"…I consider your scars affectionately.

They surrender everything in a moment.

Each unspoken word,

Stabs my skin

Burning a path to my soul.

You cut through my vision

….forever out of reach."

-My beleaguered thoughts in 2012.

(A personal thread)

1/14

I’m sitting behind my Mum, in a musical enrichment session at the mental health ward.

The attendees are scant but enough to make a dent in the din.

It was my idea.

Mum hasn’t spoken after the removal of her tracheostomy.

The scar remains but for her, it’s still real.

2/

Maybe some mismatched furore will annoy her so much, she may utter something.
Even if it’s just one word. I’ll settle for a furrowed brow.

I pick a tambourine for her and place it in her hand.
She holds it like a statue. Mid-air in front of her, looking past it. No, through it.

The emptiness ensues from every pore of her being but reaches me faultless.

“Ruby! Like this shake, shake, shake!”

I’m 8 years old. It’s my birthday. My mum in her youth loved to host guests.

We’re in Nairobi, and she’s invited the whole neighbourhood.

4/

There are at least 60 people milling around in the courtyard.

It’s bodacious.

Fireworks explode every so often, amidst children’s laughter, clanging, and clattering, all malleating into the late evening.

It’s time to cut the cake! It’s the shape of a house.

5/

I’ve never had a doll's house.

The mothers gather around me and commence a circular dance with many shimmying their tambourines.

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!”

I’m wide-eyed and credibly introvertive.

My heart brimming with a rising souffle of emotion.

6/

Goodness, all this attention.

I don’t know what to do. I cry just out of the sheer din.

“Mum?”

I try to be heard but she is nowhere in sight.

Rising doubt, but like only a child knows how…

I know she will hear me.

She has to return.

7/

Come on Mum, shake it.
I know it reminds you of my birthday.

I internalise, coaxing myself to believe an instrument can fix this.

My memory recalls my Viola fondly.
Playing an instrument is like creating a conversation.

A rivulet of questions and answers in tandem.

8/

The mind escapes embracing the briefest of rencontres, as the fingers caress strings to tease tunes of golden sounds.

The beauty is you create your own interpretations.

Your imagination can fill that void.

Enliven a deep recluse memory.

I last played the viola at 18.

9/

I miss the strings.
For me, it was a world of acceptance. An ease.

The shiny dinky jingles,

the tambourine’s circularity,

the intuitive shimmying,

the din,

does nothing to evoke a response.

10/

“Ok everyone, thank you for coming!"

The session coordinator trying to enthuse with maximal eye contact.

It’s beyond admirable.
She thanks everyone individually as we leave.

“It’s ok Ruby. Give it time. She’s in there.

She hears her child.

Every mother does.”

11/

My mum slowly shuffles back to her room with a comfortable familiarity.
I follow behind.

I’ll remind her of that day.

I’ll remind her of the party.

I’ll remind her how much she did for me.

I’ll remind her though the pictures.

I’ll remind her when she heard me.

12/

How she wiped my tears away and sang with me.

I’ll do anything, because..

..I consider your scars affectionately.
They surrender everything in a moment.
Each unspoken word
Stabs my skin
Burning a path to my soul.
You cut through my vision
But you are NEVER out of reach.

13/

In honour of my Mum and everyone who’s been through, or going through this journey.

Know that I am here.

Know that someone is always ready to hear you.



#MentalHealthMatters
#MedTwitter
#COVID19
#coldplay
#Pharmacists
#writersoftwitter

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