A collection of prose by Elila Mkakanzi
Meanwhile it is as though my cubs are playing next to a fire that feeds on my remains, using the burnt embers of dreams to trace fragments of imagination; glimpses of a world outside these walls.
Burnt out like a wild forest set aflame from not being tended to. The clearing had to occur but the regrowth is yet to be seen. Blackened and bare, parched, waiting for tender hands to see the fruitful forest it once was. Here I am, a mother that is both the wild forest and the tender hands. Yet how can it be that I am both, and still grow sweet seedlings, into young saplings, into trees with roots firm, branches wide, leaves open to the warmth of the sun?
When the mother tree lies dormant, unable to awaken from her self-imposed slumber it begs the question: what will remain for the seedlings to witness? For the cubs to learn from? A martyred mother, or one that gave herself the grace to bloom? My prayer is the latter.
[pause]
A wound the size of a dinner plate
within
a placenta ripped
torn
moved
from innermost walls
womb
entire being
intrinsically rearranged
to fit the tiniest of life forms
that stretches
grows
moves
a heaviness
a lightness
to carry life itself
something so precious
protected, small
warm inside circular walls
ripped
torn
moved
into the world
onto this earth
and a wound the size of a dinner plate
woman is left to heal from
[pause]
I smell my milk, sour yet somehow tantalising, as sweet to my nose as the smell of my baby’s head. I bleed from my womb still, weeks after, finding patches of red on good underwear, streaked with unfamiliar mucus. My breasts ache at times with the heaviness of milk, one uncomfortably larger than the other. I can feel it every time it comes in, a tingly painful zipping of milk shooting through veins before the telltale spread of dampness crosses my singlet. I go without bras most days, although I am considering buying padded ones to save on the amount of shirts I wash daily.
My baby’s poop smells sweet, unlike my toddlers’ who now eats all the things and the scent usually sends me reeling. My littlest’s is milk-sweet and yellow, thankfully inoffensive at three in the morning when all I want to do is sleep. I find upchuck on the bedspread, random blankets, and clothes I’ve worn. We sweat together, her wrapped up tight against my bosom, and my evening shower is an honest delight, absolutely glorious in the fading evening.
I’m in the trenches, and it’s beautiful down here, muddy and sweaty and bloody and sweet. So sweet with life. How lucky I am, to be covered in the fluids of this earth.
[pause]
It is normal, and everyday, and unique, and amazing, and life-shattering. It is not for everybody, yet every body emerges in the same way. The intensity is immense, the love and loss even greater.
I have travelled, been amongst different cultures, languages, peoples, and nature's wonders. I have read mind-bending books, met remarkable souls, loved and been loved. Nothing comes close to the indescribable doorway that, nonetheless, I feebly attempt to describe. Unfathomable, mundane and magical.
This birth and death cycle. Jah bless this creation.
The doorway.
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