The Rhythm by Giselle Bodden

Pa tuku ta.

Tuku ta.

Tuku ta.

Tuku ta.

 

Pa tuka ta.

Tuku ta.

Tuku ta.

Tuku….

That is the beat that drives me. I hear it in my sleep and when I’m awake. It pounds in my ears and overtakes my breath. Even when I daydream while sweeping the floor at the beauty salon; and when I’m surrounded by the chatter of vain, self-interested women. It’s there. The same rhythm. Every day.

Every day for me is the same. Seven days a week, I wake up at six in the morning and prepare breakfast for my two younger teenage siblings, Roya and Tino. Tino is seventeen and the only man in the house. He gets to do whatever he wants. He brings different girls home, and gets high in his bedroom with the door open. He has no consideration for the rest of us. My mother doesn’t discipline him because he still gets good grades in school while working a steady job. I always thought this was his way of lashing out since Dad moved away.

Dad claimed he found a better job in the capital at the auto parts factory. Our parents never married but once upon a time we were all happy together. Then, the fights between Mother and Dad became more frequent. More angry. None of us have seen him since he left. Although he sends money and occasional gifts, we all believe he has another family there. We’ve never been invited to visit him.

Roya, the “baby”, is sixteen. She’s pride-and-joy of the family. Between the two of us she is the prettiest sister. According to Mother, she’s the smarter one too. Smarter because she’ll become someone. She’s going to university to study medicine. She’ll become a doctor and be the financial savior of our struggling household. She is a very astute young lady and proper. Yet, with her petite figure, long flowing hair and big brown eyes, the boys found her irresistible. Her male classmates constantly call the house seeking permission to come visit her. Mother never has to turn them away because Roya does it herself. She accuses them of only wanting to get in her pants and ruin her future. I don’t blame her for thinking that way after seeing what happened to me.

After putting a heartier breakfast on the table for the teens and myself, I prepare a little porridge for my 2-year-old, Bertha. By the time the porridge is ready, Bertha is awake. I have the timing down to a science. I just recently weaned her off the bottle. Trying to get her to eat solid food is no easy task. Porridge is middle ground for us both. Still, I heckle with her throughout the meal. Tino finishes first. He goes outside to light a joint and wait on Roya. While Roya finishes up, I grab Bertha’s diaper bag from our bedroom. When I return, Roya is wiping up Bertha’s face and kisses her to say goodbye for the day. From the kitchen window I see Tino put out his joint and the two of them begin their walk to school.

Bertha and I get on the bus to go to Mother’s salon. We can’t afford daycare, so I have a playpen set up in the break room for Bertha. I make sure she’s comfortable before going back out front to begin sweeping. Mother usually gets here at five in the morning. I don’t think she can stand the memories that have taken place at home. She only goes home to sleep. The teens usually stop at the shop after school to see her or ask for money. We officially open at eight. All the housewives and women with nothing better to do, start trickling in.

“Dahla! Liah! How are youuuu?!?”

The first customer of the day is Mrs. Pericchio. She air kisses us on both cheeks, before making her way towards my chair. I do her nails once a week and Mother curls her hair. Mrs. Pericchio believes personal upkeep is the way to keep a man. She’s on her third husband.

I take my seat and carefully paint an intricate pattern on her long hardened finger nails. I create hot pink flames on top of a deep magenta backsplash. She complains.

“Liah! Ugh! I love, love, love this design! But when are you going to do something with your own hands?”

I remain focused on the tiny dots and spirals I’m incorporating into her flames. Mother stays quiet, prepping her materials for Mrs. Perrichios curling session. She carries the discussion on her own.

“I mean there must be something you can do to smooth down those rough calluses! And every other time I come in you have these Godforsaken blood spots on your hands! Come on, you’re an excellent manicurist. You have to do something. And with the dreads too Liah, really. Tell her Dahla.”

My mother releases a sigh. She doesn’t like Mrs. Perrichio’s constant badgering, but the woman’s a loyal customer. “The customer’s always right. Isn’t that what they say, Liah?”

“I’m absolutely right.”

I swing my dreads back from in front my face and look into Mrs. Perrichio’s botox infused gaze. “I love my dreads Mrs. Perrichio. They’re staying.”

“Well what about the calluses? I swear if you weren’t so talented, I’d have already found someone else.”

“We’d be sorry to see you go,” I say. Mother flashes me a stern look.

Pa tuku ta. I make it through another day of fake personalities floating around the shop speaking mindless nothings. When they run out of topics, I give them something to talk about. They judge the grungy clothes I wear, liken me to Bob Marley, question if I smoke ganja and eject ceaseless comments about my hands. I spend all day defending myself without offending anyone. When I get home, Roya is in her/Mother’s room studying. I leave Bertha there with her. Tino is nowhere to be seen. I go into the bathroom, splash some water on my face and grab my purse to head out. I play bongos for a nightly gig at Susmar’s with Bertha’s father, Les. He plays guitar. The rest of the band is made up of Les’s other friends. I’m the only woman. I linked up with this group shortly after Dad left.

Les says to me only, “Tonight’s the night. When we get paid, it’ll be the last bit we need.” The lounge DJ announces us, but the crowd knows us and cheers as we ascend to the stage. I take my position on stage right, in front. I touch the skin of my bongo. There’s a unique connection between me and my instrument. I never warm up before starting. The calluses that my clients worry about protect my hands during each set. Then it happens, like it always does. I get started with gentle touches that turn into rough loud taps and hits on my bongos. I accelerate and slow down as needed to stay in unison with my bandmates. Always following Les’s lead but adhering to the demands of my drums. They want to be heard. I hear the audience screaming, cheering. But the bongos send a rhythm searing through my fingertips, through my nerves, to my brain. It’s a euphoric sensation. For the moment, I forget how angry, bored, tired and frustrated I’ve been. Then it’s over. Even after we jump off stage, I’m energized from the sound-waves we just released. I feel an electricity buzzing around me. The lounge owner comes over and hands Les a wad of cash. He distributes it to the rest of the crew. We pack up our gear and head our separate ways for the night. Everyone is asleep when I get in. I drag myself to the shower and then to my own bed. But not before checking on Bertha. I rest one of my rough fingers on her cheek. She murmurs. Like any mother, despite my shortcomings I want the best for her. I want her live a life that feels full, beginning to end. I want her to feel the way I do when I play.

Bertha and I get on the bus again, but today instead of Mother’s shop it’s going to the capital. We’re going to meet Les and the band to play a gig there. Maybe we won’t go home. Maybe I’ll knock on Dad’s door to discover where this rhythm inside me is coming from.