CHAPTER TWO – THE FAMILY ON DISPLAY
My name is Temilade Ajose, the first daughter of the Kolapo Ajose family of ten.
My father believes, both in his youth and in his later years, that it is perfectly reasonable to have two wives. In our world, this belief is not unusual. It is tradition, accepted and protected by silence.
My mother is the junior wife. Everyone calls her Aunty Mi. The first wife is known as Mummy. Between the two of them, my father has seven children. I am my father's first daughter — but my mother's first child.
After me comes Tani, my immediate younger brother. Then Teni, my sister. Then Tola, the last-born, the baby boy of the house who receives affection effortlessly. Mummy has three children of her own; two boys and a girl. One of her sons is often called my twin, even though we are born two months apart. I arrive first. He follows shortly after.
In this family, even time bends itself around hierarchy. Age matters. Birth order matters. Which woman you come from matters. Who speaks and who stays quiet matters. Everyone has a place, and stepping outside it attracts consequences no one explains until you experience them firsthand.
From the outside, we look impressive. People admire my father's authority, his household, his ability to "control" his family. They greet him with respect. They praise his discipline.NInside the house, everything feels fragile like glass, arranged carefully to look beautiful while waiting to shatter.
Drama lives within these walls, but outside them, we are flawless.
We understand this rule instinctively. We perform respectability perfectly. We know when to smile, when to greet, when to lower our eyes. We know which version of ourselves to present to the world.
None of this is to say that I hate my father. Still, he is the one we quietly retreat from when he comes home. The one whose presence stiffens our backs and lowers our voices. The one we silently pray will leave again on another business trip or return late at night when the world is already asleep.
When my father is home, the house changes shape. Conversations shrink. Movement becomes careful. Laughter feels risky, like it might provoke something we do not have the strength to deal with. Outside these walls, he commands respect effortlessly. Inside, we children do not stand a chance.
We do not question decisions. We do not challenge moods. We do not respond to tones. His word is final. His silence is heavier than shouting. What he calls discipline feels like fear dressed up as responsibility.
By seventeen, I know how to read a room. I know when to disappear. I know when silence is safer than honesty. I know how to divide myself into acceptable versions.
What I once believed was a happy family when younger, slowly reveals itself to be something else entirely.