a gift from the heavens

raka

I was always told to keep myself guarded. To see my being as a notion of secrecy, not to keep myself protected, but to give others the luxury of curiosity; except that's what my Father had told me.

"It's only filled with heartache out there, kid. You gotta keep your heart to yourself. Ain't no tellin' what'll happen when they make their merry way into your life." It was always with a cigarette in his hand, and I always thought the smoke would trigger these thoughts.

It's all we ever talked about, me and my Father. How respect had to be earned. And How the only way to make it in this world was to never, ever allow anyone to let themselves into your heart.

I guess over the years and the heartache of losing Ma at the age of six, something inside me told me to just believe in everything he said. Partially being due to the harsh reality of my remaining parent being a broken man who was left an only daughter to raise. And partially because he had no idea how to, so believing everything he told me allowed me to make his job easier.

Somehow, I felt myself moulding myself into the person he taught me to be. Guarded. Always keep your heart anywhere but on that sleeve.

Don't let them in. Ever.

And if I ever did, he grew bitter. Sometimes violent. Cold stares, slammed doors, broken dishes which he swore he dropped whilst reminiscing a moment he'd had with Ma. He hated when I brought home a friend and laughed my heart out. The deliberate noise he would make to make sure those friends left our home feeling very uncomfortable. He said that when I laughed around them, they would soon get the wrong idea. That I craved their company, and I couldn't let them in.

So soon enough, I stopped making friends. I just wanted to see him happy. It hurt me to see him upset. Just like how Ma's death made him upset. I couldn't do that to him, I couldn't be the one to cause grief to the only person who loved me.

So my life consisted of him only from the age of six. I knew of no one whom I loved other than my Father. I had friends, but I cut ties before I got too close. Soon enough, it became a routine. I didn't think about why I was doing it anymore. It became a second nature. I was always the one to look out for. And I stopped asking why.

That's why it had bothered me that day, when a stranger I had known for one mere hour had somehow seen right through me. Raka Asem, the boy at work. The only person in my fourteen years without a mother who had seen straight through my front, the first person to say it.

"You're craving what you think you're better off without," he told me.

And that is how I swore to prove him wrong.