Mama clutched at my hair, the long strands had grown knotted from not washing it often but this didn’t stop Mama from pulling me out of bed this way, my barefeet stepping in my own vomit. “What are you trying to do to me? Drive me to an early grave?”
“Yes!” I shouted. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing, Mama. I hate you!” I sank to the floor. I lifted up a handful of vomit and hurled it at her turned back, ruining her only formal black dress. I thought she’d dive at me then but she didn’t. She looked worn-out as she closed the door behind her. I crawled back to my bed and lifted myself up onto the mattress. I knew I was an ungrateful daughter, a whore who’d brought this to myself. That’s what Mama had said when I had stumbled into the house, blood on my jeans, dirt in my hair. “What have you done?” Mama shouted, snatching my hair.
“Nothing,” I had mumbled, trying to loosen her grip but she held my hair tightly until she yanked some strands out.
“Shit!” I yelled. Then she finally let go.
“You were with Naseem, weren’t you? How could you let that filthy man touch you?” She spat at me. Saliva dripped down my nose. I wiped it quickly.
“We fucked each other in the field, Mama! And I loved it!” My voice cracked remembering Naseem on top of me, and the pleasure and pain I had felt. I hadn’t imagined my first time like that, but then I went on, “The goats heard my moans. Did you hear me? Mama!” She covered her ears and when I glanced at Babba, he had his belt in his hands and within minutes, he whipped it across my back, then legs, which grew weak, making me collapse to the floor. I don’t know how I managed to say anything but those words came out when Mama had called me a sharmouta.
“Where is the bastard?” Babba said in the midst of his beating.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled and then he stopped whipping me, rushed outside. Stumbling, I stood in front of the window and stared out of it. Babba moved quickly towards the field, the river but when he returned, the belt dragging at his side, I knew he couldn’t find Naseem and I knew for certain he’d left the village, disappeared behind the mountains with the scent of my flesh on his own skin, the memory of the pleasure we had exchanged briefly under the moon. Maybe he was thinking about me now, or maybe not. Maybe he’d wiped any traces of my touches from him and hurried on to his next destination. This realization made me look away, and bump into Mama who gave me a slap across the face before she, too, left, went outside to join my father. I watched them briefly as they exchanged a few words, Babba slipping his belt back on. Mama touched his arm and within minutes, they were in the house again, walking past me, returning to their bedroom.
Now I had nothing to say. I lay on my bed. I stared out the window; the sky appeared as blue as the charm used to ward off the evil eye. Mama had pinned them on my blankets and the collar of my pyjamas when I was a baby and now she had them in my room, on a chain at the footboard of my bed. Exhaustion overcame me. I closed my eyes and within minutes, I was fast asleep.
