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5 YEARS AGO
DEOLA
"Pack up your things, we're leaving."
It kept replaying in my head, each echo sounding more horrifying than the last.
Imagine waking up one morning only to witness the "final fight" between your parents—screams, insults, a slap—and then, boom! An instant divorce. Just like that, you're told to gather your belongings and get ready to abandon your hometown.
But who was I to argue? Who was I to confront them? Truth be told, they were the worst at parenting a teenager who was fully aware of everything. Their constant fights could probably be traced back to prehistoric times. I'm not even kidding.
The only reason they even stayed together was because of me. They didn't want me living as the child of a broken home. So they chose to stay married, unhappy, always fighting, always tense. But again—adults will be adults. Right?
My father, Mr. Richardson Esan—a man the world respected greatly, a man I simply called Dad—was a strict, no-nonsense multi-millionaire, almost a billionaire in fact. One of the richest businessmen in the country, with a company that never seemed to stop blooming.
He was a great dad…if 'great' meant buying me lavish gifts, sending me to prestigious schools, paying the bills, and making sure I had everything money could buy. But the one thing money couldn't purchase—the father-daughter bond every child craves—was absent. Invisible. He tried, I'll give him a plus for that. He still tries. But I doubt that spark can ever be revived. I'm not a little girl anymore, Dad. *Eye roll*
My mother—once Mrs. Esan, now Ms. Otedola—was more like a guest in my life. A stranger I happened to share DNA with. Sure, she groomed and fed me, but I can't remember her braiding my hair for school, scolding me out of love, or dressing me up like her little princess. Instead, she let me be. Sometimes she'd leave me alone in the house, and that loneliness became its own world of adventure and mystery.
The many maids and nannies they hired were hopeless. None of them knew how to take care of me, let alone fix the cracks inside me. I cried a lot, but eventually, I realized tears were worthless.
'Tick, tock.' My wristwatch bellowed in the silence. Yes, it was that quiet.
I blinked, and when my eyes opened again, I was standing in front of a modern duplex. Our vacation house in Abuja. Chilly weather, unfamiliar city, a lone tear threatening to fall but I blinked it dry.
"Our vacation house?" I asked, turning to look up at Dad, who was glued to his phone—business, of course.
"Do you have any better options?" he replied, already striding into the furnished house.
I followed, not wanting to spark more tension.
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That night, we sat at the dining table, eating chicken and rice he'd ordered from a nearby restaurant. Silence filled the room, thicker than the food we forced down.
I glanced at him. For the first time, I pitied him. He really was trying to be a good father, but work chained him. And Mom?… Mom had been careless.
I replayed the scenes from their last fight like it was a song which I desperately wanted to forget. . .
"I know it was just for the money, Priscilla! The only task I gave you was to take care of Deola! What is your problem?"
He'd shouted, and she responded with a sharp slap. I flinched as if I'd been the one slapped.
"How dare you?" Her voice had cracked like glass. "If you were present in our lives, things wouldn't have taken such a drastic turn!"
Dad's face was stone. His voice dropped, low but deadly. "Haven't I tried? Shey wan shey e ni?" (Are you cursed?)
Her nostrils flared.
"Shut it! You want to accuse me of being a gold digger? A careless mother? You won't insult me like this. I won't let you! Take your child, take your money! Last I checked, I came from a wealthy family too!"
Her words burned worse than the slap. 'Take your child?' She didn't even fight for me. No court case. No custody battle. Just… handed me over.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, pushed the thoughts away, and rounded up my food in silence.
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