POEMS BY ONE MICAIAH
Ruined
I wonder what she
will do to me this time, when she finds out I had touched another baby
indecently again. A week rarely goes by without me being scolded or beaten by
mother for the same kind of offense since the start of this year. It’s almost
like the new habit came with the year, and has sworn not to leave even until
this deep. She went as far as crying while talking to me the last time after
giving me a good beating. I was filled with pity for her, but deep inside, I
didn’t feel as much as a sting of remorse for my actions. She fell for my
solemn countenance though, but I hope she doesn’t start regretting ever giving
birth to me.
To be honest, I would
still go touching the next baby put in my care, or even the ones not far from
my reach. Why? Because I believe I was born to touch things I feel like
touching anytime I feel like touching them, which is probably why I don’t
regret any of my actions. Since I have known my father, there is never a day I
see him without a show of grief in my mother’s eyes. She trembles at the sound
of his footsteps. And whenever he had to call her twice, I often sleep away
from the house because it meant the night will be bloody for mother. I stopped
counting the number of times father had violent sex with mother right in front of
me after the twentieth one, just to punish her for doing one silly thing or the
other. Silly things like her not cooking a good meal, or refusing to have sex
with him. I was always made to watch; a part punishment for me too.
There are times he
would come from nowhere and beat her up for nothing too. But once he is gone, only
the good Lord could tell when next he will be back again. I grew up expecting
him every single second of my little life, and as time went by, I liked and
embraced his personality too. Hence, it led to the confidence of touching
anything I feel like touching. And because I was scared of touching children my
age, I strictly touched babies without diapers, running about with bare bom
bom.
Not long, the mother
of the last baby I touched came reporting me to my mother and she related how
she caught me molesting her baby. I watched my mother begged the woman never to
be offended. However, the pleading didn’t stop the woman from leaving threats
and curses behind. I watched mother walk into the house with a resentful look
of shame etched on her face, and fortunately for me, soon after, father came
around like he used to, and the courage to finally bounce into the apartment
came with his presence. Unfortunately, what we both met inside the apartment
was more than we could have imagined. Mother was hanging loosely from the
ceiling fan hanger, her neck tied with a rope, and her face a pale portrait of
death.
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