Daddy is a bad man.
A bad, bad man.
Not because he hits Mummy and me — he doesn't.
But because he makes Mummy do all the work, Without ever pitching in. The only thing he does is to use his money to drink beers and come home staggering. But even when drunk, daddy doesn't hit us. He only gives us work to do—not literally — we have clean up his vomit in the middle of the after the after alcohol sets in.
Mummy.
Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy.
I like the sound of it on my lips.
Mummy is like Catwoman, Superwoman, And every other superhero combined.
She's like the sunrise, And as beautiful as the sunset. Most people might think otherwise but my mummy is the most beautiful woman I know, physically, mentally, and emotionally.
But… Mummy is always tired.
Even at six, I knew.
I've always known that Mummy is tired.
Tired from working three jobs, Then still coming home to do the laundry, Clean the house, And cook dinner. Daddy never does anything other than to bath, eat, and sleep.
Mummy's food is so delicious.
I remember it all clearly — As if I'm stuck in the memory, As if it's happening right now,
Not fifteen years ago.
My mother was a beautiful woman, But the weight of life aged her too quickly.
She carried the world alone in her prime.
My father, though technically present, Lived like he didn't have a family.
He gave us money only when he "had some," But it was always Mummy who paid the bills.
Oh — and how could I forget my sister?
Stepsister.
Daddy cheated on Mummy when I was still inside her belly.
Now, I have a sister who's just one month younger than me.
Crazy, right?
I've been begging Daddy to bring her to live with us.
Begging him for days.
But I don't think he takes me seriously.
As I said, Mummy is a superhero.
When she found out about the baby, She didn't scream, didn't fall apart — She just opened her arms.
Warm.
Motherly.
Loving.
I've always known I was different from other kids.
Hypersexual, even at a young age — Because of certain things that happened.
Things no child should go through.
And I never had friends who stayed.
I don't know why.
Maybe I was too much, or maybe not enough.
Loneliness clung to me like an unwanted pet — The kind that follows you even if you ignore it.
Even if you feed it.
God, was I lonely.
It's one of the reasons I wanted my sister with me so badly.
Everyone at school had siblings — Laughing, teasing, walking home together.
But for me, it was just Mummy and me.
Don't get me wrong, I love Mummy with every part of me.
But I still wanted my sister.
I needed someone else to belong with.
She came to stay.
Not for a visit. Not for a weekend. She came with a small pink box, two wrappers, and a pair of bathroom slippers tucked in a nylon bag. Mummy cleared out half the wardrobe. I helped — excited, jittery, like a balloon about to burst.
My sister was finally home.
But… the sister I imagined in my head was soft-spoken, gentle, maybe even shy. Someone who'd colour with me, whisper secrets under the covers, hold my hand when we walked to school.
Instead, I got her.
Loud. Sharp-tongued. She spoke fluent Yoruba with the kind of confidence that made me feel small. She didn't colour inside the lines — she didn't even like colouring. She preferred tearing pages out and using them to fold origami guns or throwing them in the air like confetti.
She listened to Fuji — loud Fuji. The kind that rattled your brain. She'd put a spoon in her mouth and pretend it was a microphone, dancing like she was in a wedding party while I just watched, confused, clinging to my teddy.
And she stole.
I overheard Daddy telling Mummy in hushed tones one night, just after dinner.
"She stole again. One hundred naira. I caught her. You better keep an eye on your things." Mummy didn't say much.
Just sighed and wiped her hands on the checkered kitchen towel like she was wiping away the weight of the world. I don't think she wanted to admit it out loud, not even to herself.
And me?
I had conflicting emotions.
So many, I couldn't name them.
Love.
Curiosity.
Jealousy.
Disappointment.
Guilt.
She was mine, but she wasn't me.
She had Daddy's eyes, Daddy's stubbornness, Daddy's temper.
And I was still learning how to love her.
Sometimes, she'd snatch my things — my brush, my slippers, even the last piece of fried plantain.
Sometimes she'd crawl into bed next to me, quiet for once, just breathing in rhythm with me — and on those nights, I didn't feel lonely.
I loved her.
I wanted to love her more.
But love isn't always soft.
Sometimes it's confusing. Sometimes it feels like swallowing something too big for your throat.
And that — That was just the beginning.
My sister loved me.
Fiercely.
Loudly.
The way someone who's been told "you don't belong" will cling to the one person who makes them feel like home.
She fought for me — not just with words.
When the other girls whispered things about me at madrasa — too quiet, too fat, too slow to recite my surahs — she was there. Sharp-tongued and barefoot, yelling things like, "Mind your own qira'at!" while dragging me behind her like a soldier on a rescue mission. Or when a man tried to touch me inappropriately, she shouted so loud that people walking on the streets had to come on what was going on and that was how I escaped being touched.
And me?
I didn't believe in fighting. I believed in keeping my head down.
I believed in being the "good girl" — the kind Mama said Allah loves. The kind who doesn't talk back. Who memorizes Qur'an and stays covered. Who never makes a scene.
"Silence is the best answer for a fool," I used to say, quoting hadith like armour.
But sometimes silence feels like swallowing knives.
Mama…