I looked into her eyes. Eyes that used to shine at the sight of my smile. Now… Now they didn’t even see me. I felt the tears brimming in my eyes, threatening to break free and I’m not so sure I don’t want them running free. I’m not sure I’ve the strength or the will to stop them. I’m not so sure I’m still happy I was born a male. Male is a term that rears it’s head when everyone tells you not to cry, when they tell you to be strong, when they tell your brother your mother is beyond medical help. What does it even mean to be happy? Nineteen years suddenly seem like nothing. I’m still a child! Mother your son is still a child! Mother your sons have forgotten how to live. Mother your sons are deader than the flakes falling off your skin. Mother your sons are more haggard than your wrinkled face.
Mother speak to me! Speak to your last born! I’m but a child.
The warmth of the catarrh touching my lips and the salty taste of the tears on my tongue made me aware I’d lost it. I was drooling. Mother this can’t be it. Tell me you hate me. Call me a bastard. Give me the dirty slaps I used to avoid. Move! Make any sort of movement. Make any sound. The monotony of the monitors is driving me insane! It’s driving us insane!
I looked again at the sight that has come to be my nightmare. I looked at the bleakness I now have for a future. I looked into the unseeing face of my older brothers. I conjured up the image of our thoroughly stripped apartment. I conjured up the bank accounts that were now nothing but account numbers. I wondered what would be left of the husks that were my brothers when Mother finally succumbs to the touch of the Angel of Death who has flirted with her for six months. I felt the creep of madness wrought by the despair of my mind.
Then I made my decision. I shall show mercy to them all. My last days of sanity shall free them all.
Dosunmu Agboola Mubarak
For the Blog
Published by William-Medusa Hosanna and Great Oprah