Read Online No Laughter Here by Rita Williams-Garcia - Free Book Online

Ajala.
    â€œMy mother remained strong. She wouldn’t give in to her sisters or her mother. She said things I was not accustomed to hearing her say. Do not ask me to repeat them.”
    She read my mind so well.
    â€œThen the doctor put me to sleep.”
    â€œTo sleep?”
    â€œWhile he operated.”
    â€œOperated?” Now I sounded like Victoria had when she first returned. Repeating and questioning. My mind raced with horror and curiosity, and yet I made no pictures for what she was telling me. It was as though the picture-making part of my brain had shut down.
    â€œWhen I woke up, I thought I was dead inside my body. I could see, but I could not move. Then feeling came back to me slowly, not on the inside, but outside of my body. Like I was a ghost, visiting Grandmother Iyapo’s house. Sound around me did not seem real. I heard music, but it seemed far away, like echoes. I heard laughter and talking, but it didn’t seem real.
    â€œI still did not know what had happened to me. I did not remember coming back to Grandmother’s house. Icalled for my mother. She helped me to the bathroom. I could barely stand. She had to hold me when I squatted. My ghost body fled, and my real body returned. When the pee came out of me, I screamed. I was being burned alive, but there were no flames creeping up my legs. For weeks and weeks I stood in a pot of fire.”
    â€œFire?” I slowly began to feel, although I still couldn’t picture anything. Only knife, took, fire .
    She knew this and said, “Have you ever played Touch My Raisin?”
    I nodded.
    â€œAnd it felt good and tickly when you touched it?”
    Only to Victoria could I admit this. “Umhm,” I said.
    â€œSo good you didn’t want to stop?”
    I nodded again.
    She pointed between her legs to what I call private place, the Paths to Discovery video calls genitals, and kids on the playground have nasty names for. She said, “When I was sleeping, they took my raisin.”
    My belly flopped. I felt dizzy. I didn’t expect to hear what she told me.
    â€œMum said not to cry. All proper Nigerian girls have this done to stop the feeling.”
    â€œStop the feeling?”
    She said, “The feeling that comes from touching your raisin. I still cry.”
    â€œThat’s okay.”
    Victoria whispered, “When we returned home, you know, to Queens?”
    I nodded.
    â€œI locked myself in my room and got my mirror to squat over it and see. Akilah, after they took my raisin, they sewed my skin together to hide what they did.”

Bam
    I couldn’t stand my father’s voice calling me puddin ’ at the dinner table. The sweet stickiness of it turned the butter beans in my mouth sour. It made me sick, then angry, then mad.
    â€œCan I be excused?”
    I went up to my room, but I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stand the sheets against my skin. The pillowcase touching my head. The coils in the mattress. I couldn’t stand my room. My brown-skinned, big-eyed dolls made me sick. The globe tilting upward made me sick. The books on my bookshelf, starting with Nomusa and the New Magic , made me sick. I read those books. I believed in them. My autographed soccer ball. My math and spelling trophies gleaming on the bookshelf. My stupid Girl Power flag. All made me sick. Sick. Sick. Sick. Girls don’t have no power.
    First I was angry at my mother for filling my head with stuff about Africa. Then I was angry at Dad for calling me puddin’ and Girl Warrior. Then I was angry at Mrs. Ojike for taking Victoria to that illegal doctor. Andangry at Mr. Ojike for doing nothing. I could see his big teeth smiling and hear him speaking politely while Victoria was screaming. But I was really angry at Nelson for telling me Victoria was getting over her illness. Liar. You can’t get over what they did to her. You can’t get over that.
    Then I was mad. Crazy mad. Dizzy mad. Mad, mad,