I was a Bastard. I remember when I was in primary school, and I fought with my friend, and he called me a Bastard. I gave him a brutal punch in his face and asked him why he called me a Bastard. He said, "Do you know your father?” I cried, home, I cried throughout that day. He lied. I knew my father in my dreams. Mother told me he was the most handsome man she knew, that I took his looks. I slept every night, imagining him singing me to sleep or giving me a piece of extra meat from his plate. Him laughing, my mother laughing, and me happy. But it was just a dream. Mother barely laughed or smiled. She was a beautiful woman who, even with all the rage in her heart, glowed. Her skin was still as radiant as the sun on a Sunday. I believe my Mother stopped laughing the day he left. My Father left.
When I was in secondary school, I summoned the courage to ask my mother if I was indeed a Bastard. It broke her heart, as I could hear her voice break. Her throat was in tears, her voice cracked. She scolded me for uttering such statements. She said, "there's nothing illegitimate about you, you’re my child, and I love you. If anybody has anything to say about that, they should ask me.” And she further told me not ever to believe what anyone said, I was her son, and that was all that mattered. On the first day in school, a bully from my primary school picked on me. He called me a Bastard. I gave him a dirty slap. He lost two teeth. I slapped the word "Bastard” out of his mouth. I was taken to the principal’s office. Mother was there. She was disappointed. But I wasn’t. She told me to wait outside. I heard their conversation. The principal asked my mother to spread her legs for him so that I can be spared. It was quick. I returned to my class. And then I understood why I was a Bastard. I stopped getting angry when called a Bastard. I wore it, like underwear, I covered my private parts—pain. People kept their teeth. I never fought again. I don’t want my mother spreading her legs for my sins anymore. For the next six years, I never fought.
I got to the university, mother was proud. She never said it, but I noticed how she made my favourite meal and gave me an extra piece of meat. She told me, "you’re now a man, son” I was shy. That night she cried herself to sleep. I heard everything. I travelled to the university several hundred miles away. I missed mother. She missed me too, but she was a proud woman. She never showed her emotions in front of me. Every month, Mother visited me in school. Even when her knees hurt like hell and her eyes were carrying hefty bags, she came. She made my favourite and squeezed some cash into my hands. She worked hard and tirelessly.
Then she smiled. The day I graduated from university, she smiled for the first time. That night as we sat, on the floor, in our tiny little house. At the same time, the rain battered our roof. She looked at me in the eyes and told me. “Son, you’re no Bastard. You might never know your father. That’s because he’s dead. We never had the chance to get married before he died, but he knew you from the womb, and he loved you dearly.” I was relieved, for the first time since my childhood, I was delighted. Then I summoned the courage and asked her what happened in the principal’s office that day. She gave a loud sigh.
Tears dripping down her eyes, she said, "someday, you’d have a child, and you’d understand that nothing in the world matters, not your body, not your pride, but the love that you have for your child. You’ll be willing to do anything and even lay your life so that your child could live in dignity.” I felt proud. I lived for years with the guilt that I made my mother do the unthinkable on my behalf. She reached inside her purse and brought out a picture. She handed it over to me and said, this is your Father. And for the first time in my life, I recognised myself. And suddenly, it dawned on me that the reason my mother cried to sleep every night was that I reminded her of him. But a miracle happened that night. She slept soundly. She didn’t cry.
Every day, I told my mother that I would start working and make enough money to spoil her. She would smile most beautifully. Her wrinkled face would light up like a million stars. And every single time, she would answer, "I don’t need your money, I won’t accept it, you’ve given me everything I want from you, I’m a proud Mother. The next thing I want is what you can’t give me. Only your Father can.” I would tell her she’s joking.
The day I collected my first salary, I ran home in haste. To give my mother all of it and tell her to stop working, her son was rich now. But I found her sleeping peacefully. And at that moment, I understood that my Mother had turned me from a Bastard into an Orphan. But I was glad she did. She was finally happy. I wasn’t empty because I had both my parents together; finally. I wasn’t a Bastard anymore.
There's something about your writing. It's striking. It's like giving one blow in the deepest part of the heart. It's like ripping one's soul. It's emotional and powerful. It's divine. I love how you used the word "sleep and peacefully" it grows a kind of emotion that it's irresistible.
Tee, I swear, I owe you one bottle of coke