A Memoir Of An African Child

Loosely based on true event.

There is a beautiful dream hidden behind a child. I wasn’t born with one. Quite frankly, I am a product of a sex gone wrong. People often say “family is everything”. In as much as they strike a point, they forget that some of us never had that luxury.

This is how it all started. My mother had an unwanted pregnancy with a man (my dad). Beautiful, right? My father being a responsible man met her parents. Miss Josephine, my mom was just eighteen years, at the time.

Hmmm.. Joshua, my father was in his mid twenties. After a long journey from Lagos to Delta state to meet his in-laws. He didn’t exactly get the hospitality he had fantasied. When my father had explained the reason for his visit, my grandma gave him a dirty slap. The hostility grew hotter and hotter.

My father being a typical African man couldn’t let it slide. His temper always got the best of him. My mother hid behind the door and watched the whole saga. She ran after him and begged but it proved futile. That was the last time anyone ever saw my dad.

My mother tried to keep in touch, but he cut all ties with her. To him, the slap was too much an insult. Can you imagine?

Nine months later, my mother birthed a girl (Me). As I grew, I saw the pain nurtured in my mother’s eyes. She said I reminded her of my father. At seven, I was made to never call her, “ Mother, ” I addressed her as “Sister”.

My grandma was very loving. She adorned me dearly. As for my mom, the worse happened when she got involved with a Northerner, Mallam Musa. He had two sons and a daughter. They got all serious and marriage happened.

My mom has never smiled at me. Even when I got compliments, she gave me a disgusting stare. We never had the mother-to-daughter relationship. When grandma asked if I would like to live with her in Kaduna with her husband, I agreed out of fear.

Kaduna was my hell. The Muslim family ensured I settled in just fine. The boys turned my head into a drum. I became an errand girl for the whole community and my mom said nothing. Although, I stilled called her sister. I needed a mother so badly.

I attended Kaduna state primary school. I became a nuisance not just to the school but the community. I resorted to transferring my aggression on my juniors. Kaduna was another world.

On a fateful Friday, Mallam Musa came back from the mosque angry. What he vomited looked like an order to my mum. He wanted me to become a Muslim. I was hoping my mother would object but she smiled over it.

The next market day, I found an hijab lying by me. I needed not be told. My name was changed from Anita to Mariam. I flaunt my hijab wherever I went. And followed my fellow Muslim sisters to learn from an imam.

I was a child burning from the inside. The worse happened when my imam wanted me for a wife and my mother called to seek my opinion. Oh! Sorry, I had no say. Hence, it was to get me prepared. I was just nine years for God sakes.

I got tired, frustrated and I wanted out. Luckily, my mother gave me an amount to make a deposit. It was the perfect opportunity. I took a neighbor’s phone and called my uncle that I was coming to Abuja.

One thing was certain; my mind was made up. I boarded a bus to Zuba— a place situated on the fringes of Abuja. My uncle was already waiting for me at the bus stop. He was excited to see me.

My uncle, Mr. James was a wealthy man. He worked at CBN (Till date). He placed a call to my mother and grandma. He was very kind to me. It felt like when I became too comfortable; life had something in store for me.

Mr. James took care of me but when it was time to change the names on my certificate. I replaced them with my real father’s name. An act that pissed Mr. James of, enough for him to send me back to my grandma’s…

If only my uncle had told me to use his name, I would. I never even met the vagabond that called himself my father.

At the time, my grandma was in Lagos, Mile 12. I assisted her in selling sachet water on the busy road. It was terrible. The little peaches on my chest suffered in the hands of men. All in name of selling water.

After years of savaging the streets, my father showed up one day. Since my mother cared less about me. It was easy for him to take me. I became 20 years before I got reunited with him. He was with a wife and two children— a boy and a girl. I am currently undergoing a program at Ambrose Alli University.