Tongue Poison
Linda Musita
Linda Musita
My sister told my mother that he is an immoralist. A sodomite. A raper. She told my mother that he is a thug who has seven toes on each foot and two fingers on each hand. She told her that he is a leper who is going to use me badly, as if a man can use you goodly, when he decides that use is what he is going to make of you.
She told my mother that he is a pyromaniac who fucks me in the anus with trademark Diwali Fireworks. That he does horribly non Anglican things to my breasts with cooking oil; his penis for a ladle. Things that would make their Vicar revoke my confirmation.
My sister told my mother that he is ugly and looks like Makonde the Ogre. My sister, mother and I met Makonde in an old little book. Makonde had a fetish for beautiful girls or ugly girls. I do not remember well but there were ugly and beautiful girls in Makonde’s story. He never ate them, if I recollect, but my sister decided that a man she had never met was as hideous as Makonde.
She slid out her long tongue and told my mother that he has a longer tongue that could slap mosquitoes to a wall, knock them out. Oh, the envious little bitch rolled his name in the mud just to make herself feel better about the poisonous snake in her mouth. One day that tongue will choke her to death with the unsolicited help of her own words. She said that she had seen his tongue and advised that my mother ought to roll in the grass. She demonstrated the grass roll with the snake in her mouth. After playing in the grass, she said mother should dip her grass cut body into a tub of cold water to mourn my abuse. The resulting itch would be sacrifice enough to save me from the clutch of his four evil fingers. I would be free. Free to be proposed to by one of my sister’s ex-boyfriends, who according to her was a mild abuser, a yeller and a biter. He would be my savior.
But before my sister pulled out her tongue to wipe my mother’s ears with these glorious tales about my ogre, I had talked to my sister about him. I told her that I loved him because he was tall, light skinned, and handsome. We would make a beautiful baby together when we were ripe and ready. I told her that he treats me like a child and feeds me everything except dirt. I told her that he worked from 9am to 6pm for a foreigner who, believe it or not, paid well despite his ability to hurl monkey shit at, “The monkeys in this office!” I remember telling her that he is from a good family which has cars, homes with compounds, get-togethers with real lemonade that was not diluted lime cordial, six burner cookers, and big televisions. I told my loose tongued sister that he was absolutely positively perfect. It appears she forgot all that! Amnesia will avenge me one day, I swear it!
She excited me with her foolishness, and I was fooled by her excitement. She asked, so how old is my brother-in-law? I said he was older than me, 36. That is very good she said. Very, very good! And where does he live? She asked. I told her that he lives in a fancy apartment building with DSTV and hot water 24 hours a day! Oh that is very good! Very, very good! Who is his mother? I told her who his mother was. Who is his father? I told her that too! Who is his brother? I told her. I told her. I told her. I told her! He has four brothers, I told her. The fifth one died in the womb but he still counts. That is oh-so good! She said and clapped. Now tell me my brother-in-law’s name. I told her his name. The Catholic name first and then the tribe one-hundred-percent ethnic name next.
No! No! No! No! Her tongue slid into my ears and gave me such a headache, when it told me to get myself out of his bloody heart! Why? Well, the hot, wet tongue slid deeper, their people do not accept other people! What do you mean? I asked her. They will kill you. They do not like people who do not speak their language. Come, we must go home and talk about finding someone for you. Someone who speaks our fantastically perfect language, much closer to home than that circumcised fiend you think you love. I said no.
Twenty minutes later, she almost fell while getting on the bus. She went to mother. Mother listened to her. Mother believed her and 32 years later, she forgot that she knew anything about me. She told me that she would kill herself if I loved him another second. To think that she put all her effort into giving birth to me on a very cold morning in October 1981. What was all that energy for? Why did she even bother to push, scream and shit on herself just to free her uterus of three and a half kilos of breathing meat? She should have let me hang by the umbilical cord before I came out of her sacred hole.
I am 32 years old and my mother trusts nothing about my judgment. She is killing me with her lack of faith. She does not know that she is killing me, but honest to her knife, she is cutting my throat. I cannot love another man. I must love this one. I am bound to him, pressed down and run over. I do not want to be freed.
She told my mother that he is a pyromaniac who fucks me in the anus with trademark Diwali Fireworks. That he does horribly non Anglican things to my breasts with cooking oil; his penis for a ladle. Things that would make their Vicar revoke my confirmation.
My sister told my mother that he is ugly and looks like Makonde the Ogre. My sister, mother and I met Makonde in an old little book. Makonde had a fetish for beautiful girls or ugly girls. I do not remember well but there were ugly and beautiful girls in Makonde’s story. He never ate them, if I recollect, but my sister decided that a man she had never met was as hideous as Makonde.
She slid out her long tongue and told my mother that he has a longer tongue that could slap mosquitoes to a wall, knock them out. Oh, the envious little bitch rolled his name in the mud just to make herself feel better about the poisonous snake in her mouth. One day that tongue will choke her to death with the unsolicited help of her own words. She said that she had seen his tongue and advised that my mother ought to roll in the grass. She demonstrated the grass roll with the snake in her mouth. After playing in the grass, she said mother should dip her grass cut body into a tub of cold water to mourn my abuse. The resulting itch would be sacrifice enough to save me from the clutch of his four evil fingers. I would be free. Free to be proposed to by one of my sister’s ex-boyfriends, who according to her was a mild abuser, a yeller and a biter. He would be my savior.
But before my sister pulled out her tongue to wipe my mother’s ears with these glorious tales about my ogre, I had talked to my sister about him. I told her that I loved him because he was tall, light skinned, and handsome. We would make a beautiful baby together when we were ripe and ready. I told her that he treats me like a child and feeds me everything except dirt. I told her that he worked from 9am to 6pm for a foreigner who, believe it or not, paid well despite his ability to hurl monkey shit at, “The monkeys in this office!” I remember telling her that he is from a good family which has cars, homes with compounds, get-togethers with real lemonade that was not diluted lime cordial, six burner cookers, and big televisions. I told my loose tongued sister that he was absolutely positively perfect. It appears she forgot all that! Amnesia will avenge me one day, I swear it!
She excited me with her foolishness, and I was fooled by her excitement. She asked, so how old is my brother-in-law? I said he was older than me, 36. That is very good she said. Very, very good! And where does he live? She asked. I told her that he lives in a fancy apartment building with DSTV and hot water 24 hours a day! Oh that is very good! Very, very good! Who is his mother? I told her who his mother was. Who is his father? I told her that too! Who is his brother? I told her. I told her. I told her. I told her! He has four brothers, I told her. The fifth one died in the womb but he still counts. That is oh-so good! She said and clapped. Now tell me my brother-in-law’s name. I told her his name. The Catholic name first and then the tribe one-hundred-percent ethnic name next.
No! No! No! No! Her tongue slid into my ears and gave me such a headache, when it told me to get myself out of his bloody heart! Why? Well, the hot, wet tongue slid deeper, their people do not accept other people! What do you mean? I asked her. They will kill you. They do not like people who do not speak their language. Come, we must go home and talk about finding someone for you. Someone who speaks our fantastically perfect language, much closer to home than that circumcised fiend you think you love. I said no.
Twenty minutes later, she almost fell while getting on the bus. She went to mother. Mother listened to her. Mother believed her and 32 years later, she forgot that she knew anything about me. She told me that she would kill herself if I loved him another second. To think that she put all her effort into giving birth to me on a very cold morning in October 1981. What was all that energy for? Why did she even bother to push, scream and shit on herself just to free her uterus of three and a half kilos of breathing meat? She should have let me hang by the umbilical cord before I came out of her sacred hole.
I am 32 years old and my mother trusts nothing about my judgment. She is killing me with her lack of faith. She does not know that she is killing me, but honest to her knife, she is cutting my throat. I cannot love another man. I must love this one. I am bound to him, pressed down and run over. I do not want to be freed.
Linda Musita is an Africa 39 author and a member of the Jalada collective. She works as an editor and a lawyer in Nairobi. She was a Storymoja Hay Festival 2012-14 fellow. Her fiction and nonfiction has been published in Jalada, the Storymoja publishers’ blog, and the Daily Nation, the Standard and the Star newspapers in Kenya.