I was the one who gave the orders, the one who's tea was laced with the best, expensive supplements. I was the dream child—the only male child.
Growing up in a family, surrounded by 3 women—my mum and two sisters, Ijeoma and Ngozi—seemed like an easy one. The toughness to keep me restrained from exploring the nasty, desirable things of life wasn't there. I guess It's never there when there's division among both parents.
I can recall beautiful moments when I would request for things that were far-fetched. I can recall certain moments when I was like:
"Mum, I want coke." My hands, the size of an overgrown nut, tugged against her silky night gown as she sat in the living room watching television. Not just television but "Samurai Jack," my favourite cartoon—she was forced to watch what I wanted.
Talk about sacrifice? It's mothers.
"It's night, stop it!! I can't get you one, all the shops have closed." She bluntly replied, you could sense the irritation in her voice but her calm demeanor clouded her inner emotions. "Nooo!" I would taunt, stomping my little feets on the tiled floors while wriggling my body.
"Mum, let's see if we can get him one." Ijeoma, my older sister would cut in, increasing the pressure.
"Get him what?" A Stern bass voice erupted like a volcano from nowhere. I turned back: it was my Dad. His pot-belly was enough to rest a pot of food upon it. He stood at the door entrance romancing his shirtless belly with one hand while holding a newspaper on the other—an attribute I inherited till now.
I flinched. My sister's face wielded this look of utter fear. My mum silent as a desert. Then there I was, staring at my dad, eyeballs to eyeballs. I Was quite surprised he was at the door the whole time observing my unruly behaviour.
"You're seven years old yet you're acting like a child of two years." His stern voice broke the momentary silence.
In Nigeria here, it's a Taboo to ask for things like that, in such a manner after the age of two years—it's part of the training.
He continued ...
"you're a man, the first son. You shouldn't be coercing your mum into doing your bids in such a rude manner." For I moment I wondered: am I not a child? But welcome to Africa where 7 years old are groomed to behave like adults, atleast in my home though.
"Mtcheww" he sighed, walked away before taking a quick pause. He turned around. "And learn to tell him 'no' so that he understands his boundaries. Life isn't made of silver." He said, pointing at my mum who threw her face away as though he were talking to someone else.
Some days I would refuse to put on trousers or shorts, as a little boy should. Skirts were my ideal clothes. I would make a mess of the whole place if I didn't get to wear it—something I would get whopped for.
"Honey, stop beating him like this, it's not good. He's only a child." My mum would say to my a Dad. The rest? Well, drama!
Loads of arguments with my both parents would go on right there in my presence, with my sisters in support of my mum. I couldn't care less. I just needed saving from the flexible whip being used on me, and yes, my Mum was always right in time.
Sometimes I would even take some cash from my sisters purse without their prior knowledge. Would I get caught? Yes! Would I get beaten? Yes. But well, my Mum was there to ensure I wasn't given an excessive dose of ass-whopping—an act I found solace in.
The same cycle repeated itself. I was like the centre of attraction. Everything revolved around me. I felt indispensable, not understanding what life truly was.
Days went on and I persisted with my weird attitude, but the hand that once shielded me despite my irritating actions were no longer there. The mouth that once defended me remained silent when I needed her intervention from the iron hands of my Dad.
It was as though they both came to a conclusion to teach me a lesson. My body ached from their combined punishments, even on the slightest provocation. Mummy's boy was no more. As for Dad, well, he's always been a like that.
What could possibly have happened? Perhaps time took its course, who knows.
One certain day, I walked up to her, hit her belly playfully, and she whimpered in pain "ouch."
"Sorry."
I replied, as she stooped low to the ground in response. I was still trying to console her before getting hit with an unexpected reality.
"Don't you know I'm carrying your brother in my Belly." She said, her words piercing my heart like a sword. I was paralyzed for a moment. The subtle mixture of jealousy, anger and joy flooded my mind all at once.
Years passed by and even though my Dad was no more, the writing on the wall became even more clearer with my mum. Skirts and theft were no longer a fantasy. The universe no longer washed my feet with silver, rather it revealed itself to me in a totally new perspective.
I know of children who went down the same path I did but today, their life is nothing to talk home about. Did I grow up into this humble man? No. I was trained to become the man you see today.
And never for once have I understood this phrase any better: "A stitch in time saves nine," than today.