Broken Glass

Nineteen-year-old Chaka searches desperately for herself in every identity but her own, while the mirror on her wall watches with ancient eyes. When she shatters it in rage, both learn the same truth

I change whenever broken, shattered into pieces as the secrets of life fall away with my broken glass. But as I looked dead into her eyes, her very being staring back at me with hate and anger, aggression rising from her core, I knew no one could tell her the truth except herself.

I'm not the Bible. I'm not that website you click on to know more about yourself. I see beyond the four walls of your room. I am more than the piece of glass hanging on the wall. I am the holder of secrets.

Or so I thought.

Her parents named her Chaka. I was among other objects in the room as her parents lovingly rocked her between them, her mother humming melodies, her father's wide smile radiating joy. They looked as if they knew her, knew who she was, who she was going to be.

I have observed humans for decades. Always in a hurry to define others, to pin them on a board and list out their strengths and weaknesses, their flaws and their commendable parts. But when they stand before me, I don't see John, the man whom all admired�"that office professional who walked with every ounce of confidence oozing from him. His strides long and steady. His voice calm but firm. A smile always plastered on his face. One that people looked up to, wanted to be defined by, or wanted to be defined as.

But in front of me, this mere glass, he's a six-year-old child wanting to please everyone. Beaten and battered by the tale of his mother's knock on a stranger's door as she left him cuddled in a warm blanket on a harmattan night�"it left scars so deep that only I could see them. His self-esteem became the property of each foster home he passed through, forever bending, forever shrinking, desperate to be accepted.

But Mary never wanted to be accepted. The way she swayed her hips in that new gown that snatched her waist and accentuated her breasts, revealing her figure�"it proved she was done with the business of acceptance. Heavy makeup that never seemed to properly cover the scars inflicted by a father who realized soon enough his life was going straight to hell on a scholarship. I could tell her defiant strides were rebellion against her mother's spear-like words that cut through her very essence, tearing to pieces every ounce of confidence she had left.

The perfect church girl, they called her. Her skirts swept the already-swept church floors as she walked on eggshells to recite from the black book with white pages. The only thing that seemed to give her confidence came from it. Her hair, banned from expressing its beauty, stayed trapped beneath the blue headtie holding it in its forever dungeon. Her voice was tiny; you could sometimes hear a little stutter in the microphone.

But as each day turned darker, the fear of not being accepted died, and what grew in its place was the feeling of superiority�"a vow to never be looked down on or beg to belong. Or so she thought. Each day, I still saw that little girl, trying to live the best life she could possibly live in a world that didn't want her to be herself.

And the universe saw it fit to bring these broken pieces together�"incomplete pieces of artwork�"to birth this little blessing in their hands. Chaka.

I grew fond of her. Her little stature was forever glued to my surface, her eyes looking deep into mine. For the first time, I saw someone who wanted to know more. Beyond the definition of the world, beyond the definition her parents gave her. She wanted to know more about herself.

But as each second passes and the hospital records death, as each day went by, her curiosity found its way to the other side of eternity. It was inevitable. Broken pieces never made a complete piece; the tiny shattered glass swept under the carpet is always neglected when bringing the pieces together. Her parents led her here. But let's share the blame equally.

When her breasts started to push out of her chest�"round, soft, blossoming�"she felt she needed to define herself as Jessica did.

I knew Jessica. I knew her too well. I was the only thing she ran back to when pushed aside because someone who showed more of what God had endowed was passing by. Never the first, second, or third choice when it came to beauty, the need to be like those on whom all eyes were fixed became the very thing she breathed.

I wasn't there when she had her breasts and buttocks augmented, or when her lips were given injections that made them look too heavy for her face to carry. But I was there each passing, horrible day when she would stare at me, touching her inflated lips, missing the tiny, smooth brown beauty that once occupied that space. Or when she touched her breasts, missing the originality that came with their natural feel.

Tears never needed permission to show their clear nature, sliding so graciously over her swollen face. Her nose dripped, overflowing with white, sometimes yellow mucus. But nobody ever knew this side of the story. Because when she came out as the beauty of the campus, all the backstabbing, all the mocking stories of her days of redefining her God-given beauty were hushed. Her real self became her shadow�"hardly seen among people. Faded, dark, forgotten.

And poor little Chaka wanted to be like her. I could see it in the way she turned to her sides and asked me with her eyes if they were big enough. But my truth was always twisted into a lie by the reflection filtered through her own eyes. I do always wonder why the human brain turned truths into comfort instead of the hard metal rock that gave meaning to life.

She bought shoes that made her trip and fall with every step. Gowns that kept her legs in constant communication with themselves, hindering her walk. Makeup that made her dark, shiny, oiled face look white and dry�"like a beauty mask ready to be taken off but whose wearer decided to keep it on and walk under the blistering hot African sun.

She became the shadow of Jessica. Yet she was not satisfied.

"Maybe I should be like Dad," I heard her say in her mind as her eyes dug into me, looking for meaning.

The next day, she was out with Mary, her mother, choosing clothes for boys�"big shirts, baggy jeans, oversized sneakers that looked too big for her feet to carry. Golden and silver chains. In human self-definition, clothing seemed to be the headline.

She walked with long strides like her father, confidence seeping with every step. Her smile so wide and inviting, her aura so loud�"she became "The People's Person." Every party had her invite ready, every club kept her drink on ice. She was the Homie of her school, a title that brought great gain and happiness to its holder.

Yet every night, she would hurriedly remove her alcohol-drenched clothes and yank them hard onto the ground, lay forward on her bed, and cry until she slept.

When the last straw broke the camel's back, she added Mum to the equation.

Her mother suggested she become a church girl, that you only find your true self in God. Though the mouth that spoke those words failed to keep its own heart aligned, it gave Chaka a new sense of meaning.

She didn't dress as uptight as her mother, but rather decently enough to be looked at once and identified as a Christian�"or rather, a bonafide churchgoer. A Bible in her backpack, headtie fixed perfectly on her head (luckily her hair had a little permission to be seen by the world). Covered shoes day in, day out. Every church activity should have had her name written boldly because she never missed one and always participated in one way or another.

Scriptures rolled out of her mouth like tap water, breaking down complex verses into baby food. When she prayed, even I could feel the rumbling of the earth under her voice.

But every time she stood before me to dress, I saw a void�"a dark, empty void growing deeper and bigger every day. Until the day I saw her seated at her reading table, drafting a resignation letter for the church.

Depression became a close companion, keeping her entertained always. Tears flowed, nose dripped, eyes grew sore. Sweaters worn during heat, food became a nuisance. All I could do was barely watch this girl�"born out of hope from broken pieces�"become a broken piece herself.

I watched as she screamed and yelled at imaginary people. As she sobbed while her father patted her on the back. As she squeezed her mother in the name of hugging her. As the blanket covered her from head to toe, with depression at her side like a loving husband.

They named her Chaka�"Warrior�"but all she did until she was nineteen was succumb and submit to everything and everyone.

I was a better opponent to wrestle with, an easier target. She lifted that white high heel and landed it on me. My essence scattered on the ground with a clashing sound. I was used to this�"to being blamed when I never caused harm, to being harmed when all I did was tell the truth while the reflection of her own eyes bent the rays to fit what was in her mind. Blamed for the destruction of self.

But this time, I chose to speak. I didn't keep mute like I did with John, her father. I didn't turn away like I did with Mary, her mother. I stared into those blazed-up eyes and told her the truth, the bitter truth, in a language only I and her heart could understand.

The realization hit her hard. It hit me harder.

I am not the Bible, no. I'm not the holder of secrets either. I'm mere glass that you keep hanging in your room, glass that can see through you and into you. I don't define you based on myself. But I define you based on what has already been defined in God's holy book. Like the Bible, you look into me and see your real self�"but you can only get to the full knowledge of it when you look into the manual for your life.

We both got to know who we were when I became broken glass.

Author's Note

Please do drop your thoughts about the story, I would love to hear how you feel about it