Hardships and Heartbreaks

The following piece was composed as part of a 9^th grade English assignment that asked students to add a chapter to the novel Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

Samantha Kollock '29

It rained a new type of rain that day. Not the light rain fall that painted the sidewalks with small specks, but instead heavy rain poured from the sky. On the weekly stroll home from church today, it never seemed so lonely. As I reached out to catch rain drops in my hand, there was always a new thought and curiosity that attacked my mind. I still had been fascinated by the way the priest carries himself consistently everyday. It seemed to me almost the same expression and emotion followed him day to day.

I never understood how people didn't have interest in the church, especially my very own parents. Ever since I was around the age of 10, I've had enormous interest in what the church brings. That interest peaked when I met the priest, added with a few months of constantly going to church every Sunday. Later on, he gave me my very own Catholic Missal. He showed me the ropes on what it meant to be a true holy man. Now at the age of 15 I still aspired to do everything in my power to follow in his footsteps.

As I arrived home that evening I approached the door and heard Mama and Papa- Nnukwu arguing. Just the usual, “I deserve better”, and “I work so hard for this family” banter. So, I head straight to my room without a greeting to finish homework for school tomorrow. 

The yelling grew and so did the anxiety within me. The words on my worksheet grew smaller and smaller, until they were blurred and the words were scattered like smushed ants on the sidewalk. I could no longer ignore it. I knew my sister Ifeoma was not home and they normally would not argue when she was here. My parents always understood it wasn't best to be arguing when she was in the house due to her young age. They always looked past the fact it was starting to have an effect on me too. When I knew my sister would not be home, I avoided coming home on time and normally took the long way home. 

I was still sitting there with butterflies in my stomach. I heard a thud and a shatter of glass. Clenching my eyes shut tight I wished I was in a dream. I had to do something I told myself. Rushing out of my room and making it to the steps I was about to race down, adrenaline pumping.

Before I could see it all, I was repeatedly yelling, “Stop, don't touch her!” It all happened so fast. I was willing to do anything to help my mother. She was the woman who did everything for me, the one I cared about the most. Thoughts about what was happening raced and circled through my mind as I approached the scene, my feet were moving faster than they ever have before.

I wished I was 8 again back on the couch on a warm night falling asleep in her arms while Papa was making her her nightly tea just the way she liked it. The way I liked it too. I wished and longed for the feeling of trying to keep my eyes open long enough to get my 1 sip from Mama's tea. 

Still advancing down the old wooden stairs, I saw a living room once filled with cheer and laughter. It looked heart warming and safe. Soon enough I heard another bang and I was back facing reality. Now seeing that my home was shaped into a family divide of hate. 

My face turned a pale white as I stepped in repeatedly yelling, “Stop, stop.” I fought back for my mother. “Why do you do this Papa”, crying.

He angrily provoked, “Eugene you don't want to do this, step away son!” Anger flooded my body and I couldn't stop myself. I fought and fought until I could fight no longer. My image of him was changed, he seemed so small I've never seen him like that before until I let myself understand the true man he was. Leaning against the wall trying to keep myself steady, I thought to myself, this is my Father, the man I should be looking up to, but now all I see in him is a disgrace. 

I'm done, my limit has been exceeded. The walls that once were beige with family photos were now painted with streaks of burning irony red induced by hate. I knew I had to leave. 

Limping away from the scene and up the stairs feeling numb as fast as possible, All I could hear was Papa sorrowfully saying, “Come back here Eugene, I'm sorry.” I did not look back and I knew I would never look back after this moment. I went to the bathroom, cuts burning while I rubbed the blood off as fast as I could. Grabbing my heavy missal and a few spare dollars I left. 

Walking down the street the feeling of a spiked chain wrapped around my neck suffocating me till I overflowed with tears. The town seemed dull, more black and white than usual whether it was just my mood or the rain. It was almost as if God and I were on the same page. It felt wrong walking out of my birth home and up the streets I walk everyday and now to never return to. 

I spoke to God, Dear God, please help me through this hardship. I ask for your strength and navigation during this time. I feel lost. Speaking to God was the only thing I knew. I kept to myself, spoke minimally only when I needed to. When I was in the church or reading in my missal it felt safe like a hug. Therefore I would keep Religion and God closest to heart, closer than anything in my life from that day on. Pacing down the street I didn't know exactly what was going to happen next in life but I understood God had a plan for me.