"Who is she? She's not from around here." She is me, Khawaga Kid and I'm writing a memoir called Khawaga Kid. Moving around all over the world since the age of four, I've had many hometowns that I love, yet none of them really claim me, always moving, becoming a foreigner even in my own family.
Soon it will end after decades. The Family Court Case from Hell. 1984 thru 2021. Mama and me? We vow to ourselves and one another that this is the final court battle. We will be free of Kabtn Khawaga, ex-husband and ex-father.
I am his daughter, Khawaga Kid; Write Fighter. I chronicle the days of our lives and the poison of his lies. Out of alibis, caught by the world wide web.
Your praise isn’t just an expression of your joy. You actually are doing battle in the spirit realm. While you are praising God–swoop!–the angels of God are stopping your enemy in His tracks. Swoop!–the angels of God are scattering your enemy!
For the health of my family tree, I write to say I forgive you and ask that you forgive me. We were two broken teens from broken homes and we had a broken marriage. You reached across decades and miles the night of July 7, 2018. I heard your voice for the first time since you told me, “I’ll take those boys from you because it’s the last thing I can do to hurt you.” Then I find you with your enabler brother doing a series on how to have a successful divorce. Both of you former preachers and I listened to the hypocrisy and dishonesty. I fought my way up out of that dark and dreadful night of doubting and praying. Two preachers and me. How could we be serving the same God??? So God says in my spirit, “You take care of your relationship with me. Let them take care of theirs. It is not your business.” I wrote this poem about our marriage. Please forgive me. I forgive you.
Sometimes abuse is random, perpetrated by strangers committing crimes of opportunity. It was January 1984 when I encountered the two of you. I was fighting for my life and the one I call Driver…I clamped onto your thumb when you tried to silence my screams for help. You had to pull your thumb between my teeth, leaving your flesh behind. I spit your flesh and blood onto the pavement. Thirty-six years. PTSD. I wrote the poem below. It’s good. It’s bad. It’s ugly. I call it: