A work of fiction

    She is not my mother, she never could be, no mother would treat her son the way she treats me, no one.

    “She is your mother” that was the bitter truth my father spat in my face when I queried him, I was five.

    Dad was my friend; he was always there to protect me when mum was high up in rage. Mum was temperamental, so much I concluded she was wicked, why would dad have married such a woman, dad was gentle as a dove, but now the dove was dead.

    “Get in here” Mum always yelled at me, all her vituperation and rants left my face soaked in hard-earned sweat.

    Heat flushing through my face, I knew what was about to go down. All house chores were on me and I still had to get goods to sell out there on the street – it was all she gave me, I sell to buy myself a meal, but the 12 years old me was too weak to handle all the pressure. My attempt to hurry up was botched when my body suddenly broke out in sweat, in the middle of my train of chores, but I pushed on, mopping the whole house with my shaky hands, the pangs of hunger was at all-time high, but I had to hawk to afford a meal

    I thought I could see it through, I thought I could complete the washing of her clothes and apply stiffener – starch, to the native attires, wait for them to dry and iron them. I had done almost all, I could see the end of my hectic morning, I had washed the plates, cleaned the second car, mopped the house, and all that was left was to be done with laundry.

    I really thought I could just be done with the clothes and have a deserved rest, and totally ignore my stomach, but my body had another plan. The clothes were dry and I had brought them indoor. I turned to go iron the native wear when my eye caught sight of something, it was a brown envelope and I could see ‘Liberty hospital’ boldly written on it. I peeped further and saw DNA test inscribed on it.
    “This is it! This is really it!! Now, I would confirm that the witch of a mother was not my mother, that it was all a lie”

    I brought out the document inside, it was all old and dusty, I could see the year written on it – 2012, I was six. The jargons written in there made no meaning to me, so I went straight to the conclusion at the bottom of the first page.

    Tears drip down my face as a brief smile escaped my mouth, I couldn’t believe my eyes, it must not be right, 97.9% match, the witch was my mother. My nerves jerked in anger, my muscles reeked of pain, my eyes blood shot. Other kids would have been happy, but here I was, hoping that it would be nothing but a façade. She was my mother!

    A step away from my revelation of misery, I collapsed, engulfed in gloom, it was dark and blank.

    “Aaargh” I yelled to life, my senses on edge, my blurry eyes fixed on my burning arm.

    I shook my head vigorously, and I had full sight of the hot ‘Binatone’ iron on my left arm

    “I thought you wouldn’t wake up” she said as she removed the iron from my arm, reeking of alcohol as she spoke, she was drunk.
    The redness of the arm scared me, I was in so much pain that I couldn’t cry.

    “Why haven’t you ironed my native attires, don’t you know I have a party tomorrow.” Before she completed her statement, sequential strokes of cane landed on wherever parts of my body. My head was combed with the cane, the spluttering effects of the pain toppled me on the ground. I shrieked, yelled and squeaked, but there was no one to come to my aid in the too-serene outskirt of Afro estate.

    I fell to the ground, rolling and crying, trying to position a better part of my body to receive the pangs, but it was all hell. I totally forget that my arm was swollen.

    “I will kill you today, you dare not iron my dress?”

    “I’m sorry mum, I’m sorry. I fainted”

    “Don’t call me your mum, I’m not your mother” I was shocked, but the test said so “Who will birth an imbecile like you.” she never stopped the stroke, the hard strokes

    My thinking was distorted, so many sensations raking into my central nervous through my nerves. Hellish was an understatement in describing what I felt.

    “I was never your mother, you bastard, I will never be. I killed your mother, I poisoned that bitch in the hospital. We were pregnant for your father at the same time, and were in labour on the same day. my baby died, but hers was alive. She treated me like a slave because I was a house help, but I got pregnant for her husband. I killed her and paid the doctors with the money I stole. Your father brought us home, thinking he didn’t lose all” she stopped combing me with the strokes, panting heavily with a sinister smile on her face.

    “The foolish man got suspicious after a few years, so I killed him too. I shouldn’t have killed him, I loved him, but he just wouldn’t know his place, he pushed me to the wall. I forged a DNA certificate to claim rights to his properties. You are my son in the books but not by nature, so don’t call me mum”

    Just then, her phone rang, I couldn’t believe all she had said, tears forced its way down the side of my face, she is a witch, and witches have to die.

    “Aargh” she gasped, my hand close to her stomach, blood-stained and shaky. I had dug a knife into her bowels, I held my mouth as I wept, my body quavering in my torn clothes. She turned to look at me, I had stabbed her from behind.

    “You this imbecile” she spouted blood as she spoke.

    The hatred in her wide open eyes was scary, I was petrified. I looked on as she fell to her knees, I couldn’t stop myself from weeping, I wailed at what I had done.

    Was that the right way out of my misery? Should I have killed my mother? Did she get what she deserved?

    Help!!! I killed my mother!!!!!

    Written by Black pen. Kindly share with friends, let’s know if he was right or wrong?

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