Familiar Strangers

 

FAMILIAR STRANGERS

 Home. That's where the heart is right? Or the people? I can't quite place. Mostly, it was a place for me.There was a time I looked forward to going there. Time has changed and nowadays, I feel misunderstood and abrasive. Home is no longer  a place I find myself, it's a place I get lost. Do not get me wrong, I love my family members and wish them well but at this point, I would rather love them from a distance. I know how that sounds. I can almost hear you, dear reader, judging me with every word and waiting to clutch on the next, I don't intend to change your mind, I only want you to understand mine.

My parents have told us not to burn bridges or let the grass grow under them. I sound very hypocritical, right. The truth is, my bridges are burning. Every time I go back home, I feel like I know them less, and they must feel like they lost their daughter at some point in life. I see familiar faces, but strangers to me. This article feels like standing in the rain, naked, shouting at the top of my lungs for someone to hear me. Dear readers, allow me to explain with the hope that someone resonates with me and tells me, “Me too”.

The first time I said a solid NO to my parents, I read the tension and shock in the room. It's not everyday you talk back to African parents!we all know how slippers and slaps can come rolling. However, I was not rebelling. I was expressing my opinion and stepping foot in something uncomfortable. Someone once told me that when a silent person gets their voice, it seems strange to others. I was conscious that my silence and malleability was my most likeable trait. That day, my mother suggested I spend the holiday with uncle Frank because his wife had left him, and he needed help around the house. A thirty-five-year-old man who made a comment about growing boobs last Christmas? The man who would "accidentally" bump into me in corridors and make smark comments when I pass . The same man who touched my butt when I went to wash his hands? My gaze met my dad to see if he had seen the incident. Our eyes met, and he looked away. Was he embarrassed? I don't know . What I know , is I needed him to stand up for me . I know it was my Battle to fight, but I am allowed to be a damsel in distress around my parents . After all it's their job to protect me . So why didn't he? Shame? Discomfort? Or pure turning a blind eye?

That evening when I complained to my mother, she said I was exaggerating and "he was only joking". My mum defended him like my words meant nothing. Liquid heat ran down my arms, and I stared at my hand, struggling to

concentrate, because her words were breaking my heart into pieces that couldn't be perched together.

“He pays your university fees you know. What would he say of he heard the rumors you want to start “

That is when I made the second decision, I will not let economic power dictate my life. Just because he paid my fees did not mean he could sexualize me or make me his "house-help."  I value my education, and I am different because of it. But I knew that I could not be anywhere near uncle Frank. He was an adult, and if he needed help, he could hire a service. Money was not even the problem remember.

The grey areas around how we deal with relatives are not the only thing dividing a wedge around us. My community has a proverb that says, "keinanino kia ngahika ngateo”. It means that the courtship process is just an appeal, and a woman is discarded soon after. My heart aches for being a woman. The marriage we have been conditioned to desire as the ultimate "God Given Duty “is just a fantasy. At the end of the day, I am a possession that can be discarded.

Dear reader, you may have been lucky to grow up in a modernized home. A feminist mother and a chivalrous father. You probably have no idea what I am talking about. In your family, you spoke to each other and asked questions when decisions affected you. I acknowledge the challenges of growing up at this age. How differently we see things from our parents and those who raised us. Well, if you are on the other end of the spectrum, join me in this rant and tell me about the strangers we so much love.

I desire better for myself. This does not go without the constant reminder that my hot mouth will get me in trouble with my husband. I remember when my father lost his temper and hit my mother. When I asked my mother why she stayed in the marriage, she said something I did not understand,

“I want my daughters to know that there is violence in marriage. When it happens, my girl, I want you to know what to do."

I looked at her, speechless. Did she think that was what we were learning? What about her sons? Does she think of the consequences of witnessing a high-functioning dysfunctional home? The kind of precedence it set to them on what endurance and patience in a woman means? This is another burnt bridge. My mother and I can not educate each other on these matters because I think of myself as an accessory. What is the point if I can not be valued for my input and value as a woman? She says I will shame her for she will never get to call her friends "iruga”. This was the traditional ceremony when a girl was to be wed. She complains that my education has been brought into my head and says I cannot change a culture.

“But mum “

“Do not mama me “

My heart bleeds for my brother. He dreams of finding a wife like a mother. Someone who will devote all her life to the family and the children. Someone who works tirelessly and does not say much. He believes it is a woman's responsibility to appease her husband when he is mad. She should always ensure food is ready and always keep the home clean. I remember his look when I told him he could use a laundry service to do his cleaning. One does not need a wife for that. Humour me, but someone needs to explain to me what is with this “wife “ narrative that we are sold from childhood. I respect the admirable qualities that my mother has. We love her for her diligence and commitment. However, I wonder if I am the only one who hears her voice shake when she needs money for groceries or the electricity bill is paid. I see how she casts her eyes away when her father gives her a glare when she tries to comment on controversial matters.

I feel how small she is, even in her capacity as a mother, a s a wife. I feel sad for her sometimes. It must be lonely waiting for your husband in the wee hours of the night, not knowing if they will return safely. My heart breaks when she says

“your father is a good man. He provides for us and he shielded me from the shame of singlehood. Don’t you know that a husband is a husband ,regardless?. You take him as he is and you nurture him well. You hide his filth and protect his ego and masculinity. Men are very proud and they do not wish for their business to be in the public square “

I can attest to the many lessons I have heard of what men like, the kind of women they like, and what to do to be the "wife". I could be wrong, but dear reader, tell what has been your narrative as a woman? I want to know that I do not wallow alone in this thing called womanhood. That I am not getting it wrong! But the whole dynamic is wrong and limited .

I know culture is not static, nor is it oblivious to change. In fact, it can change, create and react. Why are my people not grasping that the same education they adore on paper has given me this dynamic view? Why can’t they acknowledge that I am an adult now or trying to be? I have my own mind, and I am my own person. I know that My voice comes as a surprise to you, but it will only grow stronger. It does not mean you failed to raise a girl as a parent. I do not want you to be strangers. However, if you desire the woman I was, they may include the bridges I burn to light my path!