I woke up, feeling too apathetic about the supposed big day which occurs once in a man’s life. My eyes got accustomed to the bright rays which escaped from my room window. Scrutinizing the room I grew up in, my gaze fell on the supper dapper suit hung on the wall, waiting to grace my warmth. Chuddy and Mom had specifically chosen that particular outfit for the day’s event. They felt it soothed my smallish but elegant stature. As enthusiastic as they all were about the wedding, I felt blasé and unimpressed, and only longed for the event to come to an end already. I was going to marry my best friend. A girl I had met my first days in the university, we soon got along and out of strict demands from Baba, my father, I proposed. Now, two years later, after I had popped the big question, and she said yes, I am to walk down that infamous isle, an unhappy man. I’ll tell you about my resistance. Sharon is a sweetheart every regular man would love to walk down the aisle. But I consider myself different, sick, strange and unworthy. And the worst of all, a coward. Maybe because seeing her happy brings me at peace, or maybe because I’m tired of being called worthless by Baba, I have dragged this matrimonial preparation up till this extent. Since I was a child, I had never done anything out of my own decision. I was always following Baba’s guidance, strict rules, and choices. I never had one of my own. I never even refuted decisions I disliked, I never argued with him, and yet, I was still the less loved son of five. I did everything right, I even imitated my brothers to my best try, or so I thought, but I still turned out to be very dysfunctional, In everything and most especially, my sexual preferences. It all started probably when mom took in.
“It’s a girl” the doctor had announced after checking the ultra sound.
“God be praised” Baba said. Mom just broke down in tears.
Mom was exceptionally happy. In fact, anybody who has three sons already would definitely hope for a girl next. But to her surprise and maybe my horror, I had turned out to be a boy; again. She had already bought female outfit, earrings, gowns, ribbons and hair bounds, but I was a boy. So she might have been disappointed or content, but she still treated me like that little girl I stole the pleasure of her having. The only difference was that I had male clothing. I felt good about myself, my life, I felt good wearing moms high heeled shoes and mimicking her catwalk. My brothers laughed about it, dad just buried his face under a newspaper, and mom jokingly scolded me to drop her shoes, for I may “break her heels and hurt my legs”. While growing, I had this bad habit of biting my finger nails. Mom always warned against eating germs but my nails had this unique flavor, which made all her warnings fall on deaf ears. To abstain from biting my nails further, she resorted to throwing a shenanigan. She would apply cortex on my nails, warning that they were made out of a lizards poop, and if I bit my nails, I would be biting off the cortex which was “supposedly” made out of a lizards poop. I was only 6 at that time.
To Be Continued, Stay Tuned.
@bomtom1 @Omar @MarcDeMesel @saddit42 @Leo_kitti @Gwenie @gertu13 please what do ya'll think about it
Now I'm wondering if this is based on real life events