A black man does not cry

I tripped my foot thumb on a stone and fell. I reached my arms out to a crawl, but rolled in pain. I started wailing and calling out momma. They laughed at me, saying I whimpered like a little girl who had forgotten her doll while looking for firewood or fetching water.

My aunt came around with a lash , it was more of a rod from the harvested stem of pigeon pea plant. A Scorpio like sting injected through by buttocks ,penetrating the chapati like patches on my shorts. My pain was deflected from my injured thumb to my buttocks.

“Stand up, wipe the sand and walk along , a Black man does not cry”

That was my initiation to the Black man kingdom.

I talked to various friends and many of them have had an almost similar experience. The story of a different cast, different circumstances. The only overlying innuendo “Man Up”

That first time was the prequel to what would become a rocky road of the insecurity of a Black man tears from then on out. That first time.

In my adulthood my heart breaks every time, I see a young boy rolling on the supermarket, for a toy or a lollipop. Then I see his mother, lifting her finger to her lips calling for their silence. I see her sauntering over him , holding them up by their two hands and then I hear the words “Boys don’t cry”. I fear for the child’s teenagehood. I feel for the moment they will experience their first triumph on the five aside football game, on a two by two race, their first trip , their first head ache from too much screen time. Will they laught until tears fall down, will they sob and cry their heart out, or will they man up and hold back? . I talked to various men on holding back and to women on dealing with the stress with special concern and sudden realization that we are all human.

Sometime back I was in a mall, in Brasilia, Brazil. I had just had an expensive shave in one of the barber shops, it was ten times more what it cost me in my country. I was seated outside the shop counting my losses when a woman came with a boy who was like five years old. The boy was so handsome, playful, and innocent, so sweet with curly hair. He wore a shirt with Mickey mouse emblazoned right across , khaki pants with numerous cargo pants , they reminded me of my primary school days. The attire was completed by open shoes and white socks. He was running amok and came where I was seated and reached out as if to greet me, but went on to touch me. In his innocence he wanted to feel the touch of my skin. I wanted to tell him to pinch me and confirm I am real. The mother gave me a sly smile and let the kid explore. I admired the kid, I could steal him. I wanted a baby there and there, I felt a tinge of parental sensation in my heart. I needed a son who could admire strangers unlabeled. You cannot describe that feeling. It was so biological, so natural, even my man up philosophical beliefs were compromised. There is something about childhood.

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The story of Cess*- With my mom gone my dad lost a piece of him

I watched my dad sob uncontrollably during my mum’s burial. He had picked up a spade from one of my cousins and was moving the black cotton soils in heaps to cover the vault. His teeth were firmly grating on his lower lip. Then he gave away , long bitter sobs , shaking uncontrollably. I was leaning next to my elder sister ,who was resting on her husband’s shoulder. My other two young sisters were holding my arms astride. My two brothers had gone to the inner room after throwing tufts of soil and laying the wreath. It never occurred to me that dad was a crier. All I remember is myself walking to him and patting his shoulder. He seemed to be moved by my presence but appeared distant. His mind had travelled into horizon, his spirit had fluttered away like a dove from a cage. “Go on”. He mumbled, I left him them. He then sank to his knees next to the grave. It was not a sight to behold but rather unforgettable.

It has now been several years down the line. My dad still seems distant and has turned to alcohol. I miss the man who loved and cared for his family no matter what. If I have to love ay man in this world then he must be like my father. Honest , loving, caring, faithful. I hope he expressed his love day by day and he can allow me to heal him during his down moments. I pray that my partner will be open enough to express himself, not wait until the moment of mourning.

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The story of Joe*-My beloved left me

I found my son at the lower ground floor apartment crying out loud and calling out mom. I went to my house, my voice echoed all through only reverberating back, reflected by the emerald curtains, which appeared like they had been shredded by an eagle’s talons. I checked my bank account through the app and the account balance stared back at me with three round eyes. I went to the salon I had put up for her and found a vacant notice outside the door. She had sold everything and booked the next one-way trip to Dubai. Dubai was the city she dreamed off, it was to be our dream honeymoon destination, our son came before the trip and our fallout before we saved enough for the three of us.

That night tears were born into my musky heart, like a river they raged through ranges of the brows of my eyes just outside my nose arch. They moved quickly, forming two streams one on each side of the mountainside of my cheeks. The bounced off my chin, slipped down the two peaks of my collarbone and hid in my vest beneath my shirt; it drenched me up and through, unconcerned with the munchy, ashy, white brine it left behind, until it reached my navel. There, it disappeared, merging with the searing fire of despondency which descended and gripped my throat before sinking into the pits of my stomach.

I had met her after four months of flirting on social media, and we moved in two months later. I was drawn to her like birds to a planter’s seeds during the rainy season. It was all smooth, I was lucky after months of falling for ladies who were only impressed by my booming cosmetics business and zooming Subaru, here was someone who liked me genuinely. She really took her bidding, turning down my out-of-town treats. In my sojourn to meet her poppa and momma and negotiate the dowry they said I was lucky. As for her meeting my queen, my single mother she seemed drawn to her down to earth personality.

It started after she was through with exclusive breastfeeding. A request for a salon business I took up the mantle. She got bored and moved to wines and spirits business.

Then one day I went for a weekend away on a business trip. I came home day early, on arriving, I heard her groaning. She had not gone for work for several days. I peeped in through the half open door, as I removed my shoes, she had fallen on the floor, she was lying prostrate on the floor, vomit on her head, spread out like a cow hide, pulled apart with wooden pegs drying in the sun.

She felt guilty, she was embarrassed. Yet like, all alcoholics, she knew she would be happier if she quit, but that was not the point. Her decision to keep drinking was to choose that intense love, for the bottle-toxic, twisted, and lonely as it is-over the banality of mere happiness with me, her husband.

In our rushed premarital counselling, we had been taught the importance of love and compassion. I had sworn to empathize with the suffering and misfortune of my spouse, I needed to feel what she was going through. I have never touched alcohol in my life, how was I expected to feel? I was taught a man is to provide, material needs not his ears. A man was to be submitted to, not to offer a shoulder to lean on, that was simps, weaklings. I wished I walked my path.

I pray for her every day; I step in for my son. Most importantly as a man, I want to support any woman I will date in her struggle for freedom, equality, and acceptance. I want to learn to feel her emotions, to see her point of view and most important to stop the crimes of violence against her. I want a wife who will complement my son.

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*These are real life stories, identities changed to protect interviewees

Continued here…https://sammutisya.medium.com/a-black-man-does-not-cry-43fd873ab359

Originally published at http://cafemaarifa.wordpress.com on December 11, 2020.