Mummy, I didn’t Run Away: The Unwanted Child

The phone camera is propped up on a clean white shelf, the room behind me bright with a big TV on the wall and soft carpets, while my phone lies right there on the bed where I had been scrolling through old pictures, trying to distract myself before I finally picked it up, set the camera in place, and sat down heavily on the sofa.

For a long moment, I sat there staring at the blinking red recording light, seriously contemplating just stopping the video, deleting everything, and going back to my normal routine like none of this mattered, because it would have been so easy to just forget about it all and go about my business, but something heavy pulled at my chest, and I finally summoned the courage to do this.

“I haven’t even started and I’m already crying,” I muttered, letting out a shaky, wet laugh as I lifted the back of my hand to wipe away the tears spilling over my cheeks.

Mummy, how are you doing?

I know you are probably wondering why I didn’t just call you instead of making this video. The truth is, every time I try to say these things over the phone, you don’t really give me the chance to speak. You don’t ask how I am doing or how I have been feeling. Before I can even say anything about myself, the conversation somehow becomes about what you need, what someone else needs, or the next problem that requires money to solve. Sometimes I feel like you don’t even hear me anymore. It is always about making sure you are happy, making sure everyone else is okay. So I just keep quiet.

It’s fine, Mummy, I’m not complaining. I just thought maybe if I recorded everything like this, from beginning to end, without anyone interrupting me, you might finally hear everything I have been carrying inside my heart for years.

Right now, you are probably sitting in the parlor in Nigeria, maybe just coming back from one of your women’s meetings tying that new blue wrapper, or maybe getting ready to go out again wearing your heavy gold jewelry to be the envy of all your friends, and you don’t even care whether I am fine or whether I ever come home, because all you care about is for me to keep sending money, making sure my younger ones never lacked anything, paying school fees, sending money for food, sending money for one thing today and another thing tomorrow, while you move from one meeting to another.

Mummy, it’s not like I’m angry, don’t think I’m blaming you, I swear I’m not, I understand everything, I’m just talking, I’m just saying my mind, because look at where I’m now, you can see this house abi, it’s very fine, everything is working, but inside my heart, eh Mummy, there’s nothing there, I’m just empty.

Sometimes I see myself looking around this place in disbelief. This house is beautiful. Everything here works. If I want cold water, I simply open the fridge. If I want to have a hot bath, I just turn on the tap. I sleep on a soft bed every night. Nobody wakes me before sunrise to rush around the house. Nobody is shouting my name because there are chores waiting for me. Looking at me now, anybody would think I have everything I ever prayed for.

But Mummy, this place didn’t fix anything. There are days I sit quietly in this same beautiful house and still feel like that little girl who never quite belonged anywhere. Sometimes I look around and wonder why I still feel so empty when I’ve things I never even dreamed of while I was growing up. I can buy things now that I used to admire from a distance, but somehow they have never been able to fill the place inside me that has been empty for so many years.

I mean, I know I’m a grown woman now, almost thirty, living out here and looking like everything is all put together on the outside. But sitting here staring into this lens, I realize some of these old wounds just don’t ever leave you. My chest has been feeling so heavy lately, and I just needed to finally let it out.

The tears came faster before I could stop them, and I pressed the heels of my palms hard against my eyes, because I had spent the last twenty minutes staring at my phone, trying to keep my mind busy, even promising myself I wouldn’t cry, telling myself I would just sit down, talk, finish the video, and send it to you, but I don’t know why my whole body is shaking like this.

I know you were still very young, I know you were scared, I know life didn’t turn out the way you wanted it to, and I know carrying me wasn’t part of your plan, but let’s not lie to ourselves, you didn’t raise five children all by yourself because my stepfather was right there in the house with us, but even when he was there, he didn’t really see me as his own child, and both of you made it very, very clear every single day that I wasn’t part of the family, that I was different, and I know I was a big burden to you, I know I weighed you down.

I know you tried, you tried everything you could to stop me from coming, but I’m sorry, I didn’t go, I didn’t leave, I know I made people laugh at you and call you a single mother before you finally settled down.

Growing up through all those years, carrying that heavy feeling of being unwanted in every single room I walked into, I didn’t understand why I always felt so broken inside, why I couldn’t just be normal like the other children who were loved and protected.

I remember one afternoon, out by the backyard while I was scrubbing pots, you and Auntie Amanda were murmuring together in the shade. She must have been listening to you complain about me, because she suddenly beckoned me over, her expression tight with resentment.

She leaned down and whispered, “You have a lot of nerve acting difficult. Your mother never wanted you, do you know how hard your mother tried to stop you from ever coming into this world? Everything she did, everything we tried, and yet you still forced your way here.”

At that age, I didn’t fully grasp what she was whispering about. I just stood there holding a soapy sponge, staring at her with an empty mind. But looking back now, it all makes sense. Even before I drew my first breath, I was a burden you tried to cast aside, Mummy. I was your first child, your own flesh and blood.

I covered my mouth with my hand, wanting to stop crying but unable to, because the more I tried to hold it in, the worse it became, and I kept shaking my head, trying to calm myself down before I looked back at the camera.

It’s not that I’m complaining, no, but I was your child too, your firstborn.

And sometimes I used to wonder why it was always me. Whenever something went missing in the house, I was the first person everyone looked at. If one of my younger ones did something wrong, somehow the blame still found its way back to me. Whenever there was tension in the house, whenever you were angry or something wasn’t going well, it always felt like I became the easiest person to pour that anger on. I kept asking myself what I had done to deserve being treated differently, but no matter how hard I tried to be good, it never seemed to be enough.

I looked away from the camera for a long moment, trying to stop the tears again, because I did not know why it’s so hard.