In the Middle

As I got older the number of streets that made up my life grow too. Given this only added 5 to 20-minute drive radius to the house, it was more than I could dream off. Able to now partake in the story telling of day to day complaints of visiting these areas, with my high school friends, I found ways to explore these forbidden realms.

In the name of cost saving and my mothers disdain for my previous hairdresser, I found myself roaming these forbidden streets once more. Auntie Patricia, was my guide, like the overprotected princess I was, she led me down the streets as we searched for colours that would make my mother fume, but not enough to cause bloodshed.

Auntie Patricia was a woman who resembled the epitome of a middle-aged Zimbabwean wife, from the chubby legs, overtly curvaceous body and the rigid facial expression that morphed from her dream of being married turning into a nightmare. She, like my mother, if she showed you pictures of herself pre marriage you, with fire and passion, refuse these were the same women. The awe-striking beauty with a face that screamed joy and youth, and a subtle innocence and hope, you wish that their would come true. She was a reflection of what was to come for most of the girls who paraded the streets now, flaunting their bodies as if an auction to the man who dared give her an ounce of respect.

To the outward eye she was the mean mother, strict and unrelenting. Selfish in the way she treated her children. She held within her an inability to show love without manipulation. Protection in the form of a devil.

Her kids were probably decent human beings in front of you, a symbol of her worth and a reason for her to be accepted by the rest of the community. She probably raised them only to show emotions of joy and happiness, with quiet and meek as their defining features.

From a distance you knew she could give the eye. The eye cannot be described, it was unique to each mother, a warning to their children to watch themselves. Given by mothers taught to conform under its watchful gaze. Though sometimes she deterred and let anger lash out like the tongue of a snake, sharp, quick and loud only to the victim.

This might all be true, and she would probably rise another generation of what the first world educated middle and upper class would define as toxic human beings. However, that would be like the ignorant seeing a grapefruit, and believing it to be a normal orange. I story I can attest to.

As we sidestep the vendors, that lined the already narrow street walk, selling everything from tomatoes to phones on their card box tables, you could not wonder if she had once just been like me. Though she had kids now in the middle of their primary education, she could not be more than 10 years my senior, making her around 26-27 years old.

Did she have dreams to one day escape, find peace in the loving arms of another. Dreams of accomplishing more than her parents were able to and provide for her family so that they never had government forced candle lit dinners. Did she see herself sitting underneath a tree, joyfully watching the juice of the overripe mango paint her lips and fingers in sweet and delectable juices, as her parents found comfort in the land, she had acquired for her? Even with the world telling her no, did she once dance in her naivety knowing it would some how work out, and things would change.

Carrying the black plastic bags, full questionable colours for hair extensions the onlooker would wonder what we were laughing about as we made our back. The deep raspy laughs sheltering, the bags we carried as they morphed into our bodies like a second skin. Or the constant sweeping our eyes made, as our feet ensured there was room to escape. With arms flexed and ears deaf to commentary that fell on our body. For though the number of streets grew as we became older, we both knew deep down peace could only be found when the streets ceased to exist.