The Tales of Diaspora - Chapter 1 - Discordant Affections, Part 3

The car door slams behind me as I head for the front door. In a tiff, Victor jumps out of the driver's seat, leaving the door open behind him and pursues me with an unfamiliar tone. For a man who cant leave his wife for a nineteen o.tyear, he has an awfully possessive disposition to my breaking up with him. We spent the ride home debating the definition of the words whore and girlfriend. Insisting that I was not nor had ever been his girlfriend, he became dedicated to the preservation of our relationship in the most unprecedented of ways. He recalled all that he had ever done for me, failed at grabbing the plastic shopping bag out of my "ungrateful" hands and began to spout Christian doctrine of how special and precious women are to be treated in "God's earthly organization" and reminded me of how he regarded me as the weaker vessel. Amidst he's discourse, he was unaware I had no intentions of threatening his status in the congregation and therefore didn't need to try so hard. He can safely lose his "girlfriend".




"Dia!", he shouts, now grabbing my arm. I jerk it away thinking it was a second attempt at a forced refund.


"I don't want your toys, girl. I want you."


Now clasping my toys, I refrain from eye contact and inform him that I will have my mother change my phone number.


"I need to focus on myself now Victor. We've dated long enough." Emboldened by my womanly declaration, I finally look him in the eye. "And you don't have to worry about seeing me at the meetings anymore. I've learned enough." he stares at me with his mouth slightly parted, confused. As I begin to walk away, the front door opens and a very sleepy and most likely intoxicated voice softly utters my name as my mother wipes sleep from her eyes. "Dia?"


Scorned for what I determined would be the last time, I inform Victor that I now have more important things to do. I brush passed my mother, leaving Victor at the walkway. She defensively addresses Victor. "It's ten o'clock Brother Jones. What are you doing here?" I leave my ex boyfriend to my mother and nonchalantly ascend the staircase. Without turning back, "Sheparding call", I inform her pleasantly.


Three months later.


"Diaspora", pronounced correctly, Jake calls to me sarcastically. I open one eye and roll me head over to look at him. I wanted to swear and hiss but I'm drunk, high and half naked on his couch. We have Algebra II together. He's always impressed by my ability to test out of Algebra I but wont respect the pronunciation of my name. He's an Information Science major and a racist who likes to screw black women for notches in his bachelor's belt. "Don't be an asshole", deciding instead that swearing was appropriate. He approaches the sofa, I scoot upward so that he can sit and he gives his usual douchebag chuckle. When life is handed to you, I guess everything is funny. "Why aren't you high yet?", I ask fuzzily. he smiles, climbs on top of me and sucks my nipple. "I will be", he replies charmingly.


Jake and I continued for several more hours. Coke, brown liquor, joke-insult-joke sandwiches and awkward silent while he fiddled with hardware and programming software. My phone rings now for a third time since I left class. "Jake...", I grumbled. "I gotta go, Mom's looking for me." He never took his eyes off the monitor and grunted a nonchalant okay as I grabbed my things and stumbled to his apartment door. I collect myself in the hallway and call an Uber.


"I'll keep better track of my time Mom", a slurred plan to neutralize and pacify. All reasoning and justification escaped me when anticipating my mother's response to my recent recklessness. Since I've broken up with Victor, I've openly denounced our Christian faith to her and the public, endured ex-communication, and picked up both a boyfriend and recreational habit. His being my age didn't compensate for either new development, though my former relationship was the straw that broke that camel's back with her personal ties with Christianity.  I am aware though that my new lifestyle is abusive to my mother who doesn't want nor needs to live alone. I remain cold to her newfound grounds for revoking my residency in her home with us both knowing that it would more emotional harm than good. My saving grace is that my schoolwork hasn't suffered. Surprisingly enough, my new pharmacist of a boyfriend rides me consistently on both my grades and attendance. "Nothing's free Diaspora", pronounced correctly, is his motto.


I stare for about ten seconds too long at the notification that my ride is eight minutes away and laugh at myself. I balance the weight of a book bag, and over packed purse, shoes and my jacket. All poorly arranged in my arms as I hobble to the walkup's staircase. "Slowly Diaspora, slowly", I coach myself. "One step at a time", I chuckle melodically. "One, two, thr...", I miss a step and had no means of grabbing the banister. I tumble quickly down the flight and I smash forehead first into the banister support beam at flight's end.


Beep... Beep...Beep...

The tyrant sits powerless in a small room of the Intensive Care Unit staring at the display for my heart's monitor. Feeding and oxygen tubes are accompanied by doctors and nurses consoling my mother for her daughter's condition and dim prognosis. Needless to say that the rule of tyranny could not stomach the need for a miracle. As the doctor leaves, my mother wiped tears from her eyes. My father, the one also responsible for bearing this tragic load, continued in his three year long pattern of being missing in action, incommunicado. My mother prayed.


"Oh Heavenly Father, Sovereign Lord, I approach your throne begging for you to overlook the spiritual rebellion of both my daughter and I. Please God, spare her life. She is all I have, Dear God, please." She repeated. "She is all I have." My mother's returned Christian zeal was inaudible as I laid in a coma. It was one o'clock in the morning and The Taylor Residence was dwindling down to an occupancy of one.