I was eight when I first realised that a parent’s love isn’t always unconditional. That not all parents love their children the same.
I was also eight when I first realised that with love comes pain. I remember it like it was yesterday.
The pain of the bamboo stick flogging my right eye.
My body in agonising pain from the fall.
Yet the bamboo kept flogging my flesh. Still, that wasn’t the worst pain I endured that day.
No!
My worst agony was my heart breaking into millions of pieces and bleeding within me when it dawns on me that I wasn’t worth shit compare to my sister.
That my parents didn’t love me the same way they loved my sister. She was loved and wanted even. The latter wasn’t a factor at the time, but quickly became one later on when I found out I was a mistake. That’s what they called being irresponsible back then. A mistake. That realisation, I need not tell you, was a dagger straight to my heart. Not any dagger either. Nope! That was a magic one. One that only an evil godmother would enchant and turn into a lifelong curse. That’s how my life felt like after that day. A curse! A curse that would never abate unless someone of pure heart came to heal the stubborn wound of my bleeding heart.
You see, I wasn’t supposed to be born. My parents were young when they had me. My father was eighteen and my mother was nineteen. They were both unemployed and living with their own parents. They were, how their parents would put it, just kids having kids. And we all know the saying, “kids have no business raising kids themselves.”
The year was 1990. I had a new born sister. I was no longer an only child. I should have been happy, but I wasn’t. May be I was jealous. I can’t recall it being jealousy though. As long as I can remember, I’ve always been uncomfortable around new born babies. Even in my adulthood whenever I encounter new born babies I become really shy. I won’t touch, cooed or even acknowledge the baby if I don’t have to. So, with that knowledge, I doubt what I was feeling at the time was jealousy. May be in the deep recesses of my childlike mind, I somehow knew that having a sibling would cost me my childhood and force me to grow up faster than I wanted to or even should. May be my sub-conscience was telling me that my childhood was already over at eight years old. I can only speculate. One thing I am certain though is that the year 1990 marked the beginning of my new life. Not the life of a carefree child roaming the streets of the neighbourhood, drenched in sweat and hair frying in coconut oil under the heated sun of the tropic, basking in laughter and joy at a simple children’s games. Not the life of the friendliest, kindest of child that everyone knew, and yes I was very friendly and respectful of elders in the neighbourhood.
No!
This year marked a life mapped out on the land of doom where every road was paved through hell. Eventually, I was no longer friendly, carefree, respectful and the deeper I venture through life my laughter started dying little by little until it died completely. Later, my mama will say, “You’re no good child! I can’t find a single good thing in you.” And I’ll look her in the eyes and wonder how can she expect to find good in me when I myself couldn’t find anything good in me?
To be continued….
