of her jokes. She giggled silently as she pinned her antique earrings to her ears. Her mind unfolded the events that occurred when she was gifted the luxurious jewellery.
They were out for dinner. An expensive hotel, a classy husband, short waiters, spicy food, an elegant dress, high heels, good music, and good vibes. Those kinds of simple things in life. They were exchanging sweet nothings only to be interrupted by a smash. You’d be forgiven for thinking her wine glass rolled over and broke.
It was her large screen, high definition television that had been relieved of its entertainment duties. Hearty’s fantasy was short-lived and her anger unearthed. She swore to bag up whoever crossed that line and exchange her for another telly. This wasn’t a joke either. She reached for the nearest item to lash the poor culprit, a characteristic impulse of many African mothers. A wrathful Hearty stormed out of the room with her belt, ready to set someone’s behind on fire.
What she saw in the living room shaved off her anger and sculptured it to compassion and agony. Her daughter, Zuri, lay helplessly on the floor while Zama stood beside her with a broken mug in her grasp. She knew better than to run and help Zuri and could only stand at a distance. Instinctively, she knew they were back to the dark days.
Those were the days when Zama couldn’t put on clothes because to her, they were ferocious worms that dug into her skin and feasted on her blood. Days when she couldn’t cross the road because cars were massive intimidating elephants, about to trample on her and reduce her to a paste. Days when she couldn’t stay alone because the wind would tease her and try to grope her. The dark days when she couldn’t sleep in the darkness because her bed sheets would snake up to her and attempt to smother her.
Zama had a psychotic disorder and couldn’t effectively distinguish reality from fantasy. Some days would be good while on other days she would do the unthinkable. In all this, she learnt to keep the elephants and the bullying wind away and to survive. She had a spirit of war. However, she fought the wrong people and she was oblivious of this.
Hearty was so shattered that she tore off her heart and hid it to heal. She remained true to her child. They shared a deep connection colored by long passionate embraces and raw vulnerability. Zama needed to feel her presence and understand that she wasn’t volatile. Someone had to be her sunshine; the lights to her nation and the soles to her feet- her mother.
Hearty saw her daughter retreat to a dark, lonely corner in her mind. She was afraid. She mumbled inaudibly things that couldn’t be comprehended. Her mother lovingly approached her with her arms wide open for an embrace. At that point, the telly was the least of her concerns. Zuri crankily dodged her mother and began to scratch her skin violently, to the point of laceration. The sight tormented Hearty, bringing her anguish. She could only weep in pain on her knees. It turns out she didn’t hide her heart well enough.
The voices in Zama’s head were loud enough for Hearty to see them. Sometimes, her body would do things that Hearty couldn’t fathom. Why, for instance, did she lock herself up in the chest freezer? And why was she trying to fit her head into the flower vase? Such episodes came with their doses of wicked energy and her violence was life-threatening. Her mother’s previous attempts to calm her got her one or two broken bones. Once she threw a knife her sister’s way. Zuri could only be grateful to God and her Math teacher for showing her how to work with distance, time and speed to her advantage.
Despite all this, Hearty wasn’t angry. Neither was Zuri. They were just hurt and in need of healing. They knew it wasn’t her. For a moment, she looked into Zama’s eyes, and through them to see what imprisoned her daughter. It was evident that Zama was exhausted but her captors told her it wasn’t enough. They told her that her head was small enough to fit into the vase and that everyone wanted to harm her.
Hearty begged the demons to release her child. She had tried exorcism, medicine, therapy, proper education, lashing- everything! But nothing worked. Her desperation fueled her zeal. This was her daughter, the fruit of her womb. It’s exactly what she signed up for so the job had to be well done. She picked up her brokenness, kissed it where it hurt most, glued the pieces together, and banked on some patience.
She saw the demons leave and Zama slowly regaining control of her body. The battle was over. They needed to prepare for another one soon. Zama looked empty and lost. Her clothes were in tatters and her strength, depleted. She passed out.