Dear God,
When Buzz came home last night he started yelling at TBM and I
could hear her crying, so I went downstairs to look even though I
was supposed to be in bed. (I’m sorry.) She told him to keep quiet or
he would wake me, but then he picked up the TV and smashed it on
the floor and punched a hole in the wall and his hand was bleeding
and TBM started crying and she looked up and saw me and I ran
back to my room while Buzz screamed get the f*** out of here you
nosy c***. (What is a c***?)
I was ten when I wrote that entry. I was smart enough to use the code
names and make note of new vocabulary words but not smart enough to see
that anyone who could read could easily crack my code. I hid the journal
under my mattress, but because my mother is a person who thinks to clean
underneath a mattress, I’m sure she must have found it at some point. If she
did, she never mentioned it. After the broken-television incident, my mother
had run up to my bedroom and locked the door while Nana raved downstairs.
She grabbed me close and pulled the both of us down onto our knees behind
the bed while she prayed in Twi.
Awurade, bɔ me ba barima ho ban. Awurade, bɔ me ba barima ho ban.
Lord, protect my son. Lord, protect my son.
“You should pray,” my mother said then, reaching for the koko. I
watched her eat two spoonfuls before setting it back down on the nightstand.
“Is it okay?” I asked.
She shrugged, turned her back to me once more.
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