Mariam

I was 5 when Mariam, my childhood nanny died.

Mama said she fell down the stairs holding me. I was lucky to have only sustained a deep gash on my forehead, Mariam on the other hand, had been unlucky.

She had hit her head squarely on the hard floor tiles and had died instantly.

That was 9 years ago.

I am the same age as Mariam was when. she died. 14.

Sometimes I stumble half blindly down the stairs and pretend I’m Mariam on her last few minutes on earth. Sometimes I pretend so good I physically hurt a body part.

Other times, I stand at the bottom of the stairs and peer and peer and peer for specks of blood on the marble floor.

Blood I know would be impossible to find since papa had changed the tiles a long while ago.

Papa.

He hates talking about Mariam. His face turns into a dour dark expression each time he hears her name.

Papa knows I like to ask bout her.

He doesn’t know I like to ask about her for a reason.

I know what happened the day Mariam died.

I also know what happened the subsequent weeks before she died.

When you are 3 or 4 or 5, the world think it is inconceivable for you to grasp and understand certain things. And that is mostly true, But when you see something that screams wrong, even when you don’t fully understand it, there’s a part of you that shelves it away for later. A part of you unconsciously saves it for the future.

Like how I remember being 4 and walking into Mariam’s room to find her bent over her bed, my father behind, thrusting furiously inside her. In my little mind, It had screamed wrong.

Or the other days when mama would leave for work and papa would sneak back home lock me outside the sitting room but I would hear noises. Loud noises that to my tiny ears, screamed wrong.

The day Mariam died, she had been arguing with my father. Loudly. I had never heard her raise her voice at him until then.

She had worn a defiant expression that remained unchanged even as tears rolled down her face, a contrast to my father’s scared expression. The arguments had disturbed me so much I had burst into tears. Mariam had picked me up then and tried to calm me down.

I remember how she kept muttering something along. the lines of

“Tell Aunty” “Tell Aunty”.

She was carrying me down the stairs, wiping her tears and mine when I saw papa advance towards her. I saw him before she felt him.

Sometimes I wish there was a way my 4 year old self could have articulated things to her sooner. Wish I could have done more.

Mariam died at the bottom of the stairs. that day. And I died with her.

When Papa pushed her down the stairs, he pushed me too.

When she fell, I fell.

When she died; I died.

He killed me; Just like he killed her.

When I ask Papa about Mariam it is because I love to see the fearful dance that cloud his expressions expression so a wild fearful dance. I love to see the little beads of sweat start gather on his forehead. I love to see his hands grow a little shaky and his breathing a little labored.

Most times he ignores me completely .

On days when he answers me, and I look at him squarely in his eyes, I swear I can see a pleading note on his face.

Almost like he knows that I know what I know.