Following the theme of our book choice of the month ‘Purple Hibiscus’, which beautifully encapsulates the journey towards change, we asked members of our community to write a 2,000-word fictional story depicting a new beginning. The entries were outstanding, and we were amazed by the depth and dexterity of the submissions. A massive congratulations to Ifeyinwa Anyakorah whose fictional story, ‘All The Ways We Are Broken’ was selected to be published on FEMME MAG! Read below for her story.
ALL THE WAYS WE ARE BROKEN
It starts raining shortly after we get into the car on our way to the hospital. My mother does not like driving while it rains as a rule; her vision becomes blurry and her reflexes slow down as though her brain interprets the rain as a time for sleep. Rainy Port Harcourt is my least favourite representation of this city that has been the only physical home I know. It becomes grey and dirty; the city gives up its guise of a civilized society and reveals itself for what it truly is: unplanned, unmanaged, unclean.
My mother had gotten out of the car and was hurrying, hunched over to avoid the rain, into the reception when I realize we had arrived. I get out, see that my bag is still on the car seat, and clamber upstairs. I get the keys from my mother and traipse back downstairs to rescue it. I don’t know why, I don’t need anything from it, literally, nothing of value is inside.
While we wait in the reception, I keep the nausea down by flicking my tongue against the roof of my throat. My mother keeps glancing at me with this pained expression. “I can’t imagine how hard it is to be back in a hospital again so soon after… I know you wish she was here too?”
I shake my head.
She tries again.
“Did you eat anything before we left?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, then add as I catch the implications of what she is asking, “Was I supposed to?”
“They didn’t say either way, I just thought you might need your strength or something.”
“Yeah.”
We lapse back into silence.
It occurs to me that with everything I’m feeling in this moment, my mother’s heart must be quite torn to shreds as well. There’s a part of me that remembers how to comfort her and acknowledge all she’s doing for me through this process. As soon as I told her, she set up this appointment in the hospital where we go to for everything. I haven’t had to come here in ages and I don’t remember any of the staff. I’m altogether too tired to even move my hand to squeeze hers. It’s a tiredness I never knew existed; if it wasn’t mechanical, I probably wouldn’t have the strength to breathe. Probably wouldn’t care.
A nurse turns the corner and asks us to follow her. Inside a white room, I see an inner room with a doctor and a couple of nurses around a bed with contraptions around it. I can feel my mind shifting to autopilot and I thank God for the gift of disassociation. With any luck, I’ll never remember what is about to happen. I’m handed one of those hospital gowns as my mother makes small chat with the doctor in the inner room. They are actually having a conversation about work and stuff like we are here for a routine check-up. Fascinating. As she excuses herself, she asks me if I’m okay.
“How painful will it be?” I risk asking.
“It will be painful. But it won’t take long.”
I don’t know what to say to that so I turn around as I start taking off my jeans. It’s not so easy to breathe now. When I’m done, a nurse helps me up on the bed and starts cleaning my vagina with a cotton swab and something that smells of disinfectant. It’s so cold I begin to shake so badly, and the nurse asks me if I’m alright with a sceptical look on her face. I imagine that she has seen this so many times that it become rote for her; she spares no compassion for what she sees as my dramatics.
The shaking only intensifies when the doctor prods my lower abdomen and spreads my legs to begin. It causes him to frown at me and ask if I’d like to do this another time. He asks this patiently and I immediately feel a rush of gratitude towards him. It’s pathetic really. Nonetheless, I shake my head. I want this to be over more than I dread it happening. He starts to talk to me then, asks if I’m still in school (no) and what I majored in (International Relations). It sorts of does the trick and I feel the walls of my vagina begin to unclench as he inserts some instrument inside me.
“I’m using this to sort of widen your uterus. Keep it open”
I don’t want the live commentary but he’s being kind so I let him go on. The pain throughout all of this is completely indescribable. It feels as though my body, my nerves, my brain is screaming against this invasion. I’m aware that I’m muttering something like a mantra but I can’t make it out. I can’t believe the pain. When it’s over, one of the nurses cleans me up and I don’t know if it’s her gentleness or the knowledge that its finally over that makes me break down in the most heart- wrenching tears. I surprise myself. I hear the sorrow in my own voice and it makes me weep even harder. The nurse rubs my back and I can see the other nurse and doctor watch me in silence as they witness the utter destruction of my soul. No matter how good I am at disassociating, I know I will never forget this.
I can’t remember how we got home. From a distance, I hear my mother tell me to have a hot bath with Dettol and I nod my head gently. I am completely drained and without willpower but I drag myself to the bathroom and slump on the toilet seat. I can see my phone blinking on the bed and I know he’ll be the one calling. The thought makes me nauseous all over again. I need to take a nap but I force myself to slide open the door to the shower stalls, crawl inside, put on the taps and stay under.
The first time someone other than my mother made me question my character was in my first year at University. I was watching a video on a new friend’s phone, I can never remember what the video was about but it must have contained some hysterics on the part of the actors because I remarked on the pretentiousness of Nigerian actors to overplay emotions on screen. My words exactly were: “God, how performative can they be really? Who actually rolls on the floor in real life just because your boyfriend left you? Change it abeg.”
My friend paused the video and looked at me with that brittle mix of amusement and annoyance you reserve for a friend whose personality you’re still exploring. “You don’t think people can act out of character when experiencing intense grief?” she asked.
“Out of character is one way of putting it.”
“How else would you put it?”
I focus on her. I knew we were no longer discussing the videos but I could not process where the shift had occurred. The weather wasn’t helping either. It was one of those sublime days where students lounged around a poor excuse for a lawn because lecturers weren’t keeping to their schedules as usual. The sun was mild but piercing, making everything appear sharper and clouding the senses at the same time.
“I just think they should make it more realistic. No one acts that broken-hearted in real life. Rolling on the floor?” I laugh a little bit to emphasise how ridiculous I found it all and also to show her that I was taking the conversation lightly.
She wasn’t.
She looked at me for a minute then said tightly, “Just because someone’s expression of sadness doesn’t fit in with your idea of it doesn’t make it unrealistic. You may not relate to it but if she wants to roll on the floor because her boyfriend left her, then that’s what she wants to do. It’s like you’ve never experienced real pain before that’s why you’re being so flippant. It’s not meant to be stately and put together.”
“Halima, I don’t think I have to experience every single emotion there is to know what it looks like. I have a brain, I can make adequate associations, and honestly it just looks performative. They look like they are acting out an idea of what grief should look like. It’s chaotic and unreal.”
I’d known Halima for six months now, enough time to know that she:
1: was a soft-hearted Muslima with an understated sense of elegance
2: came from a big family where it was hard to stand out by dint of their large number
3: would almost always acquiesce in a conversation rather than cause a confrontation due to a difference in opinions
4: was a friend I wanted to keep
She was shaking her head. “Don’t worry, Ego…”
“No, no, tell me. What are we really talking about now?”
“I just… I just think you should be a bit more compassionate. I don’t know… You seem so removed from the realities of people that you appear unrelatable, like a statue.”
“What? I’m not uncompassionate.” Even I wasn’t sure if this statement was true. Compassion wasn’t an emotion I called upon frequently. It sounded too suspiciously close to pity to sit well with me.
“Empathetic then. Maybe uncompassionate isn’t the right word. But you do tend to disregard how other people are feeling if you don’t understand it. That doesn’t mean you’re a bad person, of course.”
“Of course.”
I was distressed by this revelation for the rest of the day and Halima, guiltily, tried to get me to forget the conversation by delving into one of the many stories about her family’s eccentricities. Her family stories are what overblown soap opera drama series are made of: step-siblings feud, co-wives’ rivalry, elaborate schemes to win the affections of a 72-year old jaded patriarch whose interest in life died along with his soulmate 22 years ago. I listened politely. Being with Halima stripped me of any will to be anything but kind.
I could text her. I could pick up my phone and type: I finally get it. She’d text back: get what? And call me almost immediately. She always knew the conversations that were monumental and preferred calling to texting for talks like these. She said a lot could be lost in translation if you can’t hear a person’s voice. We’d talk for hours, only stopping to top up our airtime. We’d talk until I felt completely abluted.
I could text her. But I know she’d never respond.
Written by Ifeyinwa Anyakorah
About the author:
Ifeyinwa is a writer interested in the human experience, psychology, gender equality and good food! To not be a starving writer, Ifeyinwa does branding and communications for her 9-5.
