Grace Webb > Recent Status Updates

kitty :(

So there we were: night, day, and the Fourth of July, and just for a moment there was a peace treaty.

"I’ll bet he preached the Gospel right to the very end"

“I guess I was scared of seeing him as a crazy person. The tales got wilder and wilder as the years went by. That he'd had five wives, who all left him, for example."

I survive here on outrage. Naturally I would, I grew up with my teeth clamped on a faith in the big white man in power—God, the President, I don’t care who he is, he’d serve justice! Whereas no one here has ever had the faintest cause for such delusions.

The news of Father wasn't good. He was living alone. I hadn't thought of this—who would cook for him? I'd never envisioned Father without women's keeping. Now he was reported to be bearded, wild-haired, and struggling badly with malnutrition and parasites.

How can I ever love anyone now but Anatole? Who else could make the colors of the aurora borealis rise off my skin where he strokes my forearm? Or send needles of ice tinkling blue through my brain when he looks in my eyes?

When he’s gone away for a night or two, my thirst is inconsolable. When he comes back, I drink every kiss down to its end and still my mouth aches like a dry cave.

Until that moment I'd always believed I could still go home and pretend the Congo never happened. The misery, the hunt, the ants, the embarrassments of all we saw and endured-those were just stories I would tell someday with a laugh and a toss of my hair, when Africa was faraway and make-believe like the people in history books.

As Anatole says, if you look hard enough you can always see reasons, but you'll go crazy if you think it's all punishment for your sins. I see that plainly when I look at my parents. God doesn't need to punish us. He just grants us a long enough life to punish ourselves.

I reached out and clung for life with my good left hand like a claw, grasping at moving legs to raise myself from the dirt. Desperate to save myself in a river of people saving themselves. And if they chanced to look down and see me struggling underneath them, they saw that even the crooked girl believed her own life was precious. That is what it means to be a beast in the kingdom.

Don’t let it get me down? Man, oh man! I always wanted to be the belle of the ball, but, jeepers, is this ever the wrong ball.

But I won’t tell her. I prefer to remain anomalous.

Our childhood had passed over into history overnight. The transition was unnoticed by anyone but ourselves.

I’d noticed Congolese men didn’t treat even their own wives and daughters as if they were very sensible or important. Though as far as I could see the wives and daughters did just about all the work.

He came home with a crescent-shaped scar on his temple, seriously weakened vision in his left eye, and a suspicion of his own cowardice from which he could never recover. His first words to me were to speak of how fiercely he felt the eye of God upon him. He pulled away from my kiss and my teasing touch, demanding, "Can't you understand the Lord is watching us?"

It is true I do not speak as well as I can think. But that is true of most people, as nearly as I can tell.

He often says he views himself as the captain of a sinking mess of female minds. I know he must find me tiresome, yet still I like spending time with my father very much more than I like doing anything else.

Oh, little beast, little favorite. Can’t you see I died as well?