Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

I was born in 1971 in the United Kingdom in a town called Hackney, which is densely populated with ethnic minorities such as Caribbean people and Africans as well as orthodox Jews. I was born to parents who emigrated from the Caribbean – Jamaica. My father came to the UK in 1962 to find work and study. He worked in the post office for some time before my mother joined him in 1963. He was very much attracted to her, and after a difficult marriage previously he thought this was the woman that would make him settle again. They got married in 1965. My mother always had unpleasant things to say about my father; he was a wicked man and he physically abused her and was jealous because she was attractive.

 

The real story is my father fell in love with a stranger - a ‘holiday romance’. He did not know this woman very well. He was attracted to her and decided that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. He was from a wealthy background: my grandfather had inherited a legacy of acres of land with crops and farms from my great-grandparents, which they inherited during the time of slavery. My mother suffered hardship and saw an opportunity to be swept off her feet and brought to the UK; she kept a very private life in as much that I lived with my mother for 15 years and I do not know much about her life.

 

It was not long before my father made the true discovery, when he sent for her in 1965, that she was not all that she seemed. They had constant fights and arguments because she wanted to live the life of partying, shopping sprees, and was not ready for family life as she promised; just carefree. My father was very disappointed, he had planned for years for her to join him; he felt at the age of 33 this would be the perfect time to start. At the same time, she left my three-year-old brother behind in Jamaica with her mother, who also had four young children of her own. My mother was more interested in living the dream life, even though her mother insisted she would not take the responsibility of looking after her child. My father told me he was not interested in taking care of another man’s child, but I questioned; surely he knew she had a child, why not? It would really be up to my mother to decide. The arguments and fights became severe; my mother was throwing blows as well as my dad. The next door neighbours had no peace as the walls were so thin, you could hear every sound. I had the opportunity of meeting one of the neighbours, Mrs Jacob, who told me about the noise. My mother always told me how much she hated my father.

 

‘You are just like your stinking father,’ she said.

 

The change had really started now because the plan my father had - to settle and live the family life - was not her plan. It was all a sham: she did not love my father at all, to this day she calls him short, ugly and mean. What does that do for me? He is my father; I express my frustration and pain, how I hate them arguing all the time. I have told her many times not to speak about my father in this way. She always looked at me in disgust and spewed more abuse.

 

My father was heartbroken to know he had been played. He told her that he refused to carry on with the relationship unless he had a child. At this point, my father had no idea that my mother came to the UK to use him. Her behaviour changed from when they met in the Caribbean; she started to make demands for money that she had to send to her mother and other family members. This went on for a while: all sorts of demands, even of the church her mother attended in Jamaica. My dad refused to furnish this lavish spending and stated that he wanted out of the relationship. My mother always had her way and the battle turned really dark. She started to return home and disappear at odd times in the evening. My father had realised she had met some friends that had a huge influence on her. She ignored him; she went to church almost seven days a week, he was not introduced to these people. They would collect her outside of the house in a van filled with others and then drop her home, sometimes at 2:00am, and she started to wear a strange uniform from head to toe. My father was concerned that he had brought this woman to this country where she didn’t know anyone and suddenly he was kicked to the kerb and she had started a new life in this society. She performed rituals which involved candles and incantation, then he started to experience really horrific nightmares, which involved coffins, being buried alive and snakes attacking him in his dreams. Her behaviour had changed: she had developed extreme confidence, and was very overpowering. On the other hand, my mother told me that my father was one of the biggest Obeah workers (a Caribbean dialect word for Voodoo). She told me that my father sent talismans through the post on many occasions, but she was always lucky enough to detect them before opening the letter. One day, a friend of hers didn’t believe her about these odd letters and decided to be brave and open it: she coughed for days and not long after she passed away.

 

“He was never able to conquer me,” she said.

 

“What do you do to overcome?” I asked her.

 

“God can do great things; all I do is pray to God.”

 

My father started to have strange things happen to him, bad dreams and strangulations in these dreams. One day when my mother made dinner, he was convinced his food was spiked. He felt the room turning around like dizziness and at the same time he was going down to hit the floor. She said,

 

“You brut you,’’ meaning ‘good for you’.

 

She developed this power and confidence and wanted to be in full control. Dad decided to investigate and secretly followed her one evening to see where she was going and who her new friends were. He discovered she was attending a ritualistic church in Tottenham, London. The members wrapped their heads and wore long skirts; the uniforms were in various colours, depending on what rituals were performed. The leader conducted spiritual healing. My father could hear them from the outside window groaning strangely and calling the devil. He later said,

 

“I heard from others who were attending this organisation that the leader was doing good works as well as bad.”

 

He saw some of the members unconscious on the ground. They had been possessed by the devil, and my mother was part of the ritual.

 

He confronted her about it. She said he was mad, it was not her. Then that same night, she told him she was pregnant and wanted a divorce. Dad wanted to know how she suddenly took an interest in this organisation, so he conducted an investigation by going back to Jamaica to really understand her background. To his surprise, her mother also was a leader of the same type of organisation; his donation was used to build the church. A family friend from the same district came to visit my dad in his confusion and told him,

 

“If I hear what I am about to tell you again, I will deny it. The family your wife is from are Obeah workers and you need to be careful.”

 

 

 

On his return, he was about to experience hell; she was ready to declare war. My dad said that in spite of what he heard, he was cautious because he knew a child was on the way. She deliberately created unnecessary arguments, being physically abusive by hitting him with anything to get him in trouble with the law. My mother told me that my father was so vindictive that he slit his wrist to prove to her friends that she was abusive. Her story was she bought a new bedspread and because my dad was jealous he cut his wrist to smudge it with blood, as well as being really violent.

 

“The Obeah was getting really strong,” he said.

 

Fortunately for him, when the man from the district gave the warning, he went to seek protection from a spiritualist in the mountains of St Catherine, Jamaica. The leader from her church was set to inflict pain and cast many spells upon him, which were not effective. She started to put potions in his food and drink. One evening after dinner, he realised a powder-like substance was seeping out of his body through his pores like fish bone. Shadows were passing as if someone else was in the house; all sorts of entities were strangling him in his sleep. On another occasion, she appeared to be really pleasant and told him she had made him Guinness punch. He later said,

 

“I was so desperate for a change; I wanted my marriage to work. I fell for deceit.”

 

He sat down for the meal and as he was about to lift the glass, it exploded, followed by a ripple shattering the house windows. It seemed another potion was set but deterred; he was always exhausted, but his protection was obviously working. Now that he realised her intentions, he started to retaliate with the instructions from home to drive the demons back to their sender. She was still denying it was her. One evening, he returned from work to find the same experience he had with the powder, all the powder she had sprinkled was coming through his legs and face like tiny fish bone. My mother told me about this story, but a different version. She explained that my dad had cast a spell on her and powder was seeping out of her body. A spirit frequently visited the home at midnight; a house that was peaceful had suddenly turned into a haunted house. My father was now fighting back, her brethren were giving her a lot of support and unprofessional advice on the legality of custodial rights and divorce proceedings - how she could benefit from the divorce, with the child. She had convinced them of the abuse from my father and of his wicked ways. The divorce was certain. She left their matrimonial home to stay with her friend until the divorce. My dad refused to let her have full custody of his child. He was going to put up a hell of a fight and was concerned for my wellbeing, if I were to be brought up in such an environment.

 

I was born while the divorce proceedings were already on the way. During the separation, my father had custodial rights for me to stay with him on weekends. My aunt told me that my parents were not at peace even to keep the arrangement. They were competing and fighting over who bought the best clothes and the most expensive chocolate. My mother was trying to turn me against my father, not to go with him on the weekend, but for children, simply mention ice cream or chocolate. I was young; I cannot remember, but it was obvious to me from what I have been told the impact this would have had on me.

 

In 1972, at the Old Street Magistrate Court, London, my parents attended the court hearing. The arrangements were breached and my father refused to let my mother have custody. The battle was fierce, my mother used the abuse scenario to claim that my father was violent and she had to run for her life on several occasions - of course in a court of law, especially in the UK, battery is a serious crime. My father used the witchcraft scenario; that she was an irresponsible mother who indulged in witchcraft and that it would not be safe for a child to grow up among such practises. My father had brought a very strong case to the court and proof: after all, he was claiming that he had sent for this woman to join him to create a family and that he had been used and tormented by her and her friends. Her peers advised her that if she went down this route it would be beneficial to her, and she would be entitled to child support from him. My father decided there was no way he was going to allow her to use him again, because had he not given her the ultimatum she would not have considered having a child.

 

The verdict: my father won custody. The judge found that such practises of witchcraft were unsuitable for a child; it would have been unusual for a father to have won custody in that period. I learned this from my father with documented proof from the courts. My mother, like always, did not discuss the outcome with friends and family, not even me. She kept this secret and had made a decision that would change my life. I was never to see my dad or know him. My mother decided to emigrate to the Caribbean with me at the age of two years, unannounced to my father. My mother took off to the Caribbean with no finances or place to live; her intention was to escape the law and take revenge on my father.

 

These were the stories I was told all my life by my mother and father about my childhood. I am about to tell and embark upon my own journey and discover the truth.

 

 

 

 

 

My Journey

 

 

 

My mother immigrated to Jamaica; to a village called Williamsfield, situated in the parish of St Catherine. I am unable able to recollect my arrival, as I was so young, but what I do remember was that I suffered ill health for a while. I constantly had fever and broke out from allergies: my system was finding it difficult to cope in the heat. National Health Service is not available there, unlike in the UK. She only took £100 for us to survive on - medical fees are a must there, so what was my mother’s plan? We didn’t have a home; we had to share with other relatives in a room at my grandmother’s house. My diet as a three-year-old had to be adjusted very quickly to the native food, which I really dislike, and it made me very ill. I now have children and it is a real problem to even get them to eat at that age.

 

We stayed at my grandmother’s for a while. She went home unannounced without telling her - it was not long before we were given the marching orders. My step-grandfather would not tolerate this and asked us to leave. My mother decided it would be better if we moved to Kingston, where it would be much easier to find work. In the UK, my mother was a tailor; this type of job would be difficult to find. Out of desperation, she found a job as a house help, which would be enough to rent a room and buy food for us to survive on, as I was struggling with adjusting to the climate. Until this day I cannot understand the logic of her decision. When I asked her as a child,

 

“Why are we here?”

 

My mother’s excuse was, “If I had not run away from that man, I would have been a dead woman.”

 

If there is no other fairer justice system, the United Kingdom is known for this, especially for women and children and moreover in cases of abuse. The system goes to the extreme on such crimes so they would have provided protection for us in a safe home and even supported us. I grew up as a little girl believing that my father was some kind of a monster who wanted to hurt us. I am still waiting for an explanation of what was the real motive to her decision, because I could have lost my life from an allergic reaction. I suffered severely acclimatizing. I was told by an aunt that I had to be rushed to emergency once; my reaction was so serious I was lucky we got to the hospital on time and received the correct treatment. I still have some of the scars on my body. Was her decision revenge, to get back at my father?

 

We were living in Kingston, experiencing real hardship there with not enough to survive on. She had a very bad temper, where she threw tantrums when things were not going her way. Frustration was setting in, which turned into verbal abuse, words used such as, “You’re just like your father; just as ugly as him.”

 

As I grew older, that anger was getting more terrifying for me. She would shout at me so fiercely. I was treading on eggshells for her not to be angry, but I don’t know what triggered it. Even if I tried to be affectionate towards her, she barked like a hound. The church she attended in the UK had affiliations in Jamaica. It was a successful business; the healing and miraculous works had raised huge sums of money to buy acres of land and houses and the pledge promised to the members who donated money was that they would all live together on this land forever. This is where she now resides and lives in fear of being thrown off. The promise was obviously not true, for the members are not the sole proprietors, even though the promise was to pensioners that had given their last penny. Because of the influence and power to commit Obeah that could kill or destroy, no one dares to challenge and seek justice to retrieve their contributions or enquire about this unlawful deceit; they just wept aside in sorrow and disbelief. Many of those pensioners have now passed away and were not able to go home and retire as planned. The subordinates had so much fear to stand up or confront the senior members that possessed extreme power. Young girls were molested, even the parents knew about this and turned a blind eye; this was going on in the UK. If any damage was caused, depending on the age of the child, the treatment would be to anoint the affected area with healing oil. I also knew of a teenager that was impregnated. It was my inquisitive nature that led me to learn about the atrocities, getting part of the puzzle from different associates, piecing them together. I found this disturbing. Why was my mother a part of this and knew of the horrific acts and did nothing?

 

Although this society had its reputation, not all the individuals were the same. I grew up amongst some of the most loving and caring people; I wanted to know what had driven them to this society. There were a number of reasons. The husband or wife would marry, to unfortunately discover that the ex-partner from a previous relationship would be carrying a grudge and cast spells to destroy the marriage. The most common were to prevent them from having children or being prosperous, or the disapproval of the bride’s or groom’s parents. The partner sometimes indulged in bad omens in the past or had cast a spell due to jealousy or done a person wrong in retaliation and a spell was cast for eternity. Married women took revenge on mistresses. A bad past exists when parents have indulged in evil. A family that had cast a spell and retribution was often passed on to the next generation, but whatever the problems this would be the reason to initiate into this society.

 

There was one member from the society who was very caring to me as a child before I left the UK. She had taken the place of my biological grandmother. She immigrated to Jamaica in 1975 after her retirement. She was a lifesaver, because at this point my mother had lost the will to live. With no plans in place to take care of me, we were now suffering real hardship. She was unable to pay the rent on time, we could not afford to buy clothes and her anger had now grown into physical abuse. She would just start shouting and telling me many times that I didn’t do this or that properly. When I appeared, she would give me a great slap across my ear and face; it echoed like a major treble from a microphone in my eardrum, followed by,

 

“Didn’t you hear me calling you?” I had to answer by the first call. Mealtimes were also another problem. It was taking me a long time to adjust to the food - I hated it. I would sit there for a while playing with it, then I would be in for torture, another slap for each spoon I refused.

 

“Why don’t you eat the food?”

 

“I don’t like this; I don’t like this horrible Jamaican callaloo.”

 

“You better eat it, for there is nothing else!”

 

Sometimes I vomited. The beatings became so constant, I would be afraid every time she came in from work. She would pick on me for no reason, followed by a strike, always on my head. If I asked to play with the other children, it was not allowed, always no; it was as if I was not allowed to have any fun while she was unhappy. I found comfort in sucking my thumb. I constantly wet my bed and that would result in more slapping and shame as she would embarrass me in the yard, saying that I should take the wet sheets out so that the tenants would know I wet the bed again. I was ordered to take them out and wash them. I understood from this point my mother hated me. She would humiliate me by saying how the other children next door were beautiful and well-spoken and I spoke like an ‘old nigger’ (like the locals). This was a lot for a child to take on. I assumed I was the cause of ruining her life. She kept telling me how ugly I was and about my wicked father, who I had now forgotten because I was taken away from him at the age of 2. Who do I turn to? There was no one to defend me; the tenants in the yard would look in disgust or sometime plea for me, but she would say,

 

“Don’t mind her; she is a difficult child to deal with.”

 

Mrs Archie arrived from the UK, how great it was. She lived in the same tenement yard as I, and she wanted to stay there for a little while, until her house was completed on the Promised Land. It was as if my real mother had arrived; she was affectionate, kind. My mother was struggling to find a sitter after school, Mrs Archie volunteered immediately. She had brought down my treats that I loved in the UK, my favourite pudding and custard. I was now becoming a happy child again. This was the year I had my first birthday party. I didn’t have many friends to invite, but I met a few from the church and Mrs Archie arranged the cake and my mother organised the catering. I had a great day. The abuse was less now; I was only experiencing verbal abuse - maybe because Mrs A was there. She came home one evening and saw the delight in me and Mrs A; how happy I was, laughing and joking. She suddenly took a turn; she started to shout at me that I had been at home all evening after school and had not done my chores. Mrs A tried to explain that we had so much fun, it was her fault. My mother did not accept her explanation, she went outside in a mighty speed and came back with a piece of plank and started to batter me with it. What had I done? Mrs A was so shocked and tried to console my mother. She really had a go at Mrs A. She said that Mrs A was spoiling me and she would not allow it. Mrs A said sarcastically,

 

“After all, there’s nothing I can do, what do I know about children? I never had a child, I am sorry, mi love.”

 

 

 

She did not want to cause any rift between my mother and me. I could see her face; her grey eyes lit with anger and she was getting red, she was so horrified. From that day, she was always careful and kept a distance when mother was due home, so as not to cause any problems. During the time we had together we would play, laugh and sing, but as soon as my mother got home, Mrs A would pull into her shell. It didn’t take me long to understand what was going on.

 

I remembered on day in particular: it was really hot and during the mango and guinep season, fruits I really enjoy. I was playing out in the yard when a white van pulled up at the gate, my mother was home. I saw some men came out of the van towards the gate, they looked official. I ran to my mother to tell her there were these men at the gate, one of the tenants told my mother that they were asking for her. She said,

 

“Tell them I don’t live here and then come, let’s hide in the back room.”

 

I could hear them talking and going around the yard, I dared not ask. For years I wondered whom we were hiding from. It was Immigration; my father had a summons to find me because he had full custody from the courts. I always remembered this day but never fully understood what was going on until 17 years later.

 

My mother’s behaviour started to change, she was getting happier. In the tenement yard where we lived there were about five other tenants. My mother started dating one of the tenants, Longman. He was very pleasant, we had regular chats and he would bring me sweets sometimes. Mrs A’s house on the Promised Land was completed now and she was due to move out. There was a change - my mother and Longman were due to be married. I really don’t know how long they had been dating, but things were really moving fast. Mrs A would not be far away - I could visit her but it wouldn’t be the same without her. The wedding was scheduled. I was not told about the new life from my mother. Longman told me that he would be my new father and my mother asked how I would like to be a mini bride. That was it.

 

The wedding took place. I was so excited being a mini bridesmaid, it meant I wore a white dress with a veil; a little girl dreams to be a princess. It was quite a day and well attended by the church members’ families. I was excited that I would finally have my own bedroom, as I was nine years old. They rented a bedsit situated in the Rock Fort area; it was 5 minutes’ walk from the seaside. I had to walk four miles to school every day; it was quite a distance in the baking heat of the sun. I was disappointed, even though I had this new life, things were not much better, apart from I had my own bed in the dining room. We were still struggling for food and clothes; I needed a school uniform, shoes, and school books. I had to share with children in my class when they allowed me. I was given 6 pencils and 6 exercise books every September, the same stationery given since kindergarten. School shoes were hard to come by; she would beg her employer Mrs Cook to buy sneakers if she went to America. Mrs Cook was very generous, and she would buy me shoes and other gifts. When she left this job, we had to find another source to beg from. I asked myself, what is happening here? If you are married, surely things should be better, not the same. There were also some nights that we would not have a meal. I would attend school without proper breakfast, just lime leaf tea and crackers, and for lunch I had $1. This would purchase a pack of biscuits and a frozen bag of juice called suck-suck. Concentration at school was difficult. I had to sit and listen to the children read their books and at the same time I was often hungry. It got worse near to lunchtime. I could sometimes smell the sweet aroma, chicken and rice especially, coming from the canteen. I would see the children waiting in line with their shiny aluminium plates and cup,

 

“I wish I could taste that lunch,” I said to myself. Instead I would purchase my lunch from the vendors outside the school gate. They would make and sell homemade snacks, but my money was never enough to buy anything substantial. I was satisfied because I was quite feisty. I would not beg, I pretended I was fine.

 

At this age I had very low self-esteem. I was told by my mother we could not fit into society, for the rich people were special people. I didn’t understand why I had to be poor and miserable, why did we have to live like this? I was quite lonely, I did not have friends because I felt I could not fit in with children who had the luxury of even a bicycle. I was unable to go on school trips, and I didn’t have presentable clothes to wear to class parties nor spending money. Whenever there was an event at school I knew I could not attend, I would go to school on my own, go to lunch on my own, and go home on my own. It was noticed by one of the bullies in the school. She attacked me one day on the staircase. She grabbed my bag, but I pulled it back from her and walked on. She said something in the distance - I didn’t take any notice. The next day she waited for me, but this time with a gang of friends, about four of them. They blocked me on the staircase. The ring leader was a lot taller than I, and she put her leg across the way. I would not let them take my bag because I had seen what they did to other children, taking all their stationery, and that was all I had. I said to her,

 

“Move your foot.”

 

The others stood by looking surprised. I told her again, “Move your foot.”

 

She did not, so I barged past, walking over her feet. She pulled my hair vigorously from behind and at the same time the others took my bag from me. It was at this point that all the rage and anger within me exploded. I closed my eyes and I threw my fists and kicked in every direction. A crowd of schoolchildren gathered around to see what was happening; I caused mayhem. I was taken to the principal’s office and received a warning. Those girls never tried it again and suddenly I made a friend with this girl called Candy. Somehow my outburst changed me; I felt confident after standing up to the bullies. Candy became my best friend; we would walk home together and have lunch, which she would share with me. Her mother was in the United States. She was well taken care of and I was able to share her books. I had potential academically, as I could read and write very well, but education was not a priority to my parents. I don’t know what my mother had planned for my future. No one was interested in my reports or progress. Whatever was to be the next step after primary school was entirely up to me. I had a desire that one day I could be someone who is accepted in society.

 

Things were getting worse at home; my parents were physically fighting, my stepfather was becoming an alcoholic, and my mother started directing her abuse toward me again. The physical abuse was every day: she used belt buckles, planks, and when it seemed these where not inflicting enough pain she would invent her own weapon. She gathered pomegranate sticks and plaited them, then left them in a corner by her bed and told me to go and fetch one when she was ready for torment. The next door neighbours could not understand what could be causing the uproar. I heard the neighbour say over the fence, “Why does that woman beat the child every day?”

 

But I had become immune to the beating and verbal abuse, so that when she hit me, after a while I just stood there and took it without crying, I just turned my back and received it. On my back especially I had a lot of scars. This was from the striking and my skin was dreadful for healing; it scars very easily and takes a long time to clear. The chastising was not working anymore. I accepted that she was going to hit me - it was going to be over in a few minutes anyway. She realised and started to use more hefty force. The studio flat had steps leading to outside the yard; one day I did not complete my chore to her satisfaction, which was to polish the floor on my knees and then use the coconut brush to shine it. She said, “The floor must be as shiny as looking glass.”

 

As she shouted and hit me with the whip, I kept on walking towards the step. She kicked me off the stairs and I landed on my stomach. My hands and legs were bruised; it burned like fire because of the sandy ground. After, she told me to wash the clothes. The soap and water getting into the wound was excruciating, because we washed our clothes by hand. My mother never apologised or gave me a reason for my punishment; I just had to do what she asked properly. I never lived in a yard where there were parents carrying out such acts on their children. I felt I had a wicked mother and there was nothing I could do about it; it was no one’s problem but my own. When he was at home, my stepfather Longman disliked what my mother did to me. He would shout at her when she started, but as soon as he went out she bullied me, saying that I am trying to get her husband on my side.

 

The rent was now in arrears, the landlord had taken out notice against them. My mother’s behaviour was at the extreme. This was the worst punishment I have ever had: I was not allowed to have friends to come by and play. I was told I should meet and greet outside and never bring them home, and sometimes after school, Candy and I would play skipping or dandy-shandy (dodge a ball that is thrown at you). I started to have other friends - even boys - who would walk the four mile journey with me to my gate. When they came she was pleasant and she invited them in, but that was as far as they went, as long as she was in control. It had now reached the stage where I was afraid to come home. I hated going home; it was hell. So this time Candy and I decided to do some sightseeing, which would have made me late. I was timing how long the journey home should take for me, because my mother actually walked the journey herself and timed it. Candy and I explored some places that we had heard about in the news, where criminals lived and there was a shootout which was being investigated – we were just children being curious. We wanted to explore what this life was about, was it for real? I also stopped by her house and her grandmother made us dinner. I should have reached home about 4:30pm - I got home around 5:45pm. Unfortunately for me, she was home early from work that day when I got in. I wanted to run away but I thought, ‘what’s the worst that could happen? She will beat me again and it is all over’. I went home to meet her sitting on the steps, waiting for me. I knew she was angry. I said,

 

“Good evening, mum.”

 

“Where are you coming from?” she asked.

 

“School,” I said.

 

“What time is this? You are coming in from school? I bet that you were with those bad friends. You are a disgusting child and you are going to tell me, where you have been?”

 

I didn’t answer and walked past her into the house. As I went in, so did she. She picked up the wooden clothes brush which was heavy and solid. I saw her waiting for me. I knew she was going to use it. I tried to run outside but she caught me before I could get out. She repeatedly hit me on my head with all her anger and force and I could feel this warmth running down the back of my neck. I missed a step, my leg folded under my body and I fell down the steps. I could feel warm drops dripping on my neck. I crawled on my hands and knees in the dirt, crying, I was so fed up. I sat and leaned my back and head against the wall by the outside bathroom. I could see the blood oozing out like a heartbeat in the shadow on the wall. I started to feel lightheaded and I could see how the blood was gushing on the wall like a pulsation. I screamed with fear. I collapsed on the ground from frustration, anger, and fright. I had decided at this point that if I could have just died then, I would be better off. She too was shocked; she had gone too far. If I was taken to a hospital she would have to explain, and the consequences would not be pleasant for her, so she quickly ran in and put a compress on my head. My heart was beating so fast. She gave me some sweet drink. The cut was quite deep. She kept this secret and she couldn’t even tell her husband about what had happened. I went to bed that night in so much pain. My head and body were aching and the graze from the fall in the dirt was burning. The next morning, I was told my mother was admitted to the hospital during the night. I wasn’t told the reason, but I assumed her blood pressure had gone up. Years later, during a conversation with my mother at the age of 25, she stated the reason she went into hospital was due to a miscarriage as a result of the incident. She said, “You know why you did it. You wanted to be the only child.”

 

What the hell was she talking about? I didn’t know she was pregnant. The only conversation we had was that she asked me in the presence of Mrs A whether I would like a brother or sister and I said to her no. She didn’t tell me that she was carrying a child, this was insane; she was putting the blame on me. I was innocent. I told my father about this conversation as I was speechless to know someone could fabricate such a lie and have the nerve to confront me with it. I cannot explain how angry I was. He said, “You need to really investigate her allegation, as she exaggerates to the heavens, for in order for your mother to conceive you she had to undergo several treatments for years. She might have made this up because Longman was desperate for a child and she was unable to produce.”

 

I also found out from her husband that she told him the same story. I had no idea, but if he had a grudge against me he kept it well. Longman never showed any resentment; he was always caring, even during his drunken states. She also told the same story to my eldest daughter, Rachel. One morning while she was having breakfast, she asked her dad, “Is it true that Mummy killed Grandma’s child?”

 

GA was shocked to know my mother had told the child this story. He knew it was unfair to lay this on a child. I confronted her about it in 2009, but she denied ever saying such. I said, “Rachel asked her dad a very disturbing question and I want to clarify this with you, as this is not the first time you said or I have heard you say that I killed your unborn child.” She replied, “I don’t know what you are talking about.” Completely oblivious.

 

“I want to know why you insist on this ridiculous story when you know it is not true.” Then she said, “Maybe the child might have misconstrued something she heard me talking about with a friend!”

 

I said, “So you were talking about it!”

 

“No! Ahh! Yes! Ah, no.”

 

“Don’t go around telling fibs on me; don’t use me to cover up your misfortune. How wicked are you?”

 

The situation financially had escalated. We were about to be evicted, Longman lost his job, her aggression festered. Regardless of the incident we had, that did not deter her from continuously hitting me. When I heard her footsteps, fear was upon me. If I was in a place that was peaceful, as soon as she made her presence known it ruined everything. I hated her and I started to retaliate because I couldn’t understand what I was punished for most of the time. When she called me, I answered extremely loudly because I was angry. She would be sitting beside a cup and call me all the way across the yard to pick it up and give it to her, just to be spiteful and annoying as I might not be busy enough at the time. I just wanted some free time as a child to play, even though I had no friends. She called me one day and I answered really loudly with a strop. This made her really mad. When I went to her, she gave me an almighty punch in the face. My left eye swelled so much I could barely see through it. I had to go to school with this the next day. I tried to hide it by avoiding my classmates, but my teacher Sir Johnson noticed, and he asked me,

 

“What happened here?”

 

I told him a wasp had stung me. I am not sure if he believed me. The abuse continued; it was like a hobby for her and she used all her strength to hit me or kick me as she pleased. The fear was intense, I was still wetting the bed and really clumsy. We had Christmas dinner one year, and she took out her special plates she brought from the UK. After the meal, it was always my chore to wash the dishes. She warned that if I ever dropped those plates she would beat the hell out of me. I carefully packed them to take to the kitchen. On my way I missed my step up and all the plates - it was like slow motion - were disappearing out of my hands to the floor. My heart skipped a beat, from the fear of having broken the plates. She heard them from the room and flew around. She said,

 

“Jesus have mercy, this stupid child - after I told her, she broke my expensive plates.”

 

She lifted her hand and punched me on the head. The same step I missed to break the plates, my head ended up hitting. I always remember darkness when this occurred; I think it is because I closed my eyes. I could hear in my head when she hit me, a loud bang and crunch. It was so loud that sometimes my ears would be ringing for a while, as if I heard loud music. Sometimes the area where she inflicted the lashing, for instance my arm, would be a struggle to lift for days. When I mentioned it, she said, “It is because you are too out of order.”

 

There were occasions where after a slap on the face, my lip would get caught. It would bleed and become swollen and there was no one to help or seek help on my behalf. They all looked away.

 

With Longman out of a job and the eviction notice served, where were we going to live? My mother must have been discussing the situation with Mrs Archie. She suggested for us to reside on the Promised Land; after all, it was rent-free. It didn’t take much convincing, we were on our way. She was entitled to a room; we had gone back to square one even after the supposed new life. I did not have a room of my own. What was really good about this move was I had the opportunity to live with my best friend Mrs A again. I insisted that I would not stay in my parents’ room, but with her; she accepted. She was only a pensioner, but she was beyond generous. Mrs A was riddled with severe arthritis which prevented her from walking unless assisted by a walking stick. She had no immediate family and was a widow from a very young age. She was the Good Samaritan for all the children in the area. Those without food would be welcome; the parents also came to her when they had financial crises. I am not sure of the arrangement, but my mother had decided to give up work. I was happier; I had someone I could talk with, someone who showed me motherly love, who took an interest in my education and what I wanted to do in the future. This was the Promised Land. Where the church is situated is called the Mount Zion Revival Church. It was at this point I really started to understand what my mother’s society was all about. The same practises my father mentioned that occurred in the UK continued here.

 

I was by now at an age where I was very observant, and the most brilliant thing was that I could ask Mrs Archie any question, and she was so thorough in her answers. She was the senior member in charge of the church, which explains how advanced she was in this society.