Aunty Laura had called me rude the other day. I didn’t know why but I wasn’t as enthusiastic to find out either. I mean, she would sought my help and I humbly declined. I had the time but to lend it to her was the very problem. I wasn’t outrightly rude but the subservient route was a path I avoided when dealing with my aunt. Even when she spoke to my other family. And by other family, I mean Aunty Tutu, who was the only one who could handle me, as she says. Aunty Laura spoke of my disdain with a passion that weakened me because you would think that I utter words that pinched her or I fought with the intent to tear her skin. Instead, I chose silence. I didn’t speak unless spoken to and even when I did speak, I had a word count. I deliberately chose not to have the words that would satisfy the human tongue. The words you would speak and proceed to be quiet out of satisfaction, mine were the opposite. With all the allegations laid upon me, I wasn’t thrilled to right my supposed wrongs. 

I’ll admit to you, reader, that I do expel a concerning amount of passive aggression towards her. Well, to my extended family too. The reason I do that is because of the positioning. I can’t tell Uncle Ette why I do it. I’m afraid I might bite hard with my words. I can’t tell his children either, that the reason I subtly nod my head or show half a smile is because I can’t stand their parents and by extension, them. They’re messy too, but that’s besides the point. I can’t say anything to these people, for I know that I may have no other choice but to accept that I am in fact a rude child with no upbringing. I would bring shame to my family, my mouth is too bitter. My words would cause a sadness that’s one for the books. My words would birth a sadness no-one has seen anywhere. I would permeate the family soil with venom because I’m a poisonous child. Yes. 

How else can one look into the eyes of the people who caused such pain? My pain is a borrowed one. My pain is the kind that sat at the back with a neck stretched out to see the trouble ahead. It’s the type that blew very hot air from the forbidden truth that nothing could be done because my power was non-existent. It was swallowed by my elders. The ones who came before me. Their existence long before mine sets them way ahead of me even if one decided to be logical enough to point out their stupidity. They came before me and so, they inherited a wisdom that topped mine. Apparently. 

Judge this for me, reader. How am I able to tell Aunty Laura that the words she spilled on my mother’s name cracked my heart slowly? How do I tell her that at five years old, I couldn’t make sense of the words but seeing my mother cry was enough to know that she was killing her slowly? Tell me how I’m supposed to blurt out to Uncle Ette and the entire family that while they betrayed our love, traded it for pillars and acres of land, my eyes were clearing up. I substituted the sadness with pain that quickly turned into anger. I tried to lick my wounds all those years, wanting to believe that these people didn’t mean to make me fall so hard. But it seemed like they enjoyed the game. 

I can’t tell them that while mama still bends her back for them, I’m straightening mine. As she bends lower, I rise above their heads and unlike her, I refuse to turn a blind eye. Yet again, it’s because of her that I shut my mouth. It brings me back to the wrenching truth of being the little one. The eyen, the child. As I was born of her, I had no right to raise my voice. When mama said it was enough, it was enough. When she told me to shut up, I retreated. When she held my hands, I went soft. And so reader, it’s why I don’t speak. I borrowed the pain of my mother. When she cried, I cried. She prayed, I prayed. She laughed, I laughed. She was mute, so was I. But I refused to smile like she did. So, when I sternly say no to Aunty Laura, I wish could leave it at that. I wish she didn’t call this same mother of mine and question the reason she raised me this way. When her children whispered how strange I was, I smiled in my heart, for my words would’ve struck them.

Papa died but him living would’ve done nothing. The other day, I told mama that remaining small, the man would’ve tattooed, “I can’t rule my home alone.” I said other questionable things but I remember the slap mama gave me, so I’ll spare you the shock I gave her. But it’s true. As I sat at the back, I watched him act like a lame person in need of help. I watched him pop his pimples and flicker the puss while listening to his brother talk down on mama. Uncle said that ever since she came, papa paid less attention. He said this while eating her food. That day, I sat on the floor and held on to the door until mama caught me and sent me out to play. It was rather interesting that he had nodded his head and watched his brother spew words against his wife. Maybe that was his own end of the deal on the marriage vows, for better and for worse. And my mother, her for worse was staying. 

My mother caught me many times. She pulled both my ears when I peeped through the window after hearing her speak. I was washing my clothes and in my defense, I thought she was on the phone yet my mother was soliloquizing and conscious enough to gaze at my wandering eyes. I read her texts with Grandma loveth but I lacked stealth so she caught me yet again. Some nights, I feigned sleep to listen to her cry on the phone to Aunty Tutu, this same woman whose blood is as of the parents she shares with Papa and Uncle Ette. It remains shocking that she didn’t end up as the rest of her siblings. I said this to her on my 19th birthday and instead of a slap, she laughed terribly and held on to me. 

“You’re silly, Affiong,” was all she said. 

I ask again reader, judge this for me. Is it not best that I remain the supposed rude child to my family when I’ve yet to form the words? If anything, they should thank me for the silence. The passive aggression is only but a fraction of my intent. If you leave I, Affiong, I would burn them all in one house with my words.