By Sarah Ulotu
Every Friday, Sarah Ulotu will be taking us through a riches-to-rags story of an orphaned teenage girl who did not know her father. Today, she reveals the girlâ€™s diary notes from May 16, 1997 to May 18.
May 16, 1997
WE spent days without lunch until the day to receive dadâ€™s pension. Dressed in our best and nervously holding each otherâ€™s hands, we entered the deanâ€™s room for the pension.
The dean started his speech with how dad had been so important to the school and how they will miss him blah blah blahâ€¦.
I held my breath and secretly prayed that he gives us the money quickly. The Lord heard my prayer and I heard the dean say: â€œSo the Mulega family will receive the sum ofâ€¦ â€
That is when dadâ€™s â€œfirst wifeâ€ burst in! Whatever sum he was about to say died on the deanâ€™s lips as mum fainted onto the dirty floor. Bernie also fell from her hands.
Life can be so cruel, Diary. I wish I were you, who hides in your protective cover pages all day. I wish someone was there for us, as I am always with you. No one was there for us when dadâ€™s â€œwifeâ€ walked in with his â€œreal childrenâ€ and took all the pension. And no one was there for mum.
Anyway, when mum finally got up, dadâ€™s wife was not sympathetic at all. She put her fat saggy arms on her waist and ordered mum: â€œPack all Morrisâ€™ stuff when you return home. We are taking him tomorrow.â€
Then she swayed out, skirts flying behind her. The slam of the door was the last thing I heard before I also fainted.
May 18, 1997
I know you are dying to know, dear Diary, what happened next. Morris was taken. He is gone and if death failed to take mum, Morrisâ€™ departure will.
Mum woke up early like she usually does when we are to dig and prepared a heavy breakfast of milk, bread and omelet. If this was the last breakfast we would have together as a family, she was determined it had to be memorable.
However, Morris and Bernie refused to take the breakfast. Mum and I tried to convince them to eat in vain. At last we all gave up and gave the remains to our dog Kitty, who gulped it down happily.
Nevertheless, we sat with Morris, mum holding him close, like she was scared that if she let him go, she would never see him again. I held Beth and stared, deeply wanting to do something, but not knowing what. For a split second, I hated dad, Diary. How could he die, leaving us alone?
But there is this question for you: Do you think God hates us?
Dear Diary, we missed dadâ€™s pension