I was watching them. One by one. Taking all my time so they could feel the weight of my gaze, my big eyes moving lazily from one face to another. Some of them were ticking noisily the beads of their rosary. Were they asking God forgiveness for their sins? Others were crying. Nobody shed tears for me at the time. Here they are. THE FAMILY. They invaded my big living room, leaving no empty armchair and chair, even the carpet, sweating in their big bubus and headscarves. Some of them defied the August sun by adding a long shawl on top of their headscarves as the traditional liturgy requested.
My aunts and uncles. From my mother’s and father’s sides. Twenty of them. My mother was sitting in the middle. Her big body slumped against the back of the sofa, between two uncles. She seemed alien to me. I wanted to cry. No tears came out. As my best friend Arame told me one day, with a melodramatic voice: “They dried the well of your tears.”
I was probably eight when he first crept in my bed. I was too lazy to open my eyes to see who it was. Shhhhshhhh, one hand on my mouth. Before I could realize it, he was between my legs. I fought clumsily. I didn’t want to wake my sister up. We’ve always slept in the same bed. She had her back turned towards the wall… for the next four years. By the time I pulled through he was gone. I remained with the burning sensation between my legs, the pungent stench of rancid tobacco breath in the air and the drops of his sweat in my eyes. Though I was trying, I couldn’t control my body. The bed started to shake. Nobody moved. Something started in the lower part of my belly, climbed up my throat. My mother found me the next morning. She started to shout at the sight of the vomit near the bed.
“Lalla! Your butt out of bed! Clean up this mess.” That was all.
She didn’t notice my horrified stare. She didn’t perceive my volatile mood. She would blame the tears on my unpredictable character.
One day, I passed out while cleaning the bathroom. Only then she noticed. And she called THE FAMILY. A public meeting with my aunts and uncles all sitting in the small living room. Filling it with rebuke and blame. All of them eager to hear a voyeuristic story about how I got pregnant. Eager to show how lousy my mother was. Eager to tell the world what a debauched girl I was. I’ve brought shame to the family. I had to pay. I was standing in front of them. I don’t know why I thought about my appearance. I had a worn-out t-shirt with a faded red and yellow logo of Maggi cubes and an equally washed out pareo. My long toenails were getting out of the flip flops I had on. I was trying to hold back my tears in my not yet developed breast.
“Who did this to US!” was shouting one my my aunt. I couldn’t tell which of them, I had closed my eyes as tight as I could. US. It’s always about them. Then I heard him say:
“…I’m doing all I can to give them a better life…” I went down on my knees, banged my fists on the floor and I let it break out. All the anger and the deceitful world of the adults. I could guess from the surprised silence that wrapped my lean figure on the floor. The lump in my chest became smaller and smaller. I stopped shaking. I don’t know how long it took and I didn’t care. It was clear that I was all by myself so I pulled myself together, cleaned my face with my T-shirt. I stood on still wobbly legs. The voice that came out didn’t seem mine.
“In this house they got me pregnant, in this house I will have this child.”
After the birth of my son, my mom couldn’t stay with me in the same room. We couldn’t stay in the same house. He looked so much like him. I had to leave and I did. I decide then that I will be the one to decide what my body was worth. Now here I am. Facing the same eyes that condemned me years ago. Asking me to pay for his funeral. Of course, they expected me to pay. Of all my mother’s children, I was the richest. A big funeral for the big man. I thought I would feel better seeing now, that I would take my revenge. Where were the joy and satisfaction? Their bend forehead, their sweaty hands, their shifty eyes. They knew. From the beginning. They didn’t do anything. The swift taste of satisfaction turned sour in my mouth. My stomach churned. I leaped towards the stairs. None of them will see me cry again. I vowed so many years ago. I went into my room, opened the wardrobe, took some banknotes hidden under my ironed clothes. How much? I didn’t know. I didn’t care. I just wanted them out of my house. I closed the gate, sat on the entrance stairs… then I burst into tears.