I remember it like it was yesterday, August 27, 1994. My auntie was knocking on our door screaming my mother's name, "Gathir, Gathir, someone just called and said Ricky just got killed." She yelled frantically. It was a little after midnight, so my mom, sister and I got dressed and went to my auntie house, who lived next door. We were all in disbelief. It couldn't have been true! All I could remember was that I was praying and hoping that someone has made a mistake and my father would be walking through the door with my mother and auntie. When they return, alone, at that moment it finally hit me, my father was gone. My life ended that day. How could god be so cruel and take my father away? He was the only one that loved me.
Once my father died, my mother went into a stage of depression. She would sleep all day. She wouldn't prepare meals, wash our clothes, nothing that a parent is expected to do for their children. When she would be awake, I would wish she was sleeping. My mother was very abusive towards me, both mentally and physically. She would verbally abuse me and beat me. I hated her, as a matter of fact she hated me as well. I prayed that one day god would take me away from her, I didn't care if it was in a body bag. I knew she didn't love me, no way a mother could love her child and treat her so cruel. At night I would pray that God one day bless me with my own kids so I can show her how you are to love a child. I would never treat my kids the way she treated me.
My mother have four daughters, I'm the youngest. She raised her two youngest and my grandparents raised her two oldest. I always wanted to live with my grandparents, and thought that my two older sisters were lucky that they got away. Now, my mother never abused my sister that lived with us, just me! She would give my sister whatever she wanted. She would always put my sister on a pedal stool. She looked at her like she was her queen and I was a peasant.