Whenever I reread today's thread All Is Ready by Nonnie Augustine, I am reminded of my own wish to feel that pure, that self-assured, that intense, that essential, that devoted.

All Is Ready

by Nonnie Augustine

I have bathed in patchouli oil and my heavy hair is lustrous from brushing.  I am wearing my gold ankle bracelets with the ruby charms that my love gave me when we had been married one year.  My robe is fuchsia silk and under it I wear black satin that bares so much of my olive skin. Anise and cinnamon tea is prepared and I have purchased date and nut sweets.  Our home is cool as the breeze from the Bosporus flies through our rooms with the movement of the fans.  Aimee's husky voice drifts through the apartment.  My public garments hang out of sight.  I do not need their black modesty here.  Gold brilliants hang from the veil I wear tonight. He will remove it when I finish my dance.  Or maybe he will not wait for my dance to finish.  My husband will return soon from the dangerous West, and I am ready for him.  We will recline on tasseled pillows and I will tell him of the baby that is growing in my womb; we two will become three. I am happy to be so beautiful, so beautiful for him.

* * * * *

All Is Ready was first published in Salomé; it won the Glass Woman Prize in 2014; it is also part of Nonnie Augustine's poetry collection One Day Tells its Tale to Another. 

Today's thread is Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz's unforgettable prize-winning story of a girl trying to make sense of abuse, The Story of My Life (So Far), together with Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz's artwork, Sunflowers. 

The Story of My Life (So Far)
Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz

Prologue
We create our lives. That’s what Miss Lewis, the schoolteacher, say but I ain’t sure I believe her. Seem like since I can remember somebody else been dictatin what I’m to be about. I keep wonderin when I’ll get the pen, get to start makin up parts of it myself, cause the way it look right now, I don’t see no happy endin in sight.

The characters
I don’t remember my daddy. It was over twelve years ago that he walked away. I wasn’t yet two, and I must’ve not been able to walk, cause Lord knows I would’ve run after him if I could. 

Folks say I favor him, so you think I could look in a mirror, examine my wide nose and brown eyes and see him, but I don’t. I can look for hours at the dark and wonderin face lookin back at me and not be able to recall the way my daddy looked. Not one bit. Still, when folks say I’m just like him, it make me feel proud inside; like they sayin I ain’t like my mama.

Long as I can remember me and her ain’t never got along. Can’t understand it, me being a part of her, startin off, livin and breathin in her, and I ain’t got no idea what I might’ve done to make her not look at me with some kind of good feelin. 

I try and look at it like we’re opposite sides of the coin; she’s got her way of seein things and I got mine, but then I realize that it’s the same coin and there’s got to be some of me in her and the other way round too, and that’s even more a confusin mess.

Lots of times, I’m wishin I could find that part of her inside me. I’d use it to help me understand. Help me love her in spite of everythin. Or at least help me learn to forgive her. But like those pieces of my daddy—if there’s somethin of Mama in me, it’s found the very best hidin place.

My mama’s got a husband that I don’t like and he don’t like me one bit neither. Some kind of lonely must’ve come over her to make her up and marry the likes of Luther Jenkins. I remember a time she had nothin good to say about or to him ’cept when we were leavin church. He started comin round last winter; bringin wood case we needed it to keep warm. Ask Mama she need a ride: the mercantile, the mission meetin? Mama be laughin at him when he leave—head look like a watermelon, and you know what’s inside just as squashy, but Lord it probably ain’t sweet or he too black ugly to even look at. She let me laugh with her, but come Spring, she tells me to get to packin. 

We’re movin.

She got herself a husband, she say.

I got a new daddy.

Luther Jenkins is considered a big man here. Black folks talk on him, call him a pillar of the Negro community, cause he got most everythin they want. He work for white Mr. Graham, just like them, but he act like he ain’t got to answer to the same.

He don’t like it that I go to school. Think I oughta be helpin Mama clean houses or be in the fields next to him. But I go to school anyhow. Tol’ Mama there were some things I ain’t gonna do cause Luther Jenkins can’t make me. 

I decided early on, the best and only thing Luther Jenkins could do for me was stay out of my way. He is my mama’s husband, but he is not my father. Few things in my life I’m thankful for and that sits mighty high on the list. 

After dinner, when my chores are done—never to his satisfaction, but he cain’t ’pect much from the likes of me—I do my schoolwork. I work fast as I can addin and substractin; make my eyes race cross the page cause I don’t pay the light bill in this house.

Luther see me and start poppin his lips. 

“Common sense beat book sense any day,” he say.

Hmph. Like he got either.

He start to recite what he got with his two hands and hard work. “Ain’t no need for no nigga to be sittin in a chair when they can be out in the fields, workin.”

He wanna argue, but I keep scratchin my pencil across my tablet. I usta try and use Miss Lewis’ words, equality self-sufficiency responsibility of self, to show him how wrong he is but he didn’t never listen.

Said, “Ain’t no woman need be talkin like that.”

“You see she ain’t got no man,” Mama told him.

“Probably ain’t never had one and that’s her problem,” Luther Jenkins said.

The two of them talkin bout my teacher confused me. The way Mama laughed with him. And bout that.

Our first night in Luther Jenkins’ house, her first night in his bed, was full of fussin. All evening Mama took her time fixin dinner and eatin. She talked on and on and on—to me—all the while Luther Jenkins gettin mad. Said he didn’t get no wife to hear her talk.

They wrestled and fought all night.

Stopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopit

But Luther Jenkins don’t stop. I’ve watched him beat the land outside till it grow crops cause it’s afraid not to. Luther Jenkins get what he want with nothin but his own two hands.

Mama don’t like nothin about it. When I started bleedin, she tol’ me what to do to keep from soilin my clothes, but that’s all she was intendin me to know. 

“But why’s the blood coming out of me?” I’d asked, repeatedly.

She gave me that look a hers when she ain’t studyin none of my questions, but still she said, “Cause that’s the way the Lord made it happen and since He’s a man, He ain’t happy less a woman’s in a mess of hurt!”

“But—” I started.

“Now you look here, girl. Pretty soon men are gonna try’n light on you like flies on shit. But all they be wantin is to stick their thang up in you. It hurt and they don’t give a damn.”

I could be makin my own babies now, Mama told me. Though, if I do, she will twist my head off quick like a chicken’s; me and that baby both be dead ’fore we cause her a moment’s grief.

Still she assure me that that is not likely to happen. No man will ever want me.

I am not a beauty. Least that’s what Mama say. I don’t think I’m ugly. But if she or Luther Jenkins are angry or tired or just bein plain mean, they tell me I am. Ugly. And dumb. A ugly dumb heifer, at that.

The setting
We live in a four-room house with plumbin inside. It ain’t much if you look at what the white folks got, but it’s more’n me and Mama ever had. I got my own room, though I would not have wished the likes of Luther Jenkins in my life to have it.

We live in the backwoods of Texas, in Shetford County. This town is made up of black folks and white ones. They hate us and we hate them.

But that is another story. 

Something called foreshadowing
A good writer don’t tell the reader exactly what’s gonna happen, but a good writer give hints. So when somebody’s readin the story, and they get to the part where somethin BIG happens, they already kind of knew that it would.

If I’d’ve had a hint, I would have done everythin I could — change the way the whole story was gonna go. 

An example of foreshadowing
I’m settin the table for supper and look up to see Mama givin me her mean look. I know I ain’t done nothin, but I wait for her to accuse me.

“You go get a sweater on,” she tell me. “Cause I ain’t sittin here watchin Luther watch your titties while I’m tryin to eat.”

What happens
A story is excitin because the writer makes things happen. It’s called the plot. 

In class, Miss Lewis asked if we understood and even though I didn’t then, I do now. Plot is the bad stuff that just keep happenin.

Through my sleep, I feel the heaviness of him over me. My mind can’t decide what it wants to do—screambreathedon’tbreatheopenyoureyesdon’t—as Luther Jenkins put his hand under my bed sheet. Slip his hand inside my drawers, his fingers searchin for what ain’t his. 

In a story, a writer can make people move through time. A character don’t have to be right here. She can be anywhere she wants until this moment right here moves on.

My heart pound out his steps across the wood floor. This time, I hear the door creak as it’s moved. I want the lamp on, but I don’t pay the light bill in this house. I pull my knees to my chest and tug my gown till it’s stretched over my legs to my toes. I stare in the direction at the door, tremblin, but I ain’t wonderin if he’ll come back.

I’m wonderin if I will.

Plot development
A good writer keep the reader readin. Create scenes with a lot of action. Miss Lewis say to make it so the readers feel like they’re right there in the middle of what’s goin on.

Miss Lewis will just have to forgive me; I don’t think I can do that.

The previous scene is repeated.

The previous scene is repeated.

The previous scene is repeated.

Character development
I ain’t been eatin and Mama is angry. 

“You better eat or I’m gonna take a switch to your hot tail!”

I ain’t got the strength to pick up a fork.

“Think you’re gonna fall out in front of folks and they be thinking we don’t feed you!”

I ain’t got the strength to argue with Mama no more. 

“She ain’t nothin but an ungrateful heathen.”

I lift my head and stare at Luther Jenkins. He don’t turn away. Chewin his food, he open his mouth and say, “One day, your hungry black ass is gonna appreciate everythin I do for you.”

“Mama,” I whimper.

She flingin pots into the sink. “Whatchuu want?” she ask in her angry voice.

don’t want no daddy comin from my ‘magination want daddy copper flesh cry real tears when he see me heart beat wild with love. . . 

I shake my head. “Nothin,” I say and I watch the food on my plate wilt like my heart.

A bit of narrative
All summer, he steal me away. Don’t nobody see me going until school start and Miss Lewis know. Her point of view must be omnipotent. 

The something big in the story and revelation (told in a scene to make Miss Lewis happy)
“You’re distracted,” Miss Lewis say. She sittin at her desk, gradin our spellin papers. She shake her head, lips makin a sound like disappointment. She must be gradin mine. “Are you havin problems here at school?” she ask.

I say I ain’t.

“At home?”

I don’t say I ain’t.

“Your mother just married; that must have brought some big changes to your life.”

From hard to harder. 

“Why don’t you play with the other girls anymore?”

“I’m too old to jump rope.”

“You weren’t too old just months ago,” she say. She collect the papers on her desk and put them nice in a pile. 

“You aren’t making any progress on your reading list . . .

“Your work isn’t as strong as last year . . .

“And it’s always late. . .”

Miss Lewis is standin by me. Her fingers touch my chin, but I don’t let her turn my face. I stare at her empty chair behind her desk.

Miss Lewis is one of those people with kind eyes. She look at you and what you see back make you feel good. But I can’t look into her eyes right now; I don’t want to see the ugliness I’d surely find there.

Her hand is gentle across the top of my head. Even as a baby, I don’t think I ever been touched so nice. 

But I shake her hand away before I clamp my own over my mouth, but they don’t hold nothin back. Through my tears and vomit, what’s left of me spill out between my fingers and across my desk. Miss Lewis don’t say nothin all the way to Luther Jenkins’ house. I think she mad at me, but then she give me a smile. It’s little, but she give it to me anyhow.

She put her arm around me as we walk across the porch. I’m afraid to open the door, but she promise, “It’s going to be all right.”

Mama’s on the couch, darnin when we step in. She stare at Miss Lewis, and say, “What the hell she done?”

Miss Lewis stop and stare at Mama. “Nothing, Mrs. Jenkins. Julia hasn’t done anything.”

And when she say that, she say it like it’s true. 

Miss Lewis push me to sit down on a chair and she sit by Mama. She take a breath and then she glance at me, turn to Mama. “This is about what Mr. Jenkins has done.”

Mama’s fingers work the needle through the pants in her hands. She don’t look at Miss Lewis. She don’t look at me. 

She tyin a knot and breakin the string with her teeth when Miss Lewis is bout to say something, but Mama stop her. Mama lay the pant leg across her lap and run her hand over the patch. Say she knew it was just a matter of time ’fore Luther Jenkins started in after me. Tol’ Miss Lewis she wan’t hopin or wishin for it, but she was expectin it like you expect mud after a rain. 

Mama, happy with her sewin, take care foldin the pants and puttin them on the coffee table. She look over at Miss Lewis and Mama laugh at the surprised look on her face.

“You actin like it somethin new,” she say.

What black gal hadn’t heard stories? Lived it too? Everybody crammed into one room—most times, one bed—course it bound to happen. Anythang with a hole—at the mercy of fathers, brothers, uncles. Granddaddies even. 

Mama wonder out loud what would make a man do something like that to his own kin; make her feel dirtier, lower, than any white man ever could.

“Then why did you allow Mr. Jenkins—”

“Allow,” Mama snarl. How she gonna stop a man from doin what he want and in his own house?

“’Sides he ain’t her daddy. And he ain’t done nuthin but touch her. That all, and . . . ” Mama’s voice trail. She pick at somethin in her lap; she look like she ain’t still here with us in this room. “And that ain’t nuthin,” she say finally. 

Miss Lewis stare at Mama like she don’t know quite what to make of her. “Well,” Miss Lewis say after some time. And then she repeat herself, “Well.” She stand, wave for me to follow her and we leave Luther Jenkins’ house. 

I don’t know if Mama stay inside cause I don’t look back. 

Miss Lewis take me to her house. Feed me without complaint. Tell me to go to bed when I’m ready. We don’t have to talk, she say, unless I want to. I shake my head cause there just ain’t no words.

I lie in the extra bed she got, tell myself it’s OK to close my eyes, but as soon as I do, I feel myself bein drawn out of my sleep. 

Mama. Did she come for me? 

But her words take the shape of his hands—surprisin and hurtin me.

“You don’t go repeatin nuthin she done tol’ you. It ain’t nobody’s business what go on up in my house. . . 

“She be makin up stories half the time. . . 

“Ain’t nobody gonna believe her stories against Luther . . . ”

I sit up in the bed, squeeze my arms around my legs real tight, knowing it ain’t him. It’s Mama. She the one makin me fall all apart. 

The purpose of a story
Miss Lewis say stories tell us who we are. A good story make a reader feel somethin for the characters. 

Perhaps this is not a good story. Cause who reading it gonna feel somethin for me when my own Mama don’t? 

What kind of story this is
When I think on what’s happened, it should make me cry. 

I laugh instead.

Epilogue
All night I been writin out the words for Mama, for next time we meet. She say exactly what I want, she do what I need her to. I know, though, that all those parts are still unwritten—a mystery.

I’m tryin to believe Miss Lewis—that this is only one story. She promise that I can create other ones, different and better ones, but I ain’t so sure. 

This is what I do know: That this is the story of my life so far and it is my story to tell.

* * * * *

The Story of My Life (So Far) was first published in FRiGG. It won the Glass Woman Prize in 2008. It is also part of Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz's prize-winning chapbook Where I'll Be If I'm Not There.

The sunflower artwork was first published in Anti-Poetry Journal.

Following yesterday's thread about her sister's murder, here are the 13 Reasons She Stayed by Kim Robinson. http://myinnerchick.com/2014/09/20/13-reasons-she-stayed/

IN MEMORY OF KAY

13 REASONS SHE STAYED

Posted on September 20, 2014

 

~Don’t judge the women who stay, judge the men who kill them—Kim Sisto Robinson

--She didn't know…

she'd be a victim of domestic violence

murdered May 26, 2010…

        

SHE STAYED…

1. because of the babies. They needed a father.  He was never a father.

2. because she was embarrassed to become a single mother. She was always a single mother.

3.  because she was ashamed of going on welfare. What about the welfare of her boys?

4.  because of her faith. She wanted to please God. God isn’t pleased by an abusive marriage.

5.  because she didn’t think she could make it on her own.  She could have changed the world.

6.  because she didn’t have a college education. Her murderer liked it that way.

7.  because she thought he’d become a better man.  He was never a real man.

8.  because she felt sorry for him. We all became part of the problem, not the solution.

9.  because when he called her a no good fucking cunt. She believed it.

10.  because he said nobody else would want her.  He was talking about himself.

11.  because he knew how to manipulate her heart into believing his lies. Her beautiful heart was in constant denial.

12. because she was familiar with the dysfunction. Like an abused dog who still loves its owner.

13.  because she thought he’d change. HE.  NEVER.  CHANGED. 

–A NOTE:  In the year before Kay’s murder, she went back to school and received her phlebotomist degree. She was becoming empowered. I could see it in her face, her eyes, her soul.

Unfortunately, her murderer saw this, too.

When she decided to leave Mike Peterson the end of May, 2010, she never made it out the door. He shot her 3 times in the head.

—-Get Help Today. You are Loved, Cherished, & Valued:  Domestic Abuse Hotline:  1-800-799-7233

Darling, Reader, Are you  in an abusive relationship? If so, tell somebody. ANYBODY. There is support and love for you. Believe it. Empower yourself TODAY. xx

Today's harrowing thread: Kim Sisto Robinson on finding forgiveness for the murderer of her sister. It was first posted September 7, 2015 on Kim's own blog http://myinnerchick.com/2015/09/07/dear-mike-peterson-i-forgive-you/ for those of you who want to explore more.

IN MEMORY OF KAY KIM'S BLOGS

DEAR, MIKE PETERSON, I FORGIVE YOU

Posted on September 7, 2015

Mike Peterson murdered my sister, Kay, on May 26, 2010. He then killed himself.

“To rise, first you must burn.” ― Hiba Fatima Ahmad

–Dear, Mike Peterson,

When you were alive, I never quite knew the day of your birthday. Kay typically informed me of the date, “Oh, did you know it’s Mike’s birthday today? I’m having cake and ice-cream later on; you’re all invited.”

I didn’t want to go, but I did. For Kay, the kids, Mom and Dad, because it was the right thing to do, because I thought you might have changed, because I so desperately wanted to love you and for you to love me back.

You sat at the kitchen table in silence, disconnected, discontented, inside your own dark world like a character out of one of Kafka’s books. You sat taking bites of cake as if you were alone, as if you were isolated inside your own mind. Didn’t you know we were there, too, and your boys, and your gifts wrapped beautifully inside blue tissue paper, and Kay. Always Kay… trying to make everything better.

I remember staring at the multi colored balloons floating about the room thinking, ‘I should pop them, I should take out a pin right now and make them all explode, I should press one hard against your face for you to take notice, wakeup, stop eating your stupid cake for a moment to allow others inside your miserable, self-absorbed universe.

Did you ever care about anybody except yourself?

How long did you plan the murder before you decided to take Kay away for good?

Did you plan it from the beginning? Did you notice her walking around the Miller Hill Mall and declare, “I will kill that girl one day?” Or did you see those big brown, sweet eyes and recognize you’d be able to control, manipulate, & own her like a pet dog?

Why did you do it? Did you hate us that much? Was Kay’s life that insignificant? Did you utter a prayer, a benediction, ask for mercy before you pulled the trigger? Did you have any repentance or remorse or humanity inside your body?

Was it your intention to make us suffer every birthday, holiday, anniversary, the rest of our lives?

Sometimes the pain is so excruciating, it’s as if my heart has shed its skin and will never grow back the way it was.    No.      Never.

But in the midst of this darkness, I’ve come to the realization that you did not win, you did not destroy our family.

Because Kay rises from the ash every single day without you, in spite of you.

She rises like those vibrant balloons from your birthday party; a million voices lifting in air.

It’s the oddest thing, but I remember the date of your birthday now. Perhaps because I think of your mother on that day and wonder if she misses you, mourns you, wants you back inside her womb to begin again.  And I’m deeply, profoundly sad for her.

I wanted you to know I forgive you, and if you were in prison, I would have delivered this letter to you in person.

Yes.

I.    Forgive.    You.

Make a safety plan HERE NOW: http://www.thehotline.org/help/path-to-safety/
—Call the Domestic Abuse Hotline: 1-800-799-7233
—In Duluth Call DAIP: 218-722-2781

In 2008 I posted The Rich River by Mercy Adhiambo, who was then 21 years young, as a top contender for the third Glass Woman Prize. It is an unforgettable story. Mercy Adhiambo has since become a journalist and just spent six months at The Oklahoman in Oklahoma City as an intern. She is about to return to Kenya. May things go well for you, beautiful and talented and compassionate Mercy Adhiambo.

THE RICH RIVER
by Mercy Adhiambo

I must have been six years old at that time, but the events of that day are forever engraved in my mind. It was my first day at school, and like everybody else, I put on my heavily starched green tunic dress. None of us had shoes—shoes were for upper primary school pupils, and for the few whose parents worked in the big city.

I was scared. School scared me. From the stories I had heard from my elder sister, it was going to be terrible.

“Your class teacher is going to be Mrs.Onyango. She will lift your dress and pinch between your thighs…,” she had told me in the morning just before I left for school. Although Mama had rebuked her and assured me that all would be well, I still had some lingering fear within me.

“I am Atieno,” the girl who sat next to me said.

I did not reply. I just stared at her. She was the talkative type, and I was shy.

“Did your mother give you anything to carry to school?” she asked almost immediately.

“Yes, sweet potatoes,” I replied weakly. For some unknown reasons, I found her question irritating.

“Give me some, my mother did not give me anything,” she said, looking straight into my eyes.

I reached for my bag and gave her the tiniest piece of my sweet potatoes. She shoved the whole of it in her mouth, then stretched out her hand for more. I looked at her in disgust, then gave her one more.

She munched on it slowly, then smiled at me.

“Look at my hands, my mother lashed them yesterday.” She held out her arms for me to see.

My stomach lurched at the sight of her hands. They were bruised and swollen. I did not believe her. No mother lashes her little girl like that!

“What did you do to earn that?”

She did not answer. She just smiled, but I noticed the tears in her eyes.

There was heavy silence between us. My thoughts raced to my mother. Sometimes she got angry at the things I did, like making faces at her visitors, but she had never caned me so badly.

The teacher entered the classroom and interrupted my thoughts.

“Good morning everyone?”  She greeted us in a low voice.

We all stood up and saluted her.

“I am Mrs. Onyango, your class teacher,” she continued in the same tone.

Silence reigned.

“I want each one of you to give a brief introduction about who you are,” she continued.

The introductions began at the front. Most of the pupils spoke softly, and it was with great difficulty that those of us at the back got to hear their names.

Mrs. Onyango, probably bored by the monotony of the introductions, was beginning to doze off.

“My name is Atieno, I am six years old, and my mother is a seller,” my desk mate introduced herself with a confidence.

“Young girl, we do not say seller, we say business lady,” the teacher corrected her.

“Yes, Ma’am”.

“So what does your mother sell?”

“She sells herself, Ma’am.”

“What?”

“My mother sells herself to interested buyers.”

There was silence. Nobody talked. Atieno and the teacher looked at each other.

The teacher made her way toward Atieno, her eyes so fierce, that for a moment I thought she was going to hit her.

“How do you know that she sells herself, young girl?”

“That is what she tells me every night when she leaves the house.”

“Do you know it is wrong to lie, Atieno?”

“I know it is wicked to lie, and those who lie will burn when good people go to heaven, Ma’am”.

“How many children are you at home?”

“It is just my Mama and I. My Mama says she had me by mistake. She says I am the bad one who refused to die like the rest, even after she drank a whole gallon of detergent to get rid of me while I was in her stomach.”

Atieno’s voice faltered off, and there were tears in her throat.

Loud murmurs went through the classroom. It must have been the pupils wondering why Atieno was holding such a long conversation with the teacher. We were too young to understand.

“Who brought you to school?”

“Myself.”

“Class, you are dismissed for break…” the teacher said, and I noticed her reaching for the wall for support. Her eyes were also very red.

* * * * *

That evening as we walked home from school, Atieno walked at a sickeningly slow speed. I felt the need to be her friend. Nobody wanted to talk to her.

“Some of my sweet potatoes are still in my bag, maybe…,” I started.

“I think I am full,” she said, looking straight ahead.

“But you didn’t take lunch.”

“I never take lunch. I am used to staying hungry.”

I saw tears glinting in her eyes, but she blinked them away rapidly.

“Where do you live?” I asked in a final attempt to sound friendly.

“Across the river; that is where I live with Mama.”

“I also live across the river with my Mama and Papa,” I said.

She did not look at me. She picked a piece of grass and chewed absent-mindedly on its blade.

We walked on without talking to each other until the river lay before us.

“Do you swim?” she finally broke the silence.

“No, I fear water,” I replied honestly.

She did not comment, and I began to wonder why she had asked me the question.

“In the depth of this river, there are six one shilling coins, and four five shilling coins. That makes a total of twenty six shillings.”

I did not quite understand.

“How do you know?” I asked perplexed.

“I threw them in,” she said with no feeling at all.

I was amazed. I loved money. The highest amount of money my mother had ever given me was two shillings, and here she was, telling me that she had thrown twenty six shillings into the river, yet she could not even buy herself a piece of Maandazi for lunch!

“There is a man who comes to our house at night when my mother has gone out to sell herself. He touches me, then gives me the money,” she said to me without a hint of feeling.

“Does your mother know?” I asked, concerned. My mother always told me to report to her any man who touches me.

“Yes, she does.”

I felt my heart beating strangely. And there was a searing pain in my chest.

When we reached the river, she groped in the pocket of her green school tunic, fished out a shinny ten-shilling coin, then, after studying it carefully, hurled it into the river with all her might. The waters swallowed the coin hungrily as we looked on.

I noticed the veins in Atieno’s face. I noticed the tears in her eyes. I noticed the sorrowful look that clouded her face.

“Yesterday, the man gave me ten shillings, but yesterday he did more than touch me,” she said with her gaze fixed in space.

I also took the fifty-cent coin that I had and dipped it into the flowing waters of the river. I do not know why I did it, but I found satisfaction in seeing it disappear in the river.

Atieno lifted her dress and dipped her feet in the shimmering water. I did the same. Then she removed her clothes and walked slowly into the river. I did that too.

That day, we swam and played in the river until we reached the plateau that lies beyond childhood, beyond fear, beyond sorrows of this world…where one just swims like a fish or soars like an eagle, or one floats like a ghost, unaware of anything that is going on around them in this corrupted world.

While in the water, Atieno held my hand tightly, looked into the depths of my eyes, then told me to be her friend…and I cried.

When I reached home that night, my mother pinched my ear for having stayed out late. She served me Ugali and fish for supper.

“Mama, in the depths of River Gol Richo, there are so many coins; to be precise, there are thirty six shillings and fifty cents,” I told her after eating my meal.

She did not understand, and she did not bother to inquire. She just sent me to bed, and that night, I dreamt of nothing but Atieno, the river and myself, and how I would seek the man who gave her the coins, and hurl him into the river with so much might, just as Atieno had done with the ten shilling coin he had given her after destroying her. 

Today's thread in Writing In A Woman's Voice: Kermit in the Kardomah by Oonah V Joslin:

Kermit in the Kardomah

“Kermit,” the young woman said. Then towards me, “Sorry it just slipped out.”

She was referring to the American guy by the window making a call home on his cell phone.

Luckily he didn't hear. “Yeah, I'm fine…. Yup, Helen's fine…. Yeah, we're having a great time!” 

I involuntarily grinned. She was right of course. He sounded just like Kermit. But when I looked I saw that she was dressed all in green and yellow and I couldn't help but think she was one to talk.

She was one to talk. “I got a job today,” she continued seeing that I'd smiled.

“Congratulations” I said and looked away.

“Selling solar panels as part of the government's new scheme.”

“Well done you.”

I shovelled a forkful of coffee cake into my mouth. Sipped at my tea. Admired the  fifties style décor, the gleaming mirrors and panelling, the Chinaman by the door.

“Yes. I was just coming out of a bad relationship and I got this interview this morning and now I have a flat, a job and everything.”

“Things are looking up then,” I remarked and I tried to smile.

My husband blew at the froth on his cappuccino and gave me a look: don't encourage her. There were few people in at that time of the day and I wished I had taken more care in choosing a table but I hadn't immediately noticed her there, sequestered under the stairwell.

“Now I can make a home for me and the kids.”

“I see. Well good luck with that.” One can't simply be rude, I implied in an answering glance.

She poked about a bit in her oversized handbag, produced a pen and began scribbling things down onto a note pad from a magazine she'd been flicking through. She had an odd way of writing with her hand twisted inwards as if shielding the page from unwanted viewers. “I'm looking into interior design,” she said “because I have this new flat.”

The manager, a tall dark haired Italian flitted past our table. “Everything okay?”

“Yes this cake is gorgeous,” I said, though I had the feeling he didn't mean the food. He nodded then and went about his business. We only had to say the word.

“Oh, look at these!” she darted over to our table, magazine in hand to show us some colourful glass kitchen panels. “Aren't they great?”

I was somewhat startled by the sudden movement and I could smell alcohol on her breath but she was just being over-friendly I knew, and I suddenly realised how vulnerable she was.

“Of course I haven't phoned yet to find out the price,” she giggled and went back to her table. She pulled her green coat closer. It was waist length; the casual type that had a zip and hood and not at all what you'd wear to an interview and I'd noticed she was wearing jeans. Close-up she'd looked older; pale and drawn. I glanced at my watch – 4pm – schools would be out now if she had any kids but I doubted it.

After rummaging again through another bag, she set to with a pair of nail scissors, cutting pictures from the magazine, frantically writing notes and shoving them into each of several bags she had occupying another seat.

Kermit left.

A waitress came to clear his table. I saw her have a word with the manager and approached the stairwell. “You can take that magazine with you if you like,” he told the girl.

“Can I? Thanks.” It was a broad enough hint but she made no move to leave even though they were cleaning up around her.

We wished her well with the new job on our way out.

“I wonder where she goes to when they close?” I said outside.

“Oh she's okay.” my husband said. “Probably a hostel or a B&B. She's clean and tidy and she'll muddle through. They do you know.”

And I knew he was right but I was glad I hadn't ignored her. I suppose that's always been one of the things I like most about the Kardomah. It's always been a place where misfits fit.

Today a flawless thread of dusty expectations of femininity: To Dust by Oonah V Joslin.

To Dust

Spotless house.

No mark on any mirror.

No picture left askew.

No cushion un-plumped.

Chintz-perfect

smiling, pinnied, mum;

meals served on time,

no chore ever a chore.

Pink-cheeked-lemon-drop

woman, slim-waisted

pretty dress, tastefully

accessoried with pearls;

this was the dream

sold on the cover of

magazines for girls

born to dust.