“I woke up with ten fucks today and when the day ended, I still had them all. Not one fuck was given today”
Waking up each morning in my father’s house was like watching a big Mampaula woman shove her hand into the back of her pants in an attempt to shift her panty lining, then checking her hand for shit. That was exactly what my step mother did in full view of me. She dug into her asshole and her large buttocks wobbled both sides like a butcher rolling out cow meat on his stall at the market. She extracted the hand and brought it to her nose. I imagined that large humid place between her legs devoid of air and light must have a lot of bacteria trapped there, only one cure for such ailments. Plenty soap and plenty water!!!!
This was not the life I wanted, I imagined my future would be glamorous, dating men who sported Diesel jeans, Hugo Boss T-shirts and Louis Vitton Loafers as their casual outfit. Wealthy men who lived in mansions in areas that would be reminiscent of the American Hamptons. Instead I was stuck here surrounded by men who wore tattoos like some kind of social emblem, sporting plaits and corn rows day in and day out. Everywhere I look instead of seeing Hermes and Gucci, I met Eagles and Polos. I was trapped here with this pregnancy, watching big baxide women wheel and dash their bumpas past me every morning.
I feared growing up to be like them and somehow I was afraid that I had already chosen that destination for many of the life stories I overheard among older women began in this very quandary I found myself. Women like my mother, sitting, legs sprawl, and skirt tail tucked in lap; slouching forward to share tidbits of the past