Vikings

Death is something that follows us. Like a shadow, only more active. It's in everything we eat, everything we see, sometimes it's in us, and I know it's a bit morbid. So I know by now you can tell I'm not Manamana.

I grew up in a tiny Norwegian village, raised by a serious father with a strong will and as soon as I could comprehend it, he made me understand, death was a part of nature's course. That we will all die one day. And as soon as I noticed families usually have mothers and fathers, I was told. She died giving birth to me.

I've always seen it as a burden, a reverse legacy handed to me before I could realize the weight of it. A life for a life. It wasn't supposed to be like that, if it were I would have said no thank you, because the pressure to live and live well and truly and fully felt like too much. Still does.

For someone who taught that death was a part of life that we needed to accept, my father was probably the most unaccepting of mum's death. He always gave me this look like he can't believe God chose to keep me in this world and her out. Every time, I made a small mistake, he would throw it back at my face.

"After the big sacrifice your mother made, that we all made, this is how you repay it?"

I was held to a higher standard, one my older sister wasn't, even though she was the first born. It would never matter more than being the last child, the one who killed mama.

 I remember my first boyfriend, he had a reputation of being a bad boy, I remember picking him because my father would disapprove and I wanted to stop being the 'good girl he wanted me to be.'

When he found out he told me to stop, gave me the old 'Your mother gave up too much' speech that I almost had memorised but my anger was bigger than my guilt this time. Plus I had started having conversations with my mother in my head. Well, my imagination of her, I started asking her questions about my life and in my imagination she warned me of the boy, told me not to invest my heart into it.

That was the first time I didn't 'honour my mama with my life', and when we broke up, as we were bound to, I felt guilty, cheated that I didn't save defying my father for something greater. I went back to doing everything my father asked, I was down to go for medical school and become a vet. Even though to this day I can't spell it all (the profession).

 I suppose at some point, I started feeling, depressed, I was never going to be good enough. My father would never stop looking at me like I stole something precious from him. He'll never look at me like I had finally justified my life and her death. I suppose somewhere along the line of realizing these things I got a little depressed. I was what they call a functional depressive. I would do everything expected of me during the day, and at night I would fight for sleep. And when I slept I fought with nightmares.

 I didn't know it then but I was an insomniac. Friends told me it's because I didn't tire myself out enough, so I started doing press-ups, crunches and jumping jacks every evening. I was told it's my diet.

So I ate earlier and healthier, I listened to whale noises and the sound of rain fall and watched pulsing lights, all of it. All my friends' suggestions until they gave up on me. I also suppose at some point I felt like I wasn't enough, like I was useless because I could never live up to what my mother would have done if she was alive. I slowly grew to resent her. Well, more like her memory. One day I woke up and realized my entire life was just made up of other people's wants and orders. That I've never not once chosen one thing for myself.

When the chance came, I travelled the world, well more like three countries then Kenya. I realize along the way that I didn't know who I was. How could I? To me, who you are comes from a combination of where you came from, what you've experienced and the choices you make. I didn't know a whole half of where I came from, noone talked about mum on any other way than to tell me she was great and I should be ashamed of myself for living.

I met a guy,(there's always a guy) and boom, I got pregnant. First I had a child out of wedlock, which my father would be furious about, then, it was evidence of cross-culture. My father was racist. There was no way I could keep the baby, I thought at the time. Not in a million years. I don't know how to be a mother, I've only seen it in action from a distance, watching other families. Plus I didn't think the guy would stick around.

For  a long time all I did was cry, eat and watch musicals like Mamma Mia, dreading my flight back home. Because eventually, everyone would know. There is no possible way one can hide a child successfully, believe me, I've googled it.

Even worse, what if it was a girl? I find girls are harder to raise than boys. Because I'm a girl, I suppose, I think the grass is greener on the other side. How was I supposed to raise another human when I wasn't sure who I was? When I went home, I ripped off the band aid and my father, well, he went into shock for a while. And after it wore off, he did something he's never done before. He hugged me. And just held me for the longest time. He told me he loved me. And all I could think about was; which alien took over his skin and why.

A few months later, I had a miscarriage. It's a dark part of my life I'm not ready to talk about. And today, well I suppose you'll get this after mother's Day. This mother's Day, I honour everyone who's lost their mothers and everyone who was almost a mother. And everyone who's trying to be a good mother.

Death is everywhere, and sometimes death robs us of people and experiences. And that will never be fair, but we hold on. We hold on because we don't know what's around the next bend. And we hold on because we're trying to be strong. Some days we're stronger than others.


Okay, so I met Natalia a couple of months ago. She was laughing, I was having a really bad day and she told me this Norwegian saying; It’s never so bad that it’s not good for something. Yeah, so after correcting my misguided notions about Vikings, I heard her story. Then heard she was a closet writer so I had her write this. If I'm not wrong, this is her first piece of work that shall be seen by more than two people.
And may I just say, she should write more.