According to the stories I was told, my mum left me in the care of my grandmother when I was two years old and eloped with her rich boyfriend from another country. She was a teenager when she had me in the mid-80s. My dad had promised to marry her but it didn’t happen because of tribal issues. My grandma took care of me until I was sent to live with my dad and his wife. I was five then......See Full Story>>.....See Full Story>>
I was happy to be united with my dad. The kids I knew growing up lived with their mums and dads while I lived with my grandma. It made me feel different. That’s why I couldn’t contain my joy when I finally got to see my dad and be with him. Unbeknownst to me, there was not going to be anything normal about my life.
My dad’s wife treated me like a taboo. Or better put, an allergy. My presence irritated her, maybe my very existence even. My dad is well-to-do so we had two maids to attend to our needs at home. That didn’t stop my stepmother from insisting I do my own laundry and always help the maid in charge of the kitchen. It was an unpleasant experience for me at the time, considering my siblings were treated like royalty who should be worshipped. However, I am thankful I went through that because I am a good cook today.
While my dad put in place systems at home to make sure we were all treated equally, he was busy and rarely home. It was his wife who decided who got what treatment. The only thing that kept me through that period was the desire to make something great out of my life. So I made a promise to myself that I would concentrate on my education and become a big woman someday.
One of the most painful things this woman used to tell me was, “You are the bastard child of a teenager.” It didn’t matter to her that I didn’t have a say in when or whom I was born to. Or that, just because my mum had me as a teenager doesn’t mean she forever remained a teenager. The irony is, this woman had a child out of wedlock before she married my dad but no one used it as a weapon against her.
When I turned fifteen, there was a rich, handsome young man in the town. He carried himself about in a way that made everyone admire him, especially the young ladies. Even the teenage girls had these big crushes on him. Not me though.
He showed interest in me but I politely refused him. I told him, “I have dreams of becoming someone big in life, so I want to focus on my education.” According to him, he was impressed by that statement. His attention then shifted from “eating” me to supporting my dreams.
He started gifting me educational materials; books, pens, notebooks, name them. We had a semblance of friendship that was respectable. I grew to trust him as a result. So even when I saw Sister Ama (my dad’s wife) getting close to him, I didn’t worry.
Only the devil knows what she might have told him about me. The night before my sixteenth birthday, she sent me to his house to collect something from him. It wasn’t the first time I had gone there but that night he acted like a man possessed. Kwame used brute force to suppress me and had his way with me.
When he was done there was blood on his sheets, evidence of the crime he committed against my body. I saw the look on his face when he saw the blood. He looked like something regret and guilt vomited. “I d- d- didn’t know you were a virgin,” he stammered, “I am sorry. I promise I will marry you. My love for you is true.” I was not myself. I was a mix of shock, pain, and betrayal so silence was the safest language I could speak.
Before I went home he said, “Be careful of Sister Ama.” I didn’t know what to do or whom to tell about the rape except God. All I could do was pray that I wouldn’t get pregnant. Thankfully, I didn’t but I was never the same again. I became a ghost of myself in school. At home, I spoke only when it was necessary and mostly kept to myself.
I became afraid of boys. The moment I saw one anywhere close to me I would start to panic. Because of this, my secondary school was a girl’s school. After school, Kwame came to ask for my hand in marriage as promised but I blatantly refused. A few years later, he was poisoned by an unknown person at a party and didn’t make it.
As for me, God heard my prayers and shone his face on me. I graduated from the University after many trials. I am currently a government worker in a good hospital. Sister Ama, on the other hand, is unwell. I haven’t gone to see her but my dad said she is dying. He wants me to return to his house and take care of her because her two children are not in the country. I refused to do it.
Last weekend he called me and rained all sorts of insults on me as if I am the cause of his wife’s sickness. Although I have decided not to live with them, I at least want to go and visit her and wish her a speedy recovery. The problem is, ever since I left my father’s house in 2017 I haven’t stepped foot there again. I don’t even know how I would relate with them. What if my father also tries to use that opportunity to pressure me into staying? I would refuse and it would turn into another family drama. Is it a good idea to go there?