Chimene Diomi

2017 Creative Writing Awards Winner

Mwana Ya Mabele

As the months progressed, she kept coming back. This time, our silence was filled with rattles from mini snickers bars. She would walk in, sit, and I would slide two snickers bars her way. She would smile, take them and cautiously unwrap them. It was as if she was being delicate, unraveling something she was trying to avoid hurting. One time she even laughed as she ate it. Still, she never made any eye contact, never said a word. Something about her was too familiar, as if I had met her before. Though we never formally said any words, I felt that I knew her. A 90 lb., African American girl with short brown hair, graciously placed in two French braids. Her medical chart reported that she was 15 years old, living with a father with a history of abuse, who also suffered from bipolar disorder. She had been in the foster care system since age two, born to a mother who struggled with HIV and cocaine abuse. As I continued to read her file, there was nothing positive mentioned about this girl. I knew nothing of her hopes, nor did anyone seem to think that she was capable of dreaming. Each time she walked into my office, the holes in her clothing stretched wider and her legs shook faster. It was as if she wanted to tell me something that I already knew, but Instead couldn’t find the words to do so.

Today I slid two snickers bars towards her and she slid them back. I finally broke the silence and said “no?” She shook her head as if to say “no”. Again this seemed like something I knew all to well, something never taught to me by a textbook. As I sat and watched her fight the tear that finally trickled down her cheek, splashing onto the table, I knew they’d be more. She repeated the word “no”, and the solo tear suddenly was accompanied by what seemed to be a river of sadness. I asked her if she was frightened, and she shook her head yes. I asked her why, and she remained silent. “Do you feel that you are in danger?” She said nothing. “Marissa!” She looked up as if it was uncommon for someone to call her by name. “I know you are scared and I know that talking about your fear can bring about other feelings you don’t want to explore. But do know that I am here to listen and to help”.

In a cracked voice she repeated, “listen and help?” She looked up. Our eyes locking and this time, no one avoiding the uncomfortable moment. No one blinked, as we stared into each other’s souls. The adrenaline rushing through our veins, hearts beating faster than a drum. I watched her as she watched me, eyes the color of red wine, but behind them lied innocence. She was fragile, she was broken. She continued to say, “you would never understand…”

All of a sudden, she stood up, gathered her items, and then walked away ending our session on her own terms. As I drove home, I did not expect to see her ever again. According to guidelines if abuse is not physically evident or reported, there was nothing further to discuss. But somehow, I had taken a mental note that I was going to protect her. I was going to be curious, and unlike everyone who bypassed her, I was going to care. That night I sat and perseverated on what to say to Marissa if I saw her again, though I wasn’t sure if it would happen. Suddenly the idea of clay came into mind.

Yes, I would bring clay to our next appointment, that is if she chose to meet with me again. Surprised by the following week’s visit, there sat Marissa in the waiting room, ready to see me. As per usual, she walked in my office, sat down, and this time placed her hand out ready for her snickers bars. When she realized that her hand was empty, she looked up at me in confusion.

Catching her gaze, I rolled over a large piece of clay onto the table, watching it as it made its way towards her. As she looked down at this foreign object
in disappointment, I instructed her to “make me understand”. She frowned, wrinkles covering her forehead, thick eyebrows suddenly raised. Ignoring her reaction, I continued on to say “mwana ya mabele aza makasi” translated in my grandmother’s native language Lingala “Be strong for you are made of earth child”.

She looked at me as if to say, “am I even in the right office today?” Because I knew what she was thinking, I remained silent awaiting her response. Silent for a few seconds, she then asked, “where did you get that from and what do you even mean by that?” I felt that coming! After all, I didn’t expect her to understand. Nevertheless, she had the right to ask. She asked in the same words I had asked my grandmother 22 years ago while sitting on the floor in her hut in the village of Kikwit. “You see, life is hard” she continued in my dialect. When people try to break you, use this earth to reconstruct yourself and breathe new life. You have the power to mold every imperfection you see in this piece of earth. You have the power in the moment to design who YOU want to be. And when you don’t like what you design, you break it down and start over. You are everything YOU say you are and NOTHING they want you to be!”

Still confused she says, “soooooo what do you want me to do with this again?” in a calmer approach. “I want you to tell me your story”. She hesitated at first, but this time, I knew she got it. She began to build, stacking one piece of clay on top of another. It was as if she had been waiting to create this masterpiece all her life. She no longer paid attention to what was in the room, sunken in her moment. At this time, I had given Picasso a paintbrush, keys to open doors to trauma, sadness, pain, rejection, and disappointment. It started with one molding of a mans genitals which she created scissors to cut off, then another, then another. When she ran out of her own clay, she took mine to make more, and more, and more. Finally, when she realized the symbolism
of her creation, she sobbed painfully, knocking them all to the ground. She proceeded to violently stomp on each piece of clay until she became fatigued, breathing heavily as she dropped to the ground to let out a screech that traveled from my ears like a wooden spear, piercing its way through the depths of my heart.

As she sobbed I saw a little girl whose innocence was taken from her. She held herself tightly on the floor repeating, “no one believes me, no one believes me”. I walk over to her, she was a mirror image of myself at age 6. This time instead of rocking alone, I gently placed my hand on her shoulders and together we sat and cried. I held her in my arms and gently stroked her meticulously braided hair. She rocked herself back and forth in my embrace, letting out a cry that sent shivers through every increment of my body. As I transferred her pain onto me, I remind her of her strength.

Holding her tighter, I thought about the lasting impact my grandmother
had when she called me “mwana ya mabele” when I was on her floor sobbing uncontrollably 22 years ago when no one believed me. This same impact drove me to pursue a profession in psych mental health nursing, the reason I vowed to be the voice and strength of those weakened, beaten by life’s circumstances. As I remembered my own journey and how others in this same profession
helped me heal over trauma and sexual molestation (subjects often hidden in the African culture due to stigma and shame), I slip one of Marissa’s masterpieces back into her hand.  With my hand on top of hers, we commence to crush it in synchrony. With no words spoken, I knew that we had just begun a journey into healing, remolding her pain into an unrecognizable shape and giving this moment an opportunity to start over, as my grandmother would say “breathe new life!”

About Chimene

Chimene holds a dual bachelor’s degree in Criminal Justice and Sociology with a concentration in Pre-Law from University of Maryland Eastern Shore. During her undergraduate years, she spent time working with Wicomico county health department as a youth mentor for adolescent girls suffering from sexual abuse and teenage pregnancy. After graduating in 2007, she interned for Black Women United For Action (BWUFA), assisting refugee women affected by domestic violence, rape, and trauma. This work inspired her to found “Phenomenal Women”, a non-profit organization that advocates for gender equality and empowers women to take on leadership roles in their communities. She is currently providing community mental healthcare at Liberty Safe Haven, hoping to work with the under-serviced population in the future. She will graduate as a Psychiatric-Mental Health nurse practitioner in May 2017.