Mother; May I Rage

My, My, Oh My. You know what they say (or at least what TikTok’s school of graduates say): “People with daddy issues become artists, and people with mommy issues become writers.”
I didn’t make that up, by the way — I came across it while doom-scrolling (https://www.tiktok.com/discover/mother-issues-make-a-writer-father-issues-make-a).
Honestly? I’m not convinced it’s that simple. Sometimes, you pick up a pen just because your brain’s like, “Hey, we need to let this out.” So, let’s not overthink it.
This isn’t a cry for help or some dramatic story. It’s just a story — one full of joy, pain, and, most importantly, growth.

You know, people still think I’m masculine.
All those years of trying to fit me into skirts and heels—damn, they were uncomfortable.
I really tried, I swear. I wanted to be the best version of what you envisioned.
But I couldn’t quite get there. And somehow, over time, I swapped effort for resentment.
I started to believe you never truly loved me.
But here’s the truth: I’m a girly girl.
Maybe not in the way people expect, but that’s okay.
No one’s born with a manual for this stuff, right?

Your goodbye wasn’t something I saw coming — and it’s haunted me for years. So many years.
Have I ever told you what I’m scared of?
Being a mother, for one.
Because how would I know what it means to be loved by a mother, when — and I say this with my whole chest, from my truth — I never really felt it from you.
How do I give something I never got?
Don’t worry, I’m trying. I work every day to be better, and then better again. Some people say I’m competitive — and maybe I am — but wasn’t that the only way to feel loved? I thought maybe if I beat my brothers at something, anything, I’d win.
But I didn’t. Not really.

I’ve known tantrums — real ones.
Ugly cry, slam-the-door, “I’m fine” kind of tantrums.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, I met her — the devil inside me.
I call her Kfrost. Don’t ask why. It just felt right. She’s fire wrapped in ice — flaring up when I’m hurt, vanishing when I need her confidence most.
She made me run from people, from plans, from perfectly fine days that didn’t go my way.
And for the longest time, I thought it was just anxiety. Anxiety — that word that makes people tilt their heads and tell you to “just breathe.”
There’s even a breathing trick for it — 6-4-4 or 4-7-8… honestly, I just end up choking on my own air. But here’s the funny thing: I’ll take rage over anxiety any day.
Rage is loud. Obvious. You can punch a pillow and call it healing.
Anxiety? She’s shady. Slides in quiet like a gossip, steals your breath, then acts like it’s your fault. And worst of all — anxiety makes you feel like other people get to narrate your life.
No, thanks.
Let me be rude, dramatic, and a little on edge. At least that’s honest.
Kfrost and I? We’re working on it. But she’s got a better sense of humor than I thought.

But whew, have I messed up along the way.
Did I mention I almost got married once? Hah—yeah, that was a fun little fever dream. Woke up real quick from that one.
And don’t even get me started on dealing with your husband’s family. Bless their hearts—they drove me halfway to insanity. I try to be patient, you know? “Blood is thicker than water” and all that nonsense. But man, sometimes, even blood could use a good rinse.

But let’s give credit where it’s due—you gave me your laugh.
The loud, infectious kind that makes people stare in public.
Dammit, I’m actually smiling while I write this. People think the laugh is tedious—nah, not for me. There’s joy in my heart that even pain can’t steal.
Also—remember how much you wished I matched your skin tone? Well… still not quite there, but I’ve inherited little patches of you, like freckles from a parallel universe. Every time I walk into a skincare shop and the ladies suggest something to “even out my tone,” I look them dead in the eye and say, “Nope. This is perfect.”

Now onto the stupid bits—because let’s not pretend I’ve got it all figured out.
You know, I always felt like you loved my brothers more than me. Maybe you didn’t—but that feeling stuck like gum under my shoe. Sometimes I wake up and wonder if I even want validation anymore, or if I’m just addicted to chasing it.
I’m not great with friendships either. I try—I really try—to love people. But the minute things get weird or uncomfortable, I vanish faster than a TikTok trend. Call it emotional thrift.

But hey—it hasn’t all been bad. I had some good years too.
I graduated. Can you believe it? The last time we saw each other, I was just a hopeful kid at the starting line of those four years that would change everything.
If you had been around, you'd be floored by who I became.
But you weren’t… so I got skinny instead, tried everything to numb the ache. Was the Viceroy worth it? Honestly, probably not. I think I can still smell the hangover—ten years later.
Oh wait—look at that. Ten years. Happy anniversary, Mommy. Or, as Dad used to call you… Malkia.

Oh shoot—remember when you went to your sister’s place and left me with those people? Yeah, the ones we technically shared DNA with.
I never told you how much that messed with me. That stretch of time was pure torture.
They drove me absolutely nuts—macadamia-level nuts. And you know how oily those things are. That oily.

It’s weird—people say we change, and I guess I have.
But if I’m being honest? I don’t believe people really change. (Oops—did I say that out loud?)
Still, I’ve grown. I’ve hated new things, loved unexpected ones, and these days, I’m learning the art of just… letting things be.
You would’ve hated that.
You always said my silence was rude.
People still think I’m rude. And stubborn.
But I’ve been that way for so long, it feels more like home than a flaw.

So… I’m still not married.
And no—I still don’t cook ugali. I hate it. I really do. Actually, I just don’t do it.
Remember when I once told you, “The moment I can stand up for myself, I’m never doing chores again”?
Yeah, that still stands. They didn’t feel like chores—they felt like unpaid labor dressed in a family love.
Washing dishes? That’s straight-up character assassination.
But hey, I do spread my bed and open windows every day. Progress, right?

I really did try—tried to bring the family together, visited your brothers, checked in on my cousins.
But eventually, I gave up. It was too much.
Most of them chose to follow you instead of staying with the living.
I developed a sense of humor about it—morbid humor, maybe—but it helps.
Some friends hate it, others think I’m just plain nuts.
Honestly? If I had a shilling for every time someone called me crazy or weird, I’d be rich enough to start my own ‘normal’.
Which makes me wonder—who even created this so-called standard?
Maybe they’re the weird ones, and I’m the only one making sense.

Anyway, your boys are grown now—still dramatic, but grown.
I can tell from a mile away, they were your heartbeats.
And of course, your husband—whom I now simply call Daddy.
And music, Diamond Platnumz has started doing this new-age thing that completely escapes me.
I stick to the old hits—the ones you used to sing along to.
One of your sons is still obsessed with Rhumba. Every time it plays, it makes me sappy…
like I can still hear your voice in the background, humming in the kitchen.

One thing’s for sure—I love you truly, madly deeply. (Gerrit ?? Forget abourrit then ❤️)...
You taught me to stand up for myself.
People now label that as “aggressive” and “opinionated”—how original, right?
But here’s the truth: everyone’s got an opinion about something.
I don’t mind being called those names anymore.
To me, it just sounds like: “I tried to walk over you, it didn’t work, now I’m sulking.”
Cry babies, the lot of them.

Shoot, shoot — I’ve got work to do. A new journey to start, because this? This is a memoir.
Hehe, I promise I’ll take time to say sorry to a few people I probably shouldn’t have cut off...
(Are we sure we even want that though?)
But hey, Malkia — you are loved. Deeply. Fiercely. Always.

"But this isn’t the end, Malkia — just page one. And I think we both know there’s more to say." ❤️