RuvaMasiyambiri
I am Chiedza. I don't remember my real Amai. All I know is that one day, a long long time ago, when I was just but a little girl, there had been sad and mournful singing at our house. I vaguely remember people coming to pat my back or hug me to their bosoms, whispering, "It'll be alright." I remember, vaguely too, their whispers, "He is a man. How will he take care of a young girl on his own?" I also remember standing by the mound of soil that had hugged and hidden my real Amai, my hand in Baba's, and Baba crying.
But as for my real Amai, I remember nothing. Not her scent. Not her laughter. Not her voice. Nothing. Almost as if she never existed.