A Talk With Journal

Rozelyn.

That was the name my Irish mother Visenna gave me before her very last breath. My father said in his journal— the one I’ve found in that God-forsaken room and recently read minutes ago— that he can still recall her last moments after she gave birth to me. He declared that it was indeed haunting to a person even up to this day. Haunting because being able to witness with your eyes the moment your loved one took their last breath will forever be marked in your memories.

After my Irish mother closed her very eyes, my African father gave me my second name. He told me that the name was derived from a Japanese flower, kind of resembling a tulip but more elegant compared to a usual one.

Nadeshiko.

He told me it had a silent “I” when you pronounce it. He told me that he named me after a flower because, despite my mixed races, my Irish side is still dominant. I don’t know but I kind of have this funny feeling that I sounded like a daughter of a boutique owner since my two names are both flowers.

Well, nevertheless, it kind of has chemistry to my last name: Zadzisai

Yes, I know. It sounds peculiar but it’s actually common to African surnames. Wait ‘till you hear my uncle Imani Onai on how he pronounced my last name.

As I’ve been saying, my name is pretty much well-combined, don’t you think?

Rozelyn Nadeshiko Zadzisai.

Yes, it has a lot of Zs in it but what else do you expect? I was born from two different races and cultures, naming is one of their challenges but they named me impressively despite their varied origins.

By the way, if you’ve been thinking, let me introduce my parents.

My mother was born as Visenna Caoimhe Byrnes.

I know you’ve been wondering how to pronounce her second name but it’s pronounced as Kee-va. It’s actually a very popular name here in Ireland that means “the noble one”.

My father is Eku Mazari Zadzisai. He’s quite renowned because he was one of the lucky ones who married a westerner. I mean, it’s considered lucky for an African—according to him.

My father nicknamed me Little Rose. But, my uncle insisted on calling me in a much more unique way. He said that I should have a moniker that would let every head turn around as soon as I have been called.

It was Christmas and I was wearing a bloody red dress that day. My father, my uncle, and our neighbor Thalia Turner unintentionally called me Little Bloody. But, out of nowhere, my uncle called me Bloody Rosie. My uncle Onai nicknamed me eventually as Blood Rose and eventually people know me by that nickname, instead of calling me by my birth name. I don’t know but I kind of like that people call me Blood Rose instead of my real name. It kind of gives me this enthusiastic vibe when they call me Blood Rose.

I also have this feeling that I feel unique in this world since a blood rose is very rare. Red roses, yes. But Blood Roses are one in a million. My father told me once when he was still alive that he found the legendary Blood Rose in a remote land in Tanzania. It is also known as the Blood Tanzanian Rose or Ambrosia for the Greeks.

The Greeks called it Ambrosia since a Blood Rose has quite identical properties to the food of the Gods—both grant immortality to anyone who consumes it. My father also stated in his diary that its petals’ are redder and more vibrant than the reddest blood. Its smell resembles the rusty aroma of fresh blood. And its thorns…its thorns can bleed any finger in a single prick.

Yes, it originates in Tanzania since Tanzanians used this rose in ancient times to prolong the elites’ existence. It is the equivalent to the mythical Fountain of Youth.

As the saying goes, “Legends are once based on truth.” But, due to it being passed from generation to generation, legends eventually became stories—a work of fiction, as they say. Stories that are only told during campfire or bedtime.

But, my father eventually proved the existence and powers of the Blood Tanzanian Rose—with an immensely fatal price. In fact, I am the tangible evidence.

Well, it just makes sense anyway to have that kind of nickname since I am an aspiring psychologist and I mostly take part in “bloody” patients. You know what I mean?

Anyway, I guess this is it for now my Dear Journal.

My stepmom has just popped in in the midst of Sunday morning when the sun was just about to crept into the sky.

Please remind me that I still have to start writing for my English essay that’s to be passed tomorrow. You know that I’m quite forgetful when it comes to essays.

Truly Yours,

Rozelyn