The Day Mama Said Shi*

I don’t know 'bout ya mama but ma mama don’t say stuff like that.

I could tell you the number of times I’d be flipping in my duvet and for a second of consciousness hear enough to make out mama’s voice binding devils in the dead of night. She would bind them, roast them, dice them and send them back like the little wimps they were. I’m sure those imps scampered right back into the abyss the moment she opened her mouth to pray. This powerful woman could do no wrong in my eyes. That explains why every affront against her was rightfully returned with compounded violence.

Even so, being raised by this gracious angel of mine had its compromises. There was little room to be as insolent as some of my friends were. In fact, the height of my disobedience was listening to Kiss FM countdown on the weekends and boy did I feel I was I living dangerously. She had warned us that secular music was a violation worthy of a rear visitation from ‘the belt’. Still, the allure of Ja Rule and Ashanti turned me into a covert spy, say James Bond, sneaking into the secret lab (parent’s room) to access the weapon of mass contagion (radio) which contained classified, mind-altering technology (music) which I often downloaded onto a secure drive (tape). Those were the days when music was worth an ass-whopping. Funny, now all music talks about is ass-shaking.

She still did her best to keep us on that straight and narrow. She hauled us to Sunday school, put us in Christian schools, the whole 9 yards. I now remember being mad at God that I didn’t get chosen as part of the CU committee at my high school – all my siblings were. Maybe it was the T-Pain song I stealthily nodded my head to during entertainment night that disqualified me from a high seat at the temple. It surely couldn’t have been the girls. As a matter of fact, what girls? My classmates called me King Breeze reasons I will not elaborate. I am yet to heal.

It is in this brilliant light of invincibility that my lady dropped a bomb on us.

It happened years ago on a Saturday when our dogs followed my father into the house, painting a gorgeous paw mural on the pearly kitchen tiles. When mum checked in, I knew there was bound to be trouble. First of all, the dirty breakfast dishes were still untouched at 3pm. Strike one. Next, she noticed the fresh, mud artwork gracing her floor. My lady was not happy at all. Strike two. The final whistle came when she popped into the living room and saw three wet mutts playfully hovering around her husband like flies at a busy latrine. Stamping on the floor she belted out a four letter word that she’s never said again to this day.

Did we all freeze to alert her on the unspeakable she just let slip? Did we let it slide like when someone you respect farts and you pretend like the sewage line must have burst? I can’t seem to remember that part very well. The heft of my angel’s utterance was too big a file to save anything else from that day. That was the day mama said shi*.