We stayed in the biggest flat in the building, the other rooms were filled with other people and we took up two small rooms and a living room. My parents had one room as their bedroom, the other room was big enough to have a double bed on one side, a bigger single bed pressed against the wall on the other side, and a table with an old computer on. We all shared a room and I slept on the top of the double bed with my brothers at the bottom and my sisters on the single bed.

 

It was Saturday and I was relaxing on my bed after the week that I took to be the most hectic in my life. I had done things I had never done before. My siblings were also in the room, others lazing around on their bed and others using their electronics.

The door opened further and in came my mother. On her face was one of those ‘someone’s up to something and I will figure it out and butcher the person’ look.

We all shared looks and my brother started, “Mama?”

“Ah huh, mama,”

Her tone was dripping with sarcasm as she imitated my brother. Something was definitely wrong. My heart began to race when I counted the chances why. What if she had noticed her makeup lacking? Or the sweets? Or the tissue? Or even her shawl?

 

My mama did not speak English that well. At home, we spoke French and she usually spoke in Swahili. Then, she rose a brow and spoke in a violent rush of Swahili, “Somebody in this house is suffering from gluttony, greed, envy and lies. And I know it is amongst you and a girl.”

I was supposed to expect that, since when did I have good luck?

“Huh?”

Confusion sounded around the room as my oldest sister said out in French, “Whatever it is, it’s not me,”

“Shut up, I did not ask for your opinion, manager,”

My mom usually called her manager because she would wait for my mom to cook everything and she would be the first to open the pot and give critics.

“Why does the cassava look less green? Why does it smell less cassava-ish? Did you get it from the shop?”

One thing you should know about African mothers is that they do not tolerate critics, even if they are actually true. At that moment we all opened our ears to listen to a fresh new Swahili insult my mother had prepared, “No I got it from the dustbin in Bertrams. It smells like that because you have a large nose that reminds me of your grandfather’s underwear,”

My mom usually swore us by mentioning our grandmother or grandfather. What she usually forgot was that our grandmother was her mother and grandfather was her father. I had once told that to Jake and he smartly said, “Maybe she means from your father’s side,”

Right then when my mother was questioning, we all kept quiet so we would not be sworn at but we still hoped one of us could speak and be sworn at so we could laugh. My mom put on a strict look and said, “So, if you know it’s you, come forward and I will only slap you, twice,”

“If we don’t?”

My first brother had blurted that out. He sent us mocking looks as he knew my mother was suspecting girls.

“Then when I find you out, I will make you experience what those French people did to your grandfathers and grandmothers back in Congo in 1942,”

I gulped at that and my second brother eyed me. He was the one born just before me and I knew he knew something was up. If he knew then he would not tell on me. Knowing him, he would keep it and threaten me in the future when he needed something.

It was a moment of quick decisions and I took the easiest but most dangerous one. I did not own up. My mom eyed each one of us and by the look she gave me, I knew she thought I had taken her makeup and tissue to another painting trip.

Mom was so frustrated of the fact that she had a thief for a child. We were sure it was going to be the first thing she would tell our father that night, and we were not wrong.

That night, my father came out of their bedroom with a Bible tucked under his arm and an ‘I’m a man of God with kids to raise’ look etched on his face. We all knew we were in for a lecture.

 

Every night at Eight, we would meet up in the living room and pray as a family. But on other days like this one when someone messed up or my father felt he needed to share something with us, we had little chats before praying.

My sisters sat on the couch by the wall and my brothers sat on the other couch. I sat on my favourite spot, the carpet, because none of them wanted me next to them. My sisters thought I would disturb their mid-chat gossiping while my brothers argued it was not right for a girl to sit between boys, I only agreed because I wanted to avoid my brother’s constant farting.

My dad was seated on his usual single couch and my mom on the dinning table chair next to the kitchen because her chapatti was still on the stove.

 “Violet, open First Corinthians chapter Fifteen verse Thirty three,”

I jolted up and took the family Bible from the drawer next to the TV.  My hands were slightly shaking while I paged through the large book. Did my father know it was me? Why’d he choose me to read?

“Read my baby,”

I opened my mouth and read, “Bad company corrupts good souls,”

 

“Good,” Dad then went on to preach about having bad friends who pressurized you to do things that were not right in front of God nor your parents.

 

Eulalia was not my friend, but she did make me do what I did.

 

“Your mother and I, we were once kids too.”

My mother went on to tell us how she had had bad friends back in school and how they used to make fun of teachers who repeated the same piece of clothes within two weeks or had shoes that were peeling out, “Clothes were on trend during that time,” she changed to French to please my dad, “Our country had very strict education, I couldn’t continue school because of that and it has caught up with me now,”

It was always scary when parents compared their pasts to your present, as if it was certain you’d end up like them.

They’d tell you if you did not do your chores, your future husband would abuse you.

One of my mother’s building friends even once told me, “Yes, there was this girl Mwa Kabeya in my town back home. She always refused to do her chores when we were young, and now I hear her husband has a paper schedule of the days he will beat her up and what he will do. Monday, wall slamming. Tuesday, bitch slap. Wednesday, superman-punch. Thursday, Iron man, the hot one plugged in. Friday, drop kick. Saturday STF, Sunday, walls of Jericho,” Just know that that mother watched too much WWE with her son.

“Gabi, La Rose,”

That was my cousin and sister. My father had a serious look as he said to them, “I know that at this age all that seems to be important is getting attention, especially from boys,”

Note that he had said the last word as though it was a sour medicine he just had to swallow. One thing you should know, my dad disliked boys, like most dads. That is one reason why I could not tell anyone about Jake. It was unfair, he did not care that much about my brother’s talking to girls.

To all the 1984 and far bellow people, boys and girls could not be friends. I did not agree but that was partly true because almost every innocent young girl out there with a swelling belly said, “He was just a friend,”

 

“I want to tell you that boys are only danger. I have three Bs for you. Boys Bring Babies…”

My father advised them about trying to impress boys so much that you go and steal from your mother. He even spoke about some stuff I could not understand, like staying fresh and meeting that one guy God had made for you.

He said that the best feeling for a girl was standing on the alter wearing a white dress that really represented her purity, whatever that means. My brothers only snickered and coughed out laughter until my dad turned to them too.

“And you two. I will let you know that children of God behave like children of God,” they were too immature to be told about girls, “You should not steal things, even if you have no use of it, I know you two can do that. Eating too much can also be a sin, it is called gluttony and God can punish you for it. Be good boys and obey your parents,”

My brothers were shaking, so much that my second brother let out a uncanny sound. To be precise, it did not come from his mouth, it came from down under and a smell followed it.

I could see my mother reaching for her slippers, “You barbarian brats with box heads just like your grandfather,”

My other brother quickly rose his hands in surrender, “It wasn’t me, I swear. I’d never do anything like that,”

My father shook his head and mentally face-palmed. He was about to start praying when he spotted me and realized he had not interrogated me. One thing I knew was that he was not going to ask about boys, not even hint that I was the thief because, why would Violet steal makeup?

“Stay on the right path okay? Make decisions that are right for you and right for God, not others,”

I could see my mother nodding as she flipped her chapatti.

My parents had no idea, they just trusted me.

What was I gonna do? Wait, what had I even done?