“Butch boss.” That is what they all called her. An aptonym that cut ineffably deeper than any sword would, reminding Khensani of the cruelties of man. But she had learned to chug down every insult and remain stoic, determined not to show the world any emotion. Showing emotions, she had learnt, was the conduit that allowed the world to control and enslave women. And she swore that she wouldn't give the world a foothold.
Over the years, she had been given all sorts of nicknames. All sorts of innuendos and rummors spread about her. All sorts of ridicule told to her face. The world did not seem happy with how she chose to live her life as an autonomous thirty year old. One thing Khensani knew however, is that experiences are the very threads that make up the tapestry of our being. And her experiences made her who she was. But the world would not understand because they did not see. They did not hear. They did not feel. They did not experience. They were not there.
They did not see the nights when her father would come home, inebriated. Having drunk anything and everything set before him. Drenched in the pungency of hard liquor. And like a routine, turn Khensani's mother into a punching bag. They did not see the beatings that treaded the dangerous edges of homicide. Where anything would turn into a weapon. A pan. A stool. A phone. A remote. A fork. A pot. A bucket. Name them all.
Despite her childhood memories being faltered and faded, these nights were carved into her brain, with a pain whose edges were sharp enough to leave permanent marks. Sharp enough to leave the evidence of something's presence, even in its absence.
They did not hear the heft in her mother's wails. Those deafening wails whose origin felt like a being more powerful than a human. Whose vocal cords were made up of interwoven wires and cords and not flimsy muscle and epithelium.
They did not feel how unhappy her mother was and how useless Khensani felt when all she could do was watch and die slowly in the inside. Imprisoned by the reality of being trapped in a woman's body. Unable to fight with her giant of a father who constantly proved not to regard the sacredness of life, to the point of daring to take it away.
After her mother ran away with her to start a new life, the world did not experience how much they struggled. No record was ever established of the nights they slept hungry. Even after her mother established a successful business as a creditor, the world was silent. They neither lauded nor acknowledged her hard work. Soon, her mother would start receiving threats from unknown sources. This moved to being followed around by bodyless shadows whose existence was not cast by light. But the world did not protect them. And when she was murdered in cold blood, and the macabre story narrated in the news and on newspapers, the world pointed fingers. None of them to the perpetrator but to the deceased. “She was a litigious woman,” they said “so she brought this upon herself.”
It was this loss that left a gap bigger than her own existence. An ache desperate to be filled– with meaning, with connection, with warmth, with love. So, Khensani got what felt like love at the age of eighteen. Sibusiso. A finalist at the University of Cape Town. A six foot two, strong man with an alpha aura. The man who introduced her to the act of love by coercion. The world was not there when it all started with a “Relax, you are going to like it,” accompanied by a stiff, forceful hand groping every part of her body that had never been touched before. The world was not there when it proceeded to a “This is my right, Sani…,” accompanied by a painful restrain of her hands behind her back. The world was never there. Not even when it escalated to slaps any time she would open her mouth in objection. Slowly and certainly, every one of her “…please, no…” or “I am not ready…” or “You are hurting me, Siso…” waned into a voiceless begrudging cooperation. It was his right anyway and it was Khensani’s fault that she didn't enjoy it. That is what he kept repeating to her until it stuck. He did anything he wanted with her. Thinkable and unthinkable. Was it not his right anyway? So her mind was programmed to lay there. Not to resist. Not to move. Not to speak. But to simply be. It also made the moments less intolerable. It meant less pain. Less slaps. Less insults. Less life.
It took Khensani two years to snap herself out of it. To decide that it was enough. She started afresh. Writing a new script. Word by word. One where she was not weak and meek. Where her voice would bear significance.
If ever attacked by a bear, do not run. Stand. Make yourself appear as big as possible. Resemble the predator. So Khensani cut her hair and joined the gym. She worked out every day without fail. She made herself resemble the bear. This time, the bear did not walk on fours but on twos. The bear did not live in the wild but in a house. The bear did not growl but spoke in coherence. The bear did not devour dead creatures but the souls of live ones.
The bear was a man.
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The story is intended for entertainment purposes only.
Fav one so far😍❤️
This is....wow.
Phenomenal. Raw. Real.
Absolutely brilliant 🌪️🌪️