#UNWomen

#stopviolenceagainstwomen

#fictional narration not very far from the stories I come across

Dear Drunk Dad

I remember how you would enter through the door and silence would sweep through the house
How all our smiles would fade at the sight of your presence

I remember how our bodies would automatically tune to flight fight mode, our hearts threatening to burst out of our chests in fear

We would shake like dry leaves in spring
But oh my goodness, we had the strongest tree trunk ever- our mother.
She would stand between you and us anticipating the worst and as scared as she was, she would act so brave warning you “not my kids”
For this I did believe “mmangwana o tshwara thipa ka fa bogaleng”

You would give her that old disgusting smirk, “who does she think she is?”
Yes the worst would happen, you would slap my mother so hard we literally felt the echo of that gruesomeness
Oh my poor mother would fall to the far end of the room and violently hit against the wall

Amazingly enough she would crawl back to us, swallowing immeasurable pain and would group hug us whispering “it’s gonna be alright”…that broken shaky voice would reassure us in the horrified state we were in

With the corner of my eye I would see how cold hearted you are as you drag your feet to the kitchen, leaving behind a harrowing stench of alcohol
We would quickly run to our bedroom and lock ourselves inside, fearing the demon you become when drunk

The next noise we hear would be the cups & plates breaking, the spoons and pots violently hitting the floor mixed with your shouts of “where is my food!?” Swearing at the woman who bore you kids.
Food was the only reason you came back home

You expected food even when you knew you drank away all the money.
Oh, unless that food was ‘manna from heaven’ but you were fighting wrong people for it— you needed to face your God.

In the midst of that chaos, my mother would plead with you to calm down, my dear brother would jump to the locked door wanting to go fight you off but we would drag him back so hard his t-shirt would get torn

Oh my poor brother, we would heartbreakingly watch him curl up and break into tears, we all felt so helpless against you

We are suffering within these walls we call home, living with a monster whose blood run through our veins— God how did we become part of this curse?

He knows no peace and want us to share in his bitter plate, he is so generous of poison and yet so selfish of love.

Lucky him, he can drown his sorrows in a bottle, we are drowning in his sorrows

You have long psychologically killed us daddy, please stop the violence

Kelly.

LetsEndVAWandGBV