30/05/2020
Participant 40
Chidinma Divine Iwu
Becoming a man.
Fighting the urge to break through the confines of my mother's stare, the insane cravings clawed at me to go sit on the cold floors of our balcony and watch the lunatic unfoldings of the world through the piers of our bannister. I longed to feed my needs with tips on how to become a man.
There was an unwavering fetter I had with the neighbors next door. There was an even stronger one with their 11 year old boy, Akin.
He was a manipulated, battered and disfigured son, still, he was a man. An eleven year old man and everyday, I craved to be who he was.
I deemed no other way to become the perfect man fit, if not go through a series of the events Akin went through.
Somehow in some way, my brain had created a strong pact with the feelings he was made to undergo daily, and even though my family would not bother finding me all those but instead, leave me in neglect with an overbearing housekeeper, I felt like there was an unnatural merging of our souls.
I had subjected myself to this ride and prepared head on to face the manipulation, battery, and hard labour metted on the boy, Akin.
Whilst I detested the soft words from Mum and pats on the back by Dad, I relished in the beatings Akin received and wished everyday that it wore his shoes.
Do not see me insane, because it was the only way I saw myself thrive and not merely exist.
The neighbors were oblivious to my existence. They never saw me peep through the piers, they never caught my gaze holding unto the inhumane acts which by the way, I found alluring.
Akin's mother would hit him with whatever came in handy for petty, barely noticeable mistakes and I'd wonder why Mum would merely scold me.
They'd make every girl in the family hit him and tell him he was always to be at the receiving end.
They'd tell him he was never to cry or flinch.
They'd always imply that it was how to be a man and never once did I doubt them.
They'd say that it was the women who should cry, hit people, and throw tantrums.
I didn't doubt them once.
It was how I was going to become a man.
Today, Mum wouldn't let me out of her sight as she says I seek comfort in cold, hard floors, instead of our warm, fluffy carpeted floor.
She was too lousy to note that I was only learning to become a man.
Or, was I pawn in the game of bereaved women?
Was I just another broken, African boy, compelled to be who he wasn't?
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