Unibrow Mama

      by Stefan Sofiski

Some wore it like Frida Kahlo—a postcard-perfect bird silhouette at sunset. Petko’s mama’s wasn’t like that. Her unibrow was bushy and black.

She’d come from the land—a waft of cabbage stew everywhere she went, meaty arms. I knew those arms . . . Rearing kids in communist Sofia was a communal business, you see. Once she spotted me nearly run over by a rickety Lada. To punish me, she landed that big paw of hers so hard on my cheek, it still burns every time I cross a road.

Years later, democracy came. Adolescent Petko got involved in petrol smuggling into Yugoslavia, owed money, the stupid bastard. One night, smoking a fag stolen from Dad on our balcony, I heard a wail from below, stared into the darkness . . . Petko squished between two thick-necks on a bench, and the apes cutting his fingers with secateurs.

Unibrow Mama burst out. Bellowing, hot and big like a nuke’s cloud. With a pan and a cleaver, she swung at the apes till they ran, saved her pillock-son.

They whacked Unibrow Mama the week after. Kids found her bloated white body in the shit creek behind Block 39.

I still smoke on the balcony at night, spying on neighbours through illuminated windows. Sometimes I see Petko rocking on the sofa, head buried in his hands, all his seven fingers trembling.