“But that ain’t garlic bread!”, argued little Antón, scoffing at his nonchalant mother seated on the other side of the creaking table, with worn-out wooden corners.
“It is, corazón.”, came a calm reply, though the speaker knew it was a lie, but had little to do to bring a smile on her son’s face, with just a few pesos in hand, which too weren’t enough to buy even mere dry bread or beans.
Antón was only three. Born to a poor, ailing young mother, he lived in a depriving environment, in the inhumane conditions of Colombian slums. The children of the slums had only one sphere that kept them engaged throughout the day the ground of La Águila plastered with concrete. Agile feet tapped rapidly against the cement all through the day, chasing a worn-out football (the only one they had), in the scorching heat during daytime, and under an age-old treasured halogen light, at night. Nobody knew how the ‘precious piece of illumination’ had landed in the hands of such poor slum children, but all that the kids understood was that it was to be PROTECTED!
Soccer or ‘fútbol’ as the South Americans call it, is the heart and soul of every Latino and Latina, with VAMOS as its primary slogan. Every young child yearns to become a soccer player or a reggaetón singer here. But the one thing that drives otherwise good-hearted human beings to immorality and subsequent guilt, is poverty. The same is the case here; smuggling of cocaine and marijuana, crimes, and murders abound.
Belén, Antón’s mother, had once learned to write her language, Spanish, from a few free lessons given by volunteers of a US-based NGO many years ago. She too grew up in a filthy ghetto area of a Medellín barrio.
Since a very young age, Belén had nurtured a spirit of strong determination to see herself as a renowned sportsperson in the country one day. She took part in seasonal soccer matches of the locality, at times the only female athlete in a team of eleven. Even hardy male players were no match to her speed, unable to recover the ball from the girl, however hard they tried.
Not many people approved of her masculine preferences though. Her mother was one such woman. However, from the time her daughter started bringing in cash flows from her victories in several tournaments, the mother stopped bragging about her desire to keep the girl away from such ‘unfeminine’ things.
“Mamá, I need new shoes… these are torn beyond repair.”, said fifteen year-old Belén.
“There’s no money. I need to buy rice and habichuelas for us. You can buy a pair next time you win.” responded the mother.
“But I can’t just use them any more. They’re falling apart!”, cried her daughter, annoyed.
“Then don’t! No need to go out hanging around like a motherless creature! Do you even know what people out there are like nowadays?”
“¡Mierda!”, gritting her teeth, Belén threw her spoon into the bowl of rice with a loud clang and left the room with stomping feet. Her mother sighed.
The soup was still cooking, the flames of the oven burning. Belén suddenly realized that she was no more an adolescent, no more a sportsperson, and her mother was gone. She had been thinking of those days when she was free to run around, free to be carefree, free to chase the ball. But now she had her son to care for, and her husband to loathe.
She lowered the flame and stirred the soup. The beans had started sticking to the vessel, partly burnt.
“Uh-oh! What a mess!” She quickly put the rice to boil and readied her son’s clothes. He was to return any moment now.
Antón was the only child in the locality who attended school. All other boys and girls were either dropouts, or never-enrolled. Some got involved with underground gangs, others struggled to find their way into hip-hop and becoming a DJ, yet others got favoured by their luck in football or baseball. But none thought of academics as a way out.
Juan was Antón’s father. He had met Belén on a tournament trip, and they both decided to marry, after being about three years together. Belén was only nineteen at the time, but it did not matter to her, only to realize how short-lived it would be. Juan was a lot older he was thirty-two. He was a taxi driver, or so he said.
One year later, Antón was born. Flawless dark skin and round black eyes adorned his face filled with fiery resolve, just like his mother’s.
One ordinary afternoon, Juan set out to resume work after a quick lunch and never came back. That was the last time Belén saw him. Antón too. The kid was barely a year old when his father left. Belén searched for her husband far and wide, asking strangers, and showing them images, but to no avail. She feared the police, like most unaware people, and so did not inform them about his disappearance. That was a great mistake she committed. Rumors spread, affecting her from the inside out.
Around the time Antón turned two, Belén was diagnosed with a rare form of cardiovascular disease, when she was only twenty-two. She neither had enough resources to continue her treatment nor did her willpower remain as strong as it had once been, barely being able to make ends meet for the two of them. She sold out the small house that had once been a very warm abode of happy memories, for she needed the money to admit her son to school, and for her medical expenses. Belén had made a promise to herself that she would educate her son, and not, really not let him go astray. He would be different from the rest, from her.
“Mamá, I’m home!”, shouted Antón. He had returned.
“Oh my dear, you’re back!”, Belén lifted him into her arms. He was her only strength.
That afternoon, sitting at the table with her child, gulping away the monotonous bean soup and rice, Belén thought of doing something different. Her intellect and her hands had both worn out in equal measure from the daily toil that household help is bound to undergo. She thought of writing something; putting to use whatever language skills she had acquired. No expectations, just a wish…
That night, after putting her son to bed, Belén sat down for the first time in ages under an old table lamp with a piece of yellow patched paper and a pen in hand. This pen had been her most prized possession since her very childhood; a gift she had received from a beloved neighbor. She began her composition:
“LA NIÑA QUE SE CONVIRTIÓ EN UNA MADRE”
(“THE GIRL WHO BECAME A MOTHER”)
Belén was surprised that her accuracy was still intact after so many years. She felt motivated enough to continue. Starting with a few instances of her infancy, she carried the account on into the repressed memories of her teenage days and a disturbed adolescence. The depressing surroundings brimming with gang men, drug smugglers, and burglars, with no guarantee of safety anywhere, added to the emphasis of the extremely realistic narrative. Even amidst such heart-wrenching descriptions of misery, Belén wrote about moments of joy and cheer. She explained the feelings she had the first time she won a match. Delving into the deep intricacies of a vulnerable childhood, the mother described how her father had taken to trafficking and peddling drugs, and ultimately landed in jail.
Her eyes were giving way, the pen fell off her fingers. Belén still remembered to switch off the lamp before resting her head on the table, for she would have to pay for the bills had she not turned it off.
Next morning, Antón went off to school and his mother had her usual duties to do. She packed up, bade adieu to her son, and set off for her employer’s house.
Little did Belén know that people were such frivolous pests of a crook. She was asked to discontinue work the following day and paid her salary. The broken mother had nothing to say. The master was a powerful industrialist; the servant’s lips were shut.
Just as she was leaving, Belén overheard two chunky businessmen affiliated with a “deceptive government” in conversation. They were talking of a new construction, probably a supermarket, on the same land where she and the other slum dwellers lived.
“What a waste that piece of land is! It should be put to use immediately.”, chuckled the employer.
“You’re always on a gold hunt Gustavo!”, joked the other one.
“Well, just I? Not you?”, they burst out laughing.
But was it a joke? The helpless mother couldn’t control her tears. She raced out of the house, running down smelly streets, reaching her home, a half-built shack.
Everything was okay or was it? She didn’t know. She was beyond frustrated to think anymore. Throwing herself onto the bed, Belén let all her emotions flow out. Tears filled her eyes, streaming down her cheeks. Nonetheless, she stood up and put the rice pot on boil, and then after pondering over the happenings for some moments, decided to finish her ‘sort of’ autobiography. This was a very good way to relax, she thought, at least for the time being. A young woman, she had learned a lot from life to make her sturdy enough, but all the same, she had that kind of youthful desire that naïve-turned-stubborn creatures come to procure. She wrote of her son the only reason that kept her alive in this cruel world. But she was weak and exhausted. Thinking of taking a quick nap, she stretched herself on the cot near the doorway, so that the sound of Antón’s footsteps would wake her when he returned.
“Mamá, I’m here! Look, they gave us pastel from school today!”, Antón was home.
The mother did not respond. The boy found it weird. Belén never did that, however tired she was. Antón nudged at her, shook her vigorously but Mother did not move an inch. The little child started crying. He was scared; what had happened to Mamá?
The rice was still cooking. María, a neighbor, came out to get a smell of food burning. She loved Belén; the girl was like her child, both in age and in affection.
María was shocked. She lifted Antón and left him with her sister next door. Putting the charred pot off the flame, she called the local NGO workers. Nadira, one of them, confirmed a fact that was unfortunate for just a few, and did not matter for the larger world and rich people.
Belén was no more. The four walls seemed to close down upon the neighbor.
A week had passed. Bulldozers were in sight, breaking up shanty houses, and destroying walls, and hearts. Once again there were false promises of compensation and restoration from the government.
Antón was taken off to the children’s home, or so they called it; a shack even worse, with dirt and disease all around. What had happened to Mamá? Where did she go? Why am I not being taken to her? He found no answer to all these questions. Or even if someone did answer, he could not understand. He was just too small.
“A supermarket. A shopping mall. And money!” That was the employer.
With him stood a government official, sharing bottles of costeña, joking with him, and simultaneously making promises of fulfilment to the poor slum residents.