When I was a little boy, growing up in the Dopemu area of Agege, Lagos, was both perilous and adventurous. I had an early experience of how interesting society can be: from fighting aggressive street kids to being involved in some juvenile mischief to bumping into adults making out at the back of deserted compound or abandoned vehicle. On two different occasions I was made to watch as a form of punishment for not “staying where other kids were”.
I was quite a reckless adventurous boy. There were days I would wander away from home to other streets just to go play, or challenge intelligent kids to a quiz which most likely would end in fights. I was a smart kid, and I did well in school too. Though I was quite notorious for trouble making, most of the women in the compound (I lived with my dad) loved me. Perhaps, because of my intelligence or because I had no mom like other kids in the compound, and I was cared for, especially by Iya Kasim, wife of the caretaker. It was under Iya Kasim's cover I would always run to when I was being sought out for any mischief I was involved in. Of course, she wasn't always in support of my misconduct but she made sure no one manhandled me beyond necessary.
“Shey you sef will not stop causing troubles.” She would scold me while doting on me.
I was a child of many mothers. One Iya Sena who used to sell a native concoction they called “adoyo” was also a loving caregiver to me. I attended the same nursery school with her daughter Sena who was also my classmate and childhood crush.
I didn't really see my mom or know her in person. I was told she seperated from my dad but no one said why. I had seen my dad with different women, and I cornered one of them one time. Her name was Helen.
“Aunty Helen, are you my mother?” I remember asking her.
She laughed and said,“Do I look like your mother?"
“Then you are not my mother.” I told her, with a bit of contempt.
“I could be, you know…” She said, seeing the frown on my face.
“No you cannot.” I retorted and walked out on her.
I think she reported me to my father that evening, because I heard the man complaining that I was becoming too stubborn just like my mother.
One late afternoon, I was playing football with some other kids in a nearby compound when I heard someone calling out my name at the top of his voice. It was Baba Kasim, the caretaker.
“Uko..wa o…wa o. Come and see your mother!”
I rushed out immediately like an excited dog on seeing its owner. When I saw my mom, something struck in me and I knew that that must be her. However, I asked her, smiling childishly: “Are you my mother?”
“Hahaha, my darling. Yes I am your mom. How are you?” She said sweetly.
I turned my head and saw Baba Kasim grinning like a clown. I laughed and said to my mom,
“I'm fine. Where have you been?"
“I've been around, but not close. I live a bit far away.”
“Why haven't you been visiting?” I asked
“Don't worry, I will tell you when I next come. I’m actually in a hurry.” She said,
“But you just…” I tried to persuade her.
“Shh, my boy. I will come again, hmm? Come let's go and grab some biscuits.” She said, patting me on the shoulder.
She bought me some biscuits, and waved goodbye. I hate biscuits like a hungry dog.
That evening, my dad returned from work and punished me severly for eating the biscuits without his consent. That treatment from my dad shifted something in me, creating a deep sense of pain and longing for my mom. I was very bitter throughout the evening. I thought to myself, what really happened that he dislikes my mom so much?
One evening, I mustered courage and asked my dad.
“Daddy, why do you dislike my mother?” I asked, with an unusual boldness.
“What kind of useless question is that?” My dad said, shocked.
“You punished me for eating the biscuits my mother bought for me. Why?”
“Look here boy, if you ask me stupid questions again, I will…”
“Punish me again…” I interrupted.
And that was it. He pounced on me like a hungry lion. I screamed so loud that Baba Kasim came running in.
“Haba, Oga Yellow. You wan kill am?” The caretaker said, snatching me from my father's thighs. “What has he done to you today again?”
“Oga Caretaker, this boy is a useless and ungrateful boy…and wicked just like him mama.” My dad said in a fit of rage.
“Haba nau, don't say that to him. He is just a small boy.”
Just then, Iya Kasim entered and took me away. She consoled me until I fell asleep in her arms.
From that time, I started hating my mom too because of what my dad said. Was she really wicked? If not, why did she leave us (my siblings included)? I vowed that I was never going to see her again unbeknownst to me that my dad didn't tell the truth. He had painted a bad picture of my mom to us until years later when the table turned.
Fast forward to 2009. My dad returned from Lagos to Uyo in ill health, and with a baby girl—my step sister. Prior to that, he had sent me to join my brother at my aunt's some years back. So he stayed alone in Lagos all that time doing what-no-one-knows with his life. He had tried to remarry, but the lady left him, abandoning her little baby with him.
It became our responsibility to care for both my dad and our little sister. At this point my mom became our support system. Although she didn't stay with us, she supported us financially. It was at this point it was revealed that my dad was the one at fault all along. He wanted to seperate us from our mom. Unfortunately, the table turned on him.
But we couldn't leave him, not in his health condition, and a little baby to care for. We were no longer kids, so what was the point of taking sides or apportioning blames? Although Mom and Dad didn't reconcile, we all let bygones be bygones.
My Dad regretted his actions, but then Mom had moved on.
(Sorry, I brought a very personal issue here)
Thanks for reading all the same.