MY STORY...HOW IT ALL STARTED.

I just wanted it to stop, I wanted it all to STOP! As I picked up the kitchen knife, I stared at the icy steel blade and could see my reflection. In my reflection I could see the tears running freely down my face, I saw the fear in my eyes and in my eyes I saw her. I saw the little girl who all she wanted was the love and approval of her parents, the child who lost her childhood to violence, the girl who all she felt was hate and anger; at everything and everyone. This was the first of several to come, the beginning of wanting the end so badly.
My name is Ada and this is my story. Growing up in a very conflicted background and an unconventional family was some may say 'bittersweet'; it was and has been one hell of a ride. I am the first of four kids and my parents were not the 'idle parents', they were actually too far from perfect they couldn't spell it. When a child grows up surrounded by violence he learns to fight, needless to say that I learnt to fight; I fought for everything. I fought to breathe everyday, I fought to eat, I fought to sleep, I fought for the little happiness I had, I fought for joy wherever I could find it, I fought for damn near everything! I fought so hard and long that it was surreal and seemingly unrealistic thinking of a life where I didn't have to fight for something, anything; I just couldn't imagine or see myself not fighting.
Watching my father abuse my mother physically and emotionally was terrifying. I remember making a vow to myself, swearing on my life that I'd die first before I let a man, any man do that to me. At a certain point the abuse got transferred to the kids, just what we all typically call transfer of aggression. It was a formidable aggression! When I was about 7 or 8, I remember my Dad pouncing on me with all his strength for a reason that still doesn't make sense to me till date. He beat senseless with anything and everything he could find, I still have scars till date as proof and reminder of so many things. Around this same time, my mum was seperated from my Dad and I remember thinking we (I and my siblings) got dealt the short end of the deal as we were left behind with him. A couple of months after this incident, my mum came to the house to pick us all up, she told us we would be living with her henceforth; remembering the joy and wave of happiness that hit me that moment has me grinning right now writing this. We moved in with my mum and as unbelievable as it may sound, I had the best moments of my childhood living with my mum who was a single mother at that time. For the next two years, I didn't live in fear anymore; fear of walking in on my Dad trying to strangulate my mother, fear of having a fight first thing in the morning before morning devotion, fear of having the basin of water used to wash hands thrown at her after dinner, fear of watching in silence as neighbours trooped into our sitting room everyday to separate a brewing fight or a fight in progress, fear of watching helplessly as my younger siblings cried the eyes out and wailed their lungs out, just fear! Fear of waking up in the morning, fear of seeing and greeting your parents cause you never know in what mood they might be, fear of existence! Yes, plain old fear.
I thought I was free but I didn't know how shortlived it would become. After two years of being separated, father didn't come begging mother but I was told he did apologise in his own little and twisted way so mother decided to move back in with him, she wanted us to go 'home'. If only she knew that home wasn't a house with all of us in it together. I can't remember exactly how long the peace or should I say truce lasted but soon enough, we were back to throwing blows, exchanging hurtful words, the neighbours were back to their unpaid job, extended family members were back to holding a weekly and sometimes daily brokering of peace and whatever form of stability their minds told them they could get. I was back in the warzone.
At this point I would like to point out that what made living with my mum as a single mother for two years the best times of my childhood wasn't anything other than the fact that I didn't have to see my mother with bruises all over her body, the constant black eyes stopped, they were all gone. We didn't have the most comfortable apartment, we didn't go to an expensive school infact we (all 5 of us) lived in a one room self con apartment for the period of this two years, we ate more than 3 square meals a day and we went to the best, I repeat the best school in my area; mother didn't joke with our education.
By this time I had gotten into secondary school so I was lucky, yes very lucky; I wasn't around to witness firsthand anymore. Although I would get detailed stories of all the fights happening in my absence from my siblings whenever I came back from school on breaks. While I thought myself lucky, I couldn't help but wonder how unlucky my siblings must be feeling. Before I went off to the boarding house, I tried my best to shield them as much as a child could from seeing the things happening around us. I'd always bundled them and myself into our room whenever we started hearing the noises but sometimes we would be huddled in a corner watching our very own exclusive wrestlemania unfold thinking to ourselves, "Not again! We just watched a live match last night". The fights never stopped, they would continue for such a long time we all came to expect and wait for it; looking forward to it didn't make the aftermath any easier.
Fast forward to 2010, all hell broke loose on November 20th when after a long idle day of doing nothing, a strange man walked into our house asking for my mum. He gave my mum a couple of papers saying he was from the magistrate's court and blah blah blah (can't remember the rest of what he said cause I wasn't really paying attention). My mum also not understanding what the man was saying gave me the papers and asked me to read them to see if I could understand anything. I took them, got to a better source of light, unfolded them and read the first page; I didn't need to read anymore just hopped on to the last page and then made a dive for my father. It was minutes or probably hours before I calmed down enough to speak coherently(this wasn't the first time we would be having a personal confrontation, it had been happening for sometime at this point). My mum was busy shouting, "What is it"? My father had filed for a legal divorce from her and wanted her exiled from the family. Mother went into shock after hearing the aim of the papers, the stranger was a bailiff just doing his job but I'm sure he's never encountered such drama in his line of duty; when she recovered from shock, she let loose hell from her mouth on him, can't even remember when he left but I know he left without having the papers of receipt or acknowledgment signed.
The next 6 years would go down in history as the worst in our family's generations; it saw the beginning of a messy, dramatic and excruciating court battle with lawsuit for lawsuit (it became too many to keep track of, it was almost a competition of who had the best lawyers), a lot of people were involved, it went beyond the realms of family and neighbours, lives were changed and altered negatively and positively, it was just one big bowl of mess.
From the magistrate courts to the family courts to the high courts; community leaders, kings and their cabinets, child welfare, human rights and so many groups of what nots were involved with more accusations flying around than the buzz of bees in a honeycomb. One thing that was in abundance during this period though was the "advisors" with their advisees (not sure if this is really a word, just came up with it) and advices, not to mention that the negative advices were more in abundance than the positive and sensible ones but then again, its only at your most vulnerable point that you have the negatives in abundance.
Nobody truly gave a shit about the 4 kids stuck in the middle of all this drama, everyone involved was more concerned with the show of power and superiority. They didn't care enough or bother to ask what we wanted, they just came to the house or wherever they found us and told us what we should be doing, saying and feeling, how to act (it was a drama), whom to support, whom was at fault, whose fault was greater, who did what to who, what they thought was best for us, the history of past generations (I got a rundown of my family history), lectures on being "neutral", "don't take sides" they said but could we really? It felt just like running tirelessly through a maze. Nobody asked the right questions, "how are you doing", "how are you holding up", "are you truly alright", "what are you feeling", "what do you think about all this mess", "what should we do", "what should be done", "are you mentally okay", "are you emotionally fine"??? And so many other questions they could have asked but didn't for lack of knowledge, ignorance or just not caring enough.

I needed it all to stop so one day, I got dressed and made up my mind to walk into a moving vehicle. Maybe, just maybe if I died they would stop, they would take a break and maybe start asking the right questions. The sad part was I wouldn't be here to see it all happen but I was willing to make that sacrifice. I left the house got to the nearest bus stop and attempted to cross the road unawares but I couldn't, I successfully crossed to the other side of the road and started walking. I had no destination but I walked aimlessly for hours that day, I eventually found my way home. I cried myself to sleep that night, I was truly a weakling and a failure. I had just attempted suicide for the first time and failed terribly at it because for some reason I was too weak and scared of actual death; I was dead emotionally a really long time ago or so I thought but I didn't really want to die. I wanted to live not minding that nothing gave my life meaning; my first attempt to end it wouldn't be my last.

To be continued in the next post.