Gone South.


I was there.

Yes I was there.

That evening at around seven,, PM. 

I watched in shock:in horror in fact.

He was standing in front of the kitchen entrance. 

His face was sweaty; his hands were shaky: his somehow swollen feet stood anchored to the ground. 

In his right hand, a knife was being tightly gripped. 

The knife; a classical knife which only was used as a showcase in his bedroom. 

The knife was tightly pressed on her back. 

My mother’s back. 

“Why did you let him in here” His stern voice roared. 

She looked at him in fear and moved her face down. 

I was there. 

Just four years old and I could feel my world crumbling into pieces.

My own father is threatening my mother..with a knife?

Is this what four year olds should see?

“I have no problem with him” He said pointing the knife at me. 

My mother watched helplessly as the knife slowly was moved away from him. 

He walked away from where we were. I was speechless :just watching what was happening. 

He went to my brother’s room.

Within a few seconds, my elder brother came running out of the room in disbelief. 

He rushed towards the gate and rushed out. 

I could hear commotion inside the room:tables overturning, rumbling of things, stuff breaking. 

It was chaotic : I was shocked.

“Your father has gone crazy” My mother said as he pulled me further away from where he was causing chaos. 

Could it be true? Is he losing his mind.

Then he emerged from the room. 

He was heavily breathing; with his classical knife still on his hand. 

“I have a stupid son! In fact all my children are stupid ! Where is the silly daughter! ”

He shouted as he looked around.

He grabbed hold of one of the empty buckets of water and hurled it towards where we were.

It hit my mother’s back and she let out a soft painful yell.

I was there.

I looked at her brown face.

The pain was written all over her face. 

I was there.

She quickly grab hold of me: we moved towards the back of the house and reached the fence.

She raised me up and moved me across the fence towards the other side. 

“Move back so I can jump as well. Your father wants to kill us”

Those words. Her words. Forever scarred my heart. 

She climbed up the fence and managed to climb down the other side. 

She grabbed my hand and began running.

Running as far away from there as possible.

Running away from home.

We could still hear my father smashing things in the house while yelling my mother’s name.

My mother desperately took her phone and dialled a number.

“Hello..Hello…your brother is going to kill us…”She began while crying.

There and then I knew who she had called; My uncle John who lived a stone throw away from us.

For a few minutes, she talked to him: in vernacular language and I was not that sharp in our mother tongue.

She then hung the phone and stood suddenly.

“Why are we stopping now ” I asked. 

He has just told me its not his business. He doesn’t care at all .

It was there that I realised something.

Not every one in your family is actually ‘your’ family. 

We walked to my mother’s friend’s house and took refuge there. 

I quietly watched as my mother narrated to his friend the ordeal we had just witnessed.

Tears were streaming from her eyes. 

I shouldn’t have witnessed that.

Not at that age.

But I was there.

Those moments.

Unfortunate moments they were.

My father, years of successful and happy living.

Only to end up in pieces.

Something was definitely wrong.

Either his past was haunting him..

I don’t know.

But I made sure that one day, I will find out the truth. 

Author: Wilson Westwood

Writer. Dreamer. Wanderlust

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s