You played a bad hand well

I never knew my parents. I hear their death was tragic, I know no details. Anyone I have ever asked about their demise, grows graven and tells me that we should let go off the past, and look toward the future. Any insistence on my part, returns either a blank retreat into self or undisguised emotive pain. I know I may never find out what happened.

I grew up living with various relatives, rotated and shuffled like a retread tyre. At the end of my puberty, I was living with my aunty and her husband. Between them, they had five children. What was intriguing is that none of the children shared a similar mother and father, except the last one Kababy, whom they jointly had. They were privileged children. Especially Kababy. They welcomed me into their home. Told me I was their sixth child. They never said that I was the house help too. I did all the house chores as well as my accounting course at a college in the city.

I met Maria when she moved in with the family next door. She was somehow related to them – the people next door, and was offered room and board for work as she attended college too. Hers was explicitly stated. She worked for a meal and a bed. I knew she had been rescued from an abusive place. She never talked about her past.

We met daily at dawn for four years as we did our respective residences’ laundry. We talked over the one and a half meter cement backsplash of the wash area. Of our tribulated past and present. The crying we had seen and the things we had been to. We dreamt aloud of our future. Embellished and painted our lives, with a nascent hope that there was more to our future than our now.

I woke up one day and Maria was gone. No one could tell me what happened to her. I missed her. But I was used to peoples departing from my life. Over time and life, I forgot about her.

Until today. I met Maria again today. After twenty years. She served me my camomile tea at the spa. I did not recognise her then. I did not even notice her. When I was leaving, she followed me to the car park and stopped me with an “Excuse me Madam”. She told me who she was. Words failed me. Glad to see her. I asked her, “What happened? Why did you leave? Where did you go?”

She told me. And then said, “Remember when we used to talk about our future, I could tell you really believed in yours. I never really saw how my life would ever be better. We were dealt a bad hand, you and I, but you played a good game. I live with Kababy now, by the way.”

“Which Kababy” I asked?

“Your cousin. The last one. We live together. Near here, at the shanties. In some way, I am doing better than she is. She is a “working woman” and has a drinking problem. I used to envy them, the children of the home, especially her. She was lucky. She knew who she was. She knew her parents. Someone cared about her. She had a good start in life. Then she got it all wrong. But sometimes I think it does not really matter where you come from. Because even if I had been her, I would still be where I am today”.

I was saddened. Oh Maria. Oh my Kababy.

She grabbed my hand. “Thank you. I want you to know, that those four years were the best years of my life. I want to thank you too, for being what we said we should be. For showing me what I could have been. You played a bad hand well”.

image from www.etsy.com

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