You forcefully open the double doors to your room to see your reflection in the large spotless mirror staring at you, as you try to avoid the Master. Your image kills the mustard seed of hope you have been trying to nurture – your eyes exhausted from too many tears. Your lips are chapped, and the glory of your skin is in the past - your beautiful skin as your mother would remark. You wonder if it’s because of its fairness or the hairless sight of it, or the chubby feeling when touched. And then you reckon the eyes of your mother are not yours. Your beauty lies in your freedom, you think to yourself. You affirm that you don’t belong here, not in this castle with grey walls, lofty ceilings, and heavy brown curtains. Not viewing ancient paintings of wars. Not on a bed for a crowd and certainly not wearing these expensive clothes too pure to smear. You recall the first day of your arrival at your new home. You were greeted by a servant who avoided your eyes as he bowed his head and sai...
He was seven years old, in basic 2 when his mother dragged him across his primary school hall because he attained the third position in his class out of 30 pupils. On their way home, she yelled, hit, blamed and threatened that if he dared to come third again, there would be no more privileges like tv, games, sports, swimming lessons, etc. When they got home, she summoned his private tutor, passing the leftover anger and frustration on the man who had been tutoring her son for the past six months. “If you think that calling you three times a week to teach my son is a joke, you are the joker here. I pay you better than any of your clients, yet my son still comes as the third-best pupil in his class. Is it that those who came first and second were created specially or, do they have seven brains in one head? You better fix this in the coming term because there is nothing meant for my son than to be the winner. No place for third or second place in this house!” “Why do you always want ...