Blank Walls

by Mulumba Ivan Matthias

I greedily take in the scenes of the neighbourhood. It is not a pleasing sight out there, but it is all I have. The gap in this door frame is my only window to the world. It has been hell here, since I arrived. I thought life would get better after some time but the heat from the flames does not seem to subside.

I was blindfolded with lies before I came here. My parents told me that I was going to a boarding school. They assured me that I would not walk the miles I covered each day, to and from school, anymore. You should have seen how excited I was. I hugged them, thanked them, and promised to do all the chores so that they wouldn’t be burdened with work after I had left. They told me that I was a good daughter and that they were blessed to have me.

I didn’t have an ounce of sleep that night. The anxiety was simply too much. Each minute seemed like an hour, each hour, like an entire day. I kept imagining what life at the new school would be like. Would the students be harsh to me? Would they be friendly? How about the teachers? Would they hit me as though I were a cow, the way teachers at my current school do? How would life be like there? How did the buildings look like? What was the food like? Was it good or terrible, like prison food?

There were all these pictures in my mind. Some of them made me giggle. At others, I paused and absorbed the horror. I kept consulting my digital watch. With time, morning seemed further away. At one point I wondered whether an hour was always this long. Sleep came a couple of times but each time I awoke after no more than two hours of sleep. I would consult my watch, then lie back in frustration.

At 3:00 am I left my bed. I usually wake up at 5:00 am. I had a shower and did the chores. I washed the dishes, cleaned the house and filled the jerry cans with water. By the time my parents awoke, I was already dressed for the journey. They were thrilled.

We had bread, fried eggs and milk for breakfast, a thing we rarely did in our house. Most times we ate boiled cassava or food that was left uneaten after supper. I almost bit my fingers off as I hungrily ate the eggs. My father sensed this. He assured me that they had done this to make sure that I went to school with fond memories of home. If I was asked what we have for about breakfast at home, I would tell them about the eggs, the milk and the bread.

My mother packed some of her clothes for me. She said a girl had to dress well in the school I was going too. Clothes with patches were not allowed there. I hugged her and thanked her over and over. Students at my school had a habit of making fun of me, especially of my clothes. These were always cheap and at times, patched. Sometimes they made me hate going to school. The change of school was timely. I could not wait to get to this new school and to put on mother’s clothes.

My father told me that we were stopping at an uncle’s place to spend the night, and continue to school from there. I did not mind. My prayer of going to a boarding school had been answered. What would one day cost?

It cost everything I believed in. All that my parents had told me turned out to be lies. There was no boarding school and neither was there a place where I would lie about what we had for breakfast at home.

My parents brought me here and left. They must have thought everything through. I didn’t even see them leave. Truthfully, I didn’t realise that they had left until late in the night. I remember mother leaving the house to go and ease herself. Father followed her shortly. That was the last I saw of them.

I’m stuck here now, in these two rooms, alone. All I do here is cook, wash the dishes, the clothes, the house. There are no books to read or dreams of becoming a doctor, an engineer, a business owner…nothing. During the breaks, I sit here and imagine what it would feel like to be free again.

After that I steel myself for the torment of the night. I had come to accept that I was his, but the brutality with which he handles me. I simply cannot understand it. If you love someone and want to keep them, do you have to hit them so hard until their bodies are void of screams?

I stare at the children playing, at people passing by and stray dogs running in the road. Sometimes, somewhat hopelessly, I admire the dogs. They are free, yet me, a human being, I am kept in this concrete-walled cage.

It rained this morning but the roofs of the houses in this neighbourhood still look soiled. They appear as if someone smeared them with mud. But it is the rust. I believe it is the same rust that for years ate way my parent’s brains. Why else would they do this to me?

My tummy has grown bigger yet again. The last time it did, I miscarried. He almost killed me. He kicked me, punched me, and threw me on the walls as if I was a mug that nobody wants. Then he left. He did not come back until several days had passed. I had very little to eat during that time. But I promised myself that I would not die. And I didn’t.

When he returned, he looked even angrier. I got scared. I promised him that I would get pregnant again and would have a healthy baby. That had softened him for a while. You could have seen his face. He smiled. Much as it was brief, it was a sign that there was a human being behind the wrathful façade. May be I could summon it at will. But how?

He smiled when I got pregnant again. But like before, the smile was swiftly consumed by bitterness. He does not hit me as hard as he used to. I pray every day that I do not lose the baby, that I give birth and bring joy to all of us. May be then, my husband will become a human being.

Sometimes I wish the day could be longer, for peace to last longer. But who am I to command the tides of time? Who am I? I barely feel human anymore.

At times I get the feeling that out there, there is someone staring back, who wants to start a conversation with me, who I can talk to with no fear of being hit. I yearn to see people smile back at me more often. I yearn for a friendly touch once again. I yearn to laugh, to play…I yearn, until I cannot yearn anymore.

Mulumba Ivan Matthias is a Ugandan author living in Kampala, Uganda. He is a valuation surveyor by profession. His first collection “Poetry In Motion” was published in 2012. His poetry and short fiction have been published in The Kalahari Review, Readers’ Café Africa, and Africa Book Club. His story “Into the Bush” won the December 2013 Africa Book Club short reads competition. You can see more of his work on his blog.