I was 3 years old; I remember the living room, the old painted wall of grey, the faded curtain, the red cushion sewn by my Dad himself who was never a carpenter, the white carpet you can’t tell if the design it carries are drawings of flowers or butterflies, the television was standing on a stool, my Dad’s picture hanging just above it, a black and white picture of a very handsome dude, there I sat on the floor, while my mum sat on the cushion which I would say is the only valuable in the house if not for the constant killing of termites coming from it and decorating my dear hands and feet.
I was caught off guard; my dad stumped in, walked straight to my mum and gave her the beating of her life. “You are only making that cloth now when my friends are outside waiting? You must be a stupid woman! If you had parents, I would have killed you and ended the life of your parents for giving me such an irresponsible wife, at that moment, I knew all I could do was to cry, his hand landed on her face like the screeching sound from the steel wheels of a moving train. She fainted, he ran out and called his friends, they came in, two of them, one ran out and came back with a bucket of water, he emptied the water on her, and then I saw my mum shivering in fears lying face up from the ground. He stood looking at her, and I heard one of the friends saying, we could eat at my place, they all stumped out but there she laid, my mother.
I am 21 years older now, I just saw finger marks on my friends face, and I got this feeling of de javu.