chidi rasoio {eight} fin
Jul 4, 2017 19:05:10 GMT -5
Post by solo on Jul 4, 2017 19:05:10 GMT -5
Chidi Rasoio, D8
God exists.
Razor.
The two topics do not belong together, yet somehow I was given each as a title. Rasoio from my father. Chidi from my mother. Two people who could not be more different, who I believe were never supposed to meet. But they did. They met, they fell in love, they had a child, he fell out of love with me. I like to believe that he at least loved my mother. But of course, that doesn't mean he would ever deserve her.
I did not meet my father's brother, Mr Rasoio, for a long time. My mother wanted nothing to do with the family. She said they were lying thieves, that they had no culture, they were cheats and low-lifes and manipulative. She kept me with her for the first nine years of my life. Mr Rasoio's brother, although he did not love me, at least had the courtesy to give us a small place on the edge of the Rasoio compound. The only legacy he left for me were four walls and a creaky roof that leaked during the rainy season.
We were outcasts from the family, but I didn't mind. I stayed with my mother and learned from her. She showed me how to sew, how to keep up a trade, how to dress myself properly, how to use my manners. We weren't like the rest of the family. Not as respectable, they might tell you if you ever asked them. They've never understood our mannerisms, our colorful clothes, our cropped hair and funny accents. We've always been the 'ugly ducklings', so to speak. Most of them don't really like to be associated with us. There's a few who find us amusing and can enjoy our company from time to time, but there's not many like that.
My mother told me that our people used to dress like this all the time, in days long past, when there was peace in the world and we didn't have to sacrifice twenty-three of our children every year. She said it was important to learn about what we used to be like, before the murder and the bloodshed and the heartbreak. She told me that the Capitol had no respect for life, and to this day, I hold fast to that truth. They take what doesn't belong to them and they honor it with no more than a picture in the sky alongside their own anthem. It's not right. Never was, never will be. My mother always taught me that life did not belong to us, that it belonged to Ripred, and that we are meant to respect that ownership. Some of the other Rasoios don't like the thought of that.
When I was nine, my mother disappeared. I don't know where she went. I don't know if she ran away, if she was kidnapped, if she's even alive today. All I know is that one day she was there, going to the market, and then she never returned.
I refused to tell anyone for a number of days. I kept to myself, made my own food, finished the sewing jobs my mother had and sold them to our buyers. But then the food ran out. I couldn't go to the market, because a little girl by herself was an easy target for anyone looking to harm. I wasn't safe. As reluctant as I was to so, I ended up going to visit Mr Rasoio, confessing my situation to him. He was hesitant to keep me there. Other members of his family told him to send me to the community home, said I was worthless to them and that I'd just be another mouth to feed. They would've convinced him, too, had I not shown them the materials I'd been working on with my mother. They were amazed by my handiwork. A natural, they called me.
Mr Rasoio decided to keep me, on the condition that I learned how to make hats. He told me I'd be excellent at it. The family took me under their week, accepting me slightly more than my mother, despite the odd way I dressed and the funny way I talked. My appearance didn't matter, so long as I provided them with good money. And I did. I earned enough money for my keep, enough to get myself some food and even enough to get a little treat every now and then.
I don't think I was ever fully accepted into the family. I was never invited to their celebrations as more than a server, I was never permitted to appear with them in public, the other children never liked playing with me. But it was something. I had a home, I had a roof over my head, I had food in my stomach. I missed my mother. I missed her dearly, but even though I had been nine when she left, I didn't have the clearest memories of her. Most of them are nothing more than a fog with faint smiles and distant laughter and eyes with no color. I don't think I'll ever fully remember her. I wish I did, because as she used to say, your history is important to know and understand. It's important to know where you came from and how you got to be the person you are today.
I wish I knew her better. But at the same time, there's a small piece of me that likes to stay in the present. Some voice in the deepest corners of my mind tells me to enjoy the day, to go about my work and learn as much as I can, because maybe I'll be able to use it in my future.
I suppose I am not entirely like my mother. There's part of her within me, but I think there's also part of my father. Some piece of the man who looked to his future and couldn't be held down by a wife and a child. I suppose I understand him, in a way. That does not mean I love him, or that I wish to meet him. All it means is that a piece of my history as found a home inside me.
