I remember my mothers haunting cry when we arrived at the scene. My father refused she be taken to the hospital. This after almost an hour of lying in her own blood and pain. To onlookers shock and displeasure, he picked her mangled body up and carried her home. Blood and all. I carried the emptied 20 liter bucket on my head just like she did when she sang her way through our front gate just four days earlier. Now her song was a wail and a whine. And She was the one being carried.

My father told me sternly to stay on the porch as he took my mother inside. Then he locked the door behind him. My mother screamed through the closed windows. The tears welled inside my eyes so I moved away from the porch. But no matter where I went on the property I could hear her still. After some time, I heard her no more. I thought my father would call out for me at that point but he didn’t. Not until the sun had gone down. I was starving and anxious by that time.

Shuma had himself left after showing up to spend at least two hours with me. Talking about what he’s going to do when he finishes school. And which rich suburb in the city he’s going to live in. And the conditions I must meet if I want to join him. And me bragging about how I carried a bucket on my head for almost half an hour without dropping it once. He helped me forget to cry. And how long I was forced to wait. For as long as he was with me at least. His mother had fetched him just before the sun had winked goodbye. She always knew where to find him besides the sports ground or the big mango tree where all the boys gathered to show off their latest wire built cars. I was the friend that lived closest. So naturally, him and I became close.

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It took some time for my mother to regain the ability to walk without assistance and to be physically active. She was capable for the most part, but her back never fully recovered. Especially not for sudden movements, so it was safer to stay indoors. The curious thing was that the cuts and gashes on her face, arms and legs, they were all gone. Like she had never had them at all. Her personality was not the same either. Like she was two people. My mother and someone else. I knew her most of the time but there were peculiar moments where I did not know who I was speaking to. It was her voice, but the words were not her own. More like someone I once knew from the village a long time ago. It’s not as easy to explain as when you experience it. But somethings definitely going on that I don’t understand as yet.

My sisters have no injuries. None that I’ve ever known of. But they inevitably stay indoors too. Unless they’re going to school. But they always come straight home. Hand in hand. They have a slightly darker complexion to my mother’s because of these regular trips to and fro. But they’re still lighter than me by a mile. I love them all. My mother. My sisters. They are my heart. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for them. Or sacrifice in their name. I wish I could stay at home and protect them from the evil world at all times. The slandering and gossiping. Looks of disgust as they walk by. Sanitizing of goods they might have touched as they leave the store. Random prayer gatherings outside our house in the middle of the day. These bastards would never think about pulling these stunts with me around. I wish they would. But someone needs to make a living. It might as well be me. My sisters are not as vulnerable as they look though. They take after my mother after all. Thank God.