I couldn't help but gaze at the tall palm wine tree standing on the left side of our compound. Its leaves danced against the breeze, carefree, unlike me. From the backyard, I heard the clatter of pots—Ma was boiling hot water for her bath. Pa, as usual, was out. Probably with another woman.
In the front yard, Titilayo and Emeka were busy shaping sandcastles out of damp clay. Titi was just seven, Emeka nine. And me? I was fourteen, clocking fifteen in a few weeks. Old enough to notice everything. Too young to change anything.
"Adejoke! Adejoke!" Ma's voice carried across the compound.
I didn't answer. Truth? I didn't like Ma that much. At least not then. Loneliness had made me bitter, and talking to her often felt like rubbing salt in my wounds.
"Brother Ade, Ma's calling you," Emeka whispered.
"Okay."
"Adejoke!" Ma hollered again.
"I'm coming!" I shouted back, irritation bubbling in my chest.
I stomped toward her, mumbling under my breath. Anger, pain, hunger—they stitched themselves into every corner of my body and mind. But more than anything, I pitied my siblings. They hadn't eaten since morning. I felt indebted to them, like it was my job to give them the love and care they never got.
"Yes, Ma?" I said sharply.
"Idiot! I called you four times. Where were you?" Her voice cracked like a whip.
"Was at the corridor," I muttered.
Before she could say more, Titi ran up, her big brown eyes searching mine.
"Brother Ade, we're hungry."
Her words stabbed me. I hated it when she said that. I hated Pa for wasting his money on women, drinks, and cigarettes. And I hated Ma a little too—though deep down, I think I hated her struggles more than her.
"Ma, we're hungry," I said, slapping my bare feet against the dusty ground.
Ma's shoulders sank. "I have no money, boy. You're of age now. You should get out there and start bringing in something. You know my condition. I dance in a night club, but your father doesn't care."
Her tears spilled before she could hide them. "The last money I have is for my transport fare. I would have spent it on food if I could."
Something inside me cracked. My anger shrank into guilt.
"I hate both you and Pa," I blurted, my chest tightening.
"Don't say that," Ma whispered, sobbing harder. "I lowered myself for you children. I endure shame because I love you."
I couldn't bear it. "I'm sorry," I said, hugging her tightly. The tears in her eyes melted my hidden bitterness. For years I'd seen her as cold, but now I realized she was simply fighting to survive.
Pa should have been our backbone. He was a plumber and a fisherman, earning enough to sustain us. But instead, his wages drowned in bottles of gin and vanished into strange women's arms. What could poor Ma do? She had no choice but to fend for us with scraps from nightclub wages.
"Ma, I'm sorry. I won't say those words again," I whispered, cupping her cheeks.
She sniffed, untied the edge of her wrapper, and pressed a crumpled hundred-naira note into my hand.
"For you and your siblings."
I stared at the note. It wasn't much, but it was hope.
"Are you walking to the club tonight?" I asked gently.
She frowned. "If you keep asking silly questions, I'll hit you. Didn't you say you were hungry?" But there was a small smile hiding under her scolding.
"Have you eaten?" I pushed again.
"Titi, warn your brother before I deal with him," she said with a laugh through her tears.
"Brother Ade, let's go! Thank Ma," Titi urged, tugging at my arm.
"Thank you, Ma," I said properly this time, then headed out to buy a loaf of bread—enough to quiet our rumbling stomachs.
Ma was Yoruba, Pa Igbo. After that talk, it hit me: Ma wasn't truly the enemy. Pa was the rot at the center. Sometimes I wished I could sell off his properties and disappear. But Ma was right—I needed to work.
What could I do? Farming? Fishing? Serving drinks in a bar? My friends always said I had a gift for music—singing, even rapping. They swore it could make me money someday. But that dream felt too far. Right now, survival came first.
"Titi! Emeka!" I called. "I'll be back soon. Don't misbehave."
"Behave," they corrected in chorus.
"I want to follow you!" Emeka said.
"Me too!" Titi chimed in.
"I said it first!" Emeka snapped.
"I'm the baby, so I get to go!" Titi shot back, hands on her hips.
I sighed. Their bickering drained me.
"Enough. No one's coming. Stay home."
They both pouted but agreed.
"Titi, remember to wash the plates and sweep the house," I added.
"I know, Mr. Reminder," she retorted, tapping her head.
"I'm going to look for work," I said, running out of the compound with determination pounding in my chest.
The search for a job had begun.
---
End of Chapter One.
So, what do you think of Ma? What do you think of Pa?
Are they the best parents? Definitely not. But life makes some people cruel and others broken.
Do you pray to have such parents? Or pray harder never to?
Drop your thoughts in the comments. If you don't, I might just assume you do want parents like them. 😏
How was Chapter One? Strong enough start?
Remember—I was just thirteen when I first wrote this. I've only polished it a little now. Does it still feel immature, or does it hit right?
Stay tuned for Chapter Two. Until then, take care. 💕
Your favorite authoress,
OziomaJasmine 💝