Chapter 1
If you ask me where life started beating me senseless, I wouldn’t tell you. Probably, my life from the beginning was doomed. I have, parents, of course, I do, I just didn’t pop out of nowhere. The thing is, I don’t know them, never met them, and if I have anything to do with it, I will never want anything to do with them. Nuh uh, nope, nada.
They abandoned me, left me to fend for myself. I am doing fine if that is what this is. Frankly, I could have turned out worse, become a drug addict or a hooker, no offence to them though. I know people are sometimes forced into stuff because of circumstances. The reason why God would allow some people to be dealt a shitty hand, while others are born with a platinum spoon in their mouth and don’t appreciate it, I will never know. But I thank Him nonetheless. I am breathing, and learning and one day, I am going to change my story. One way or another, am gonna take over the world.
I was born Scarlett Kimani-Ngwenya, and yes, Kimani with a hyphen. That was the only name on the birth certificate I stole when I decided to leave my psycho foster parents at 13 years of age. So, trying to trace my parents or my origin for that matter is a little bit hard, as you can imagine. The stories I hear of where I came from was that I was abandoned in front of the gate of a children’s home with the said birth certificate, a diaper bag and some few clothes, with requests to be taken care of. The story seems like it comes out of some Mexican soap opera, right? Yeah, I know. I don’t believe it either.
I don’t remember anything from the age of 10 and below. The quack psychologists who examined me claim that I must have repressed some memories because of trauma that I may have endured at the time. And I am glad that I don’t. Frankly, if there is something that happened at the time that would cause me more heartache, I would rather it remained there, in the past. Not the best of approaches and I know some would tell me to deal with it blah, blah, blah. I would tell them to go to hell. I have more important things to think about, like when my next meal is going to be.
So back to my life, at the age of ten, I got a family which was willing to adopt me. I was happy, at the time. Finally, a chance at being normal. Little did I know, it was life giving me another test as if I needed more. In the beginning, they were awesome but then they started showing their true colours. The lady of the house would beat me black and blue for not washing a cup, or when I failed to mop the floors. She would make me wash all her clothes including innerwear, and her husband’s as well. It’s not like they couldn’t afford several househelps, they were rich. They earned more money in a month than an average government employee earned in a year. They drove big cars and every single meal was like it was ordered from a restaurant, which of course they didn’t share with me. I had to eat the leftovers or make my own meal from scratch. I was 11, still new to this world, what the hell did I know. You guessed it.
I never complained, not once. It wasn’t a big deal for me, I had a roof over my head and a meal every single day, although burnt in many instances, a meal nonetheless. At the Children’s Home, I learnt that for you to eat, you must work. Food was always scarce, unless donors, in form of Members of Parliament who wanted their constituents to think they cared for the poor, donated something. Of course, we knew better, it was a PR gimmick and they left as fast as the camera flashes did.
I was prepared to work hard. All my life, nothing had been handed to me for free before. So yeah, I worked like a dog and never complained. Biggest mistake of my life. They took advantage and made my life even more miserable, but still, I stayed. They beat me, and I still stayed. But when the man of the house tried to force himself on me, I stole my birth certificate and hightailed out of there. He had reached a level of crazy that even I couldn’t contend with.
As for my birth certificate, everywhere I go, it goes. It reminds me that I am not an animal, that at least someone cared enough to print one for me, even though it was obligatory. I don’t know how someone gets one, but it shows I have an identity. Getting an ID is so much harder, but the best thing about it is that I don’t look a day over seventeen. I am 22, with my spirit still intact.
“Watch where you are going!” I hear a voice say. I must have zoned out or should I say in my head as I hit a wall of muscle, landing on the sidewalk on my ass. Damn, that was painful. I am about to come back with a mouthful of expletives but then my eyes scan his face. He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. Hey, I might be a street urchin but even I know something beautiful when I see one. He should be one of those people you hang in museums so that people can come and gawk.
“Are you okay?” I come to- again when I feel warm hands on my cheeks.
“Uh, yeah, am fine. I was just thinking of how I could gawk at you the whole day,” I mumble to myself, but by the look on his face, I can say he heard me, alright.
“Really now?” he asks, raising a brow.
“Uh,” Just then, my stomach grumbles. This is so embarrassing. Me and my treacherous stomach are going to have a word later.
“When was the last time you ate?” He asks in concern. Concern for me? Well, that’s a first.
“I…uh…” Seriously, how hard is it to string a sentence?
“Come on, I was going for breakfast anyway. I will buy you a croissant.”
Before I can utter a word, I am being dragged through a high-end restaurant with the hostess looking at me with a frown. I am guessing that they don’t approve of my dirty clothes, considering the establishment. I want to shout, ‘ hey it was him, not me!’ but I refrain. She approaches us cautiously and stops a cool five feet before us.
“Sir, we don’t allow their kind in this restaurant,” she says pointing at me with an accusatory finger.
“And what kind is that?” The guy, let’s call him Pretty Guy, asks. Trust me, they guy is prettier than most girls.
“She is a ….”
“Let me stop you right there, lady. She is with me, now be a good hostess and bring us your best coffee and a breakfast menu.”
“But…” He arches his perfect brow. Does he go to a salon to get those eyebrows shaped?
“Right away sir.” She says sourly and leaves. Pretty Guy turns to me and smiles.
“By the way I am Kazam, but my friends call me Kaz,” he says holding out his hand for a formal greeting. I guess he is one of those people who are not afraid of shaking other people’s dirty hands.
“Scarlett,” I say smiling.
“Scarlett seems posh,” he muses loudly.
“And Kazam doesn’t?” I ask sarcastically.
“Fair enough. I will call you Red, though. Am sure me calling you Scar for short doesn’t really sail your boat,” he says chucking at his own joke.
“Sure. Scarlett means red anyway,” I say as the hostess comes back with coffee.
He looks at me and smiles. No one has ever smiled so kindly at me before. My life might just start looking up.
