UNCOMFORTABLE MEMORIES...

I remember his whimpers. It haunts me still. 

Maybe this is just me being paranoid, maybe there wasn't anything out of the ordinary going on. Maybe I'm just being dramatic as I watch and read too many sad stuff, there's nothing sinister about a crying boy. But why do I keep getting this unsettling feeling in my gut whenever the event of that morning comes to mind? And it always does come to mind. 

My companions and I were in the room praying. I excused myself to use the toilet, but first, I had to fetch some water to flush the toilet after use. On my way out, at the corridor, I met our neighbour and his ward. I don't know for sure what their relationship was, whether the young boy was his his nephew or his houseboy. 

I greeted them both. 

My neighbour gave a spiritless reply. Much uncharacteristic of him. 

The boy did not deign to respond. 

I went ahead of them to fill my bucket at the backyard tap. While at it, I saw them both walk across my sight, straight from the corridor to the dingy bathroom at the far end of the backyard. 

Their manner of movement reminded me of the words of God's holy prophet, Isaiah. 

The boy, "he did not open his mouth; he was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before its shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth". He did not meet my gaze as he allowed himself to  be steered into the bathroom. 

Was his guardian going to give him a thorough scrub in there? They had no towels and no bucket of water. 

My bucket was already almost full when I started to hear it. 

The suppressed cry. Not from my neighbour. 

The menacingly low voice. Not from the boy.

The echo from the bathroom did well to add a melodramatic effect to the hushed voices. My earntenna shot upright. The cries persisted. Muffled. 

At that point, I wished badly that I was a law enforcement agent, a member of the CID precisely. That way I could crash into the bathroom to satisfy my curiosity, and as a bonus, maybe catch a perpetrator. 

My bucket got filled up but I decided to wait until my neighbour and his boy left the bathroom. I was waiting to read the expressions on their faces, and to observe their walking postures, especially the boy's. I was waiting to see if the boy would grope any part of his body in pain. I was just looking for something, anything, to serve as a lead.

Eventually, the door opened. My neighbour came out to fetch some water from his drum. I made a show of struggling with the tap's padlock, otherwise why would it have taken me so long to fetch a bucket of water and leave? I watched him go back into the bathroom, and neither my neighbour nor his boy came out until I finally left. 

Minutes later, I saw the boy with a broom ready to sweep a portion of the compound. I watched him from a distance, pretending to be on the phone. I saw him round the corner of the compound. I followed him still, still on my imaginary call. He was urinating. He appeared calm. His facial expression was vague. I gave up, resisting the urge to ask why he had been crying in the bathroom, and if he was hurting, and if anyone was hurting him. I feared Stockholm's syndrome, on the boy's part. I didn't know what kind of attachment he had with his guardian. I could get into trouble questioning him if he ratted on me to his guardian. 

So I forced myself to mind my business. And this eats me up. 

Now it's hard to look at them both the same way I've always done, it's tiring dissecting and analyzing the expressions and gestures of other people. But each time these two come to mind, all I think about is abuse ABUSE A-B-U-S-E.

17.08.18