Unplucked.

Terrified. That’s what I was. Scared of my parents, but especially my mother. We never heard my father yell. In fact, it was difficult to hear what he was saying even from across the room. I first learned fear from my mum and I have not quite forgotten it. Every time I heard my mother call out my name, I was terrified. Afraid. Scared. What had I done? What offence had I committed and what punishment awaited me? Was it going to be five strokes of the cane, a hard knock, or a scolding? Sometimes, I did not blame her. I was a very naughty and mischievous child. Once, I climbed to the top of her wardrobe where she hid a bottle of peanuts. Although I considered what my punishment could have been, I still went ahead because my love for peanuts was stronger than my fear of punishment.

“Why are you still sleeping? WAKE UP! You should be in the kitchen learning how to cook so that you can cook for your husband when you get married.” There was nothing I hated more than to cook, or stay in the kitchen, but the tone of her voice terrified me into action. I really did not like the kitchen and my mother knew it. Yet, she used fear to compel me into spending more time in there than I wanted, and what made it worse was that I never really cooked anything! But, somehow, the kitchen was for my sisters and I ONLY. My brother usually slept as long as he wanted, and when he was not sleeping, or out of the house, he sat in the living room and watched television. Not a single word to him about helping in the kitchen. I found that very odd and wondered why that was the case, but that is story for another day.

“Biwom, open this door!!!! If you don't open this door, I will ask the guards to break it down!!!!!” The moment I heard her voice and those threatening words, I froze - transported back in time. I was terrified. Again. Even as an adult. After my mother asked me to leave the house because, I “chose” to be lesbian, my father insisted that I stayed. He asked me to lock the door to my room, and to not open it for anyone until he got back from work. As my mothers words rang in my head, I cried, not because I felt bad that my own mother wanted to kick me out of the house, but because I was terrified of her and what she was capable of. So, I sat in one corner, of my room, hugging my knees, rocking myself back and forth, and almost peeing in my pants.

When she determined that the family was under some type of spiritual attack because I was lesbian, she subjected everyone in our house to “family prayers”, which occurred twice a day; in the morning and evening. After prayers, she asked all of us to drink something that resembled dirty water mixed with palm oil. Everyone else agreed to drink it, but I refused. I insisted that I was uncomfortable with the way it looked, was unsure what its contents were, and where it came from. She must have felt insulted because after commanding me to drink it, she tried to physically hit me. She believed she could terrify me into obedience. I walked out of the room while my father tried to calm her down. Poor man. Sometimes, I wonder if he too was terrified of her, but I digress….

When we were children, my mother used fear to force us into doing things we were not interested in. She still attempts to use the same tactic on us even as adults. I remember contemplating my decision to come out to her as lesbian. The fear of her reaction made my stomach turn. As I came out to her, fear prevented me from looking her in the eyes. It was a terrifying experience. She used all manner of fear to scare me into conformity. She even went as far as claiming she knew hell was my destination if I did not “repent” and “become” heterosexual. She told me that if I did not learn how to cook, I would not find a good husband to marry, and even if I did, it would be a total shame if it turned out that I did not know how to cook. Ultimately, if all, or any, of those things happened, she would appear to a bad mother - and that terrified her too.

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I read somewhere that if you love a flower, do not pluck it. At face value, there is not much meaning to this phrase. But it kept popping up in my head, and each time I pondered on it, the meaning became clearer and clearer. You see, a flower blossoms when it is connected to its source - the plant. It’s where it gets all the nutrients that make it beautiful and attractive. Plucking it means disconnecting it from its source - forcing the flower to struggle to adapt to the unfamiliar. Eventually, after complete disconnection from its source, the it ceases to be beautiful and attractive. Since the flower cannot be reconnected to the plant, it eventually dies, and we throw it away.


It is the same for humans. When we force people to be what, or who, they are not, we disconnect them from their source. Some people are able to reconnect to their source by finding the courage to be who they are. Some people never do. They die with every passing day - the real tragedy of life.


Unfortunately, we have gotten used to the idea that we can scare people into being the way we want them to be. My mother knew that I was terrified of her, so she used that to try to “turn” me into being how she wanted me to be - heterosexual, “plucked” and kept for her admiration and social status. She may never have thought about her actions in this light, but that does not remove from the fact that people are who they are. We cannot force, or scare, them into being anything less or more - people just have to be.

I am Lesbian. Unapologetic. Unpluckable.