Chronology, facts, family tree, education, profession.

OK so I’m rested, fed, watered, emptied and relieved and so I can let you in on some of the childhood memories I have of the fights and taunts one would expect to experience in a house of 8 siblings packed like sardines, growing up in the 90s. Siblings, if you are reading this, just know, that what follows is actually the PG version of events.

Fisticuffs are the most natural expression of human endeavour, second only to affection. You might recall the rough-and-tumble your sibling always initiated. Or reminisce fondly the times you slapped your siblings for no reason other than the fact your hand occupied the same physical space as their left cheek. OK fine, I would even go as far as to accept you shoving your sibling really hard that they fell over backwards and tumbled down a short flight of plush carpeted stairs. All things ‘meh’. But were you ready to claim their life?

“You’re gonna pay for what you did you @#!3$%&. I’m gonna tell mum and dad EVERYTHING!”

Our siblingry (it’s not even a word in the lexicon, but this is my blog and I shall compose as I wish) occurred in pairs. Not twins, but just pairs: (eldest) girl-boy, (middle) girl-boy, (younger) girl-boy, and the last pair were a boy-boy. Some thing occurred in the womb of my mother between the gestation of the middle pair, then again between the middle boy and younger girl, and, finally between the gestation of the younger boy and the first of the boy-boy pair. I hope you can follow that as it is crucial. Mother always said that the youngest 3 siblings (all boys; I was the middle one) were the easiest to raise. She literally would just sit us down with food or a toy and we would remain there content as 3 peas in a pod. Siblings 3, 4 and 5 were the devil incarnate, apparently. No seriously, Mum said they were able to scale polished walls with their bare palms and soles, and they were able to hang off of the pigtails of the girls and swing, just for fun. So imagine what must have transpired one evening that aroused the suspicions of every single family member in our flat to come running to investigate. Muffled voice of an enraged female rising to the high shrill notes of a banshee. Equally, the deep reverberating one-word barks of a seething male rising to the boom-boom notes of a thunderclap. The cacophony continued with added melody from cups smashing, doors slamming and the unmistakable connect of flesh on flesh. Bone-crunching, some might have said. Then came the curses. It is beyond my sensibility to reveal the translation; the internet ain’t ready for it. I remember thundering down the corridor and taking a sharp left in order to bound into the kitchen which was to the left, but I slipped on the clear-coloured lino covering the carpet (don’t ask) and went crash-sliding into another sibling who came flying out of Mum’s room, which shared the hallway that the kitchen lead off from. Organs replaced in their original cavities, composure regained, we entered the kitchen…

“Go on! I @#!3$%& dare you. Do it, DO IT! he (sibling 4) said.

“You’re gonna pay for what you did you @#!3$%&. I’m gonna tell mum and dad EVERYTHING”, she (sibling 3) threatened. It was the middle girl-boy pair at it again. Inevitably, his practical or linguistic jokes went too far and hit multiple of her stubborn and unyielding temperamental nerves.

And then she lunged at him. The long sharp kitchen knife went straight for his mid-section. He deflected with ease in contorted disbelief, as though he knew she was capable and would probably had done it, but never considered what to do when it did eventually happen, because he deep down didn’t think her capable!

And then HE lunged at her with the knife in HIS hand! If you can imagine this based on your own past experiences, then you probably need therapy. But this is what we witnessed in real life. It was like watching a 2-player fighter game on the SNES. Then they charged at one another again. I am going to provide them the benefit of a doubt and say that it was all just half-hearted heated histrionics…but you know what I am not so sure. We (the rest of us) probably screamed for it was that which attracted the thunderous footsteps that belonged to Dad. All I recall was a sharp loud thunderclap “OI”, then a barely comprehensible “WHAT ARE YOU PLAYING AT”, and I think there were slaps and shoves, but legend has it that dad lifted them both up by the scruffs of their necks, knives clanged and clinked to the floor, and their legs were swimming in the air as they squirmed. And he shook them silly. And I mean shook them with each word that came thundering out his mouth. Buy this time my protective subconscious was repressing the memories as soon as they were being formed and any further telling would be in the realms of conjecture. Again the myths and legends in my his-story have it that dad kicked them out for day…

TO BE CONTINUED…

The Pragaymatic Muslim

• High School Chronicles (8)
• His-story (14)
• Pluralism (1)
• Prelude (2)
• Revelation (2)
• Turning point (1)
• Uncategorized (0)

1. 

   Ahahha. Thank you dear reader. Please do forward this on to those whom you think may benefit. High school is…

2. 

   Oh can’t wait for the next part. Very captivating.

3. 

   Merci beaucoup. If it pleases you then I will strive to compose more. Please spread the word and invite others…

4. 

   I like reading these!

5. 

   […] about how to suppress and repress the dark thoughts and suicidal ideations that plagued me at the turning point…