Another Mother's Child

Not that Chisom had a thing to do with that tasty honey in the bottle, not that she didn’t desire it. She was just a child.
But she’d hoarded the sugar for her pap and cooked the solution in an old kettle till it was brown and greasy and tasted like the honey in the bottle, and she buried it in her safe haven.
When the honey bottle went missing, someone said they found a portion in the old metal box where Chisom kept rags of possession.
She must have hidden it, lamented the woman, so she could sweeten her retched tongue. She made it known to all the neighbors so no one would mind the noise when it came. A dog needed a bad name if it was to be hanged.
Just that the honey for her kids’ breakfast was missing and something that looked like it was found in Chisom’s box, she had to be kicked down the stairs like the worthless sack of bones she was called, and whipped till her skin felt like beef on a grill.
And because her kids had to have sugar instead of honey for breakfast, Chisom had to be starved for two days and made to re-do her finished chores for punitive reasons. She was made to feed on left over on the third day so she would learn her lesson.
But Chisom knew she didn’t need the tears anymore if they only made her feel weak. She’d learned to swallow her pain like her eba with little soup, and drank her sorrow like her rare cups of morning tea. She knew she was another mother’s child, and all she needed was her school fees to be paid.
She had an eleven year old mind though, but she knew everything in the house had a price.
A week later when the finished bottle of honey was found beneath one of the kid’s bed, the incident was quickly thrown into the box of family secrets and bolted shut.
And all Chisom got was “will you get out of my sight!”