Fable: The Gender Battle

In the Service of our Ancestors and African Love,
Listen Seeker, I come in peace,

“The virtue of the soldiers is worth more than a multitude, and the site is often of more benefit than virtue.” — General Rule of Warfare

In warfare the strategy depends on the multitude, the soldiers and the site.  The site is most important.  Today, the site Africans face is being surrounded on all four sides.  In such a situation, every African home needs an African man, for African men are the Primary Protectors of African people (African women are the Primary Healers.)  That said, I wrote a short story about an African Father.  The characters were carefully drawn out.  Please read and re-read.  Warfare isn’t easy or straightforward.  But we must learn how to navigate this battlefield; lest we’ll fall victim to the designs of our enemies.

Fable: The Gender Battle
By Onitaset Kumat

He hurled her suitcase of clothes out the door.  “Now get out!”  The crash overwhelmed the lock, spilling her underwear, socks, shirts and pants onto the sidewalk.  “Get out!” he repeated.

The small woman looked up at her father with watery eyes then slumped pass his pointed, muscular arm.  She was fifteen.  Only two years ago she dreamed of her mysterious father.  He then returned from incarceration angry and upset at her, her siblings and her mother.  He insisted that he would ‘make up for lost time’; yet somehow he was kicking his oldest daughter out of their house and caring little about the ‘sensitivities’ of his second son.  The whole house seemed more on edge.  In some ways she was happy to be leaving.

Her mother stood inside on the top of the stairs, both afraid and pleading.  Her father looked sharply at her, then closed the door behind him.  A year of battles with her father won and lost.  She had her freedom to do what she wants now yet at a cost of her family.

Just then a pervert emerged out of a nearby car, “Don’t worry police are on the way.”  There was the boy who caused her father so much ire.  A small, pasty, pale White pervert.  He was eighteen, with a car, a tattoo and a certain carelessness.  She mistook his carelessness for maturity.  Thank their television.  Truly he cared of things, many things, he just didn’t care for her.  As she gathered her clothes, she heard the police sirens raging.  She darted into the boy’s car for safety with the suitcase and most of her clothes in hand.  Then she watched as a dozen officers came gun cocked to her door.  “They will kill that nigger,” smiled the honkey as the words first pleased and revolted her–then they only revolted her.  She thought how her father would die.

“Come out with your hands up!”  There was movement by her oldest brother’s window.  Were they going to shoot at the police?

“Nooooo!!!” shrieked her mother as her husband walked out, hands up, and her brother watched on, instructed by his father not to shoot.  “Nooo!!” she repeated, “Don’t take my husband again!”  On deaf ears fell her plea as her husband insisted she return to the house.  “Kill me!!  Kill me!!!” she began to cry at the officers.  One woman among them licked her lips at the thought.  Her daughter then ran out of the car, guns trained on her, to plea with her mother.  The pervert found other distractions in his car.

“Mom, go back home!”  Her father showed some approval and verbally agreed.  He then told the honkeys he’s ready to go to the station and amidst the shrieks and cries of his wife, he walked forward figuring he’ll have another decade of hard labour and abstinence.

The police drove off with him.  The rest of the family came out to comfort their mother.  The eldest son, a thirteen-year-old with a complexion like an oak tree, spoke to his older sister, “Stay with us tonight.”

She walked over to the car and told the pervert.  He responded “whatever” and let her take her clothes and suitcase before driving off.  Her brother then put the heavy bag on his head and walked his family home.  He was the man of the house–at thirteen.

After closing the door, the new man spoke up, “We have no time to waste.”  The mother, still crying and shaking her head, audibly sniffed running mucus up her nose, signaling she had to be attentive for  her husband.  “Sister, you need to go to the precinct and explain it was a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding!” she exploded.  “I hope he–” SLAP.  The young woman collapsed onto the ground after her liquorice mother struck her across the mouth with all 170 lbs.  She stood tall at 5’10”.  “Mother why?!?” screamed the young woman from the floor.

“Your father is right.  You are fifteen.  You are an adult.  You are out of your African mind if you think I’ll let you talk of my husband, your father, that way!”

From the ground the young woman mumbled back, “You were not so brave to the police.”

The son expected to restrain his mother but she calmly rebutted, “Oh my daughter, your father told us not to be.  He understood those honkeys would kill every last one of us.  He sacrificed himself for our lives and you mock me for living.  How happy would you have been to go drive off with that pervert boy with your family slaughtered?”

“He’s not a pervert or a boy!  He loves me!”

“Calling honkeys to kill your family is love?  A dozen officers came here.  Guns poised.  Your father threw out the suitcase you packed after you insisted on leaving.  Daughter, where’s the love?  That boy–”

“He’s not a boy!  He’s older than me!”

“Your father was so upset that I sent you all to the ‘Public Fool System.’  Whites don’t mature as fast as we do.  We reach adulthood at 14; they claim they do at 21.  I see it now and so should you.  We are a people at war and we need our men to protect our homes.”

“Protect us from what?”

“Whites and White ways.”

“Don’t forget the other races, mother.”

“That is why you are here, son.  Until your father returns, you must protect us from those races.”

“You’re all racist,” shouted the daughter.

“And they aren’t?”  The mother saw that her daughter was now thinking.  She helped her daughter stand then brought her head to her shoulder.  Moisture accumulated on their shirts.

“Mommy, let’s go to the precinct and get daddy out.”

“I hope we can, honey.  But call us by our first names.  You’re a woman now.”

3 thoughts on “Fable: The Gender Battle

  1. Once again, I was gripped by every word in your mini drama. Our ancestors used stories to impart knowledge and wisdom… and as their descendants, we must do the same.

    Thank you for showing the importance of having a MAN in the household who knows that it is his responsibility to Protect his family as well as having a WOMAN in the household who is concerned with Healing her family.

  2. You are doing a great job in keeping the African/black race informed with knowledge keep up the good work.
    Rest in peace Marcus Garvey

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