Broken
“You see me, you think you know me, but you don’t know half of my story…” — 2Face
One too many times I’ve had to say “I grew up in the village” and get a look of disbelief in return. I would proceed to persuade whoever I am conversing with of the fact that I grew up in the village, away from my birth parents and in the arms of a community. The old adage “ it takes a village to raise a child” in literal practice. Passed around like a spoon at a buffet, I was raised by anyone who was able to feed an extra mouth, it wasn’t much of a challenge as I’d naturally roam to homes of relatives with food. It wasn’t abnormal for me to have my three daily meals in different homes, it was in fact, more likely than not. In primary school, we read “Without a silver spoon”, I found it funny; I was born without a spoon. Born to teenage parents, I was left in the care of great-grandparents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and everyone remotely related by blood. A community of people committed to ensuring that I see the next day. I didn’t make it easy for them but that’s a story for another day.
Apropos of my upbringing, I had no idea of a “perfect family”. I never knew one, I never craved one, I was oblivious to the concept of a nuclear family. My nuclear family was everyone who looked out for me; anyone whom I could walk up to and ask for food. My teenage parents were never married, I was that child that was better off not born except for the will of my mom and her parents to raise me and consequently, my brother. Soon, I was in the city, competing with kids who had a “perfect” family. My mom did this, My dad did that, My parents took me…for a long time, I couldn’t relate. I was a child of a broken home, I was never able to utter those phrases. My answer to “where is your dad?”, “where is your mom?” was always “I don’t know”. I lived. I was not excited to see or hear of my mom or dad, I had grown cold, used to the idea that they were not here.
I moved in with my dad two years after moving to the city. I got a semblance of a “perfect” family even though “mom” was in reality my step-mother. Having known my mother only in passing, there was no hesitation in calling this woman “mother” and ascribing her all respect and adoration that comes with said title. And for a while, she played the role effectively, doing everything a mother would do for her children until she didn’t. Perhaps a broken home will always be a broken home? A question I am yet to answer. Three(3) years after moving in with my dad, my step-mother accused my brother and I of being wizards. The series of events that ensued ensured that my brother and I moved out, albeit unwillingly.
I am writing this ten (10) years later but I still remember those events as if it were yesterday. Every other month, I think of Princess, the daughter my dad has with my step-mother. A child I held and watched grow. She took her first ever steps towards me, I loved her as much as I could ever love a sibling. She made my day every day but here I am, having not seen her in ten(10) years. She’s now a teenager, her personality building, growing her opinions of the world, making lifelong meaningful relationships but with no idea of her siblings. She has been forced to grow in a silo, separated from me and I from her. Will she grow up to despise me for not being present in her life? Will she understand that the events that led to my absence were beyond my control? And that even up till the end of the world, I’ll always think and want the best for her? I hope that someday I am able to make up for lost time and build a relationship with her.
Broken. I am broken. Without consciously knowing it, I have looked back at my childhood, and thought to myself this isn’t the ideal life I want for my kids. I am still craving for the love I missed as a child, I am still looking for the connections that I couldn’t build having grown up alone with my younger brother. I have come to the realisation that when I find love, I find it difficult to let it go, I want to keep it by all means even to my own detriment. My experience with my step-mother and father have made me reserved, quiet, and undisturbed. All I want from the world is some peace and quiet, to live quietly with no stress, I have had too much of it. I still have nightmares, I still feel subtle anger whenever I remember it. I love to think I have forgiven but I have not forgotten. It is impossible to forget.
Now I am growing up to be my own person, I have started considering my future, marriage, children, family, and I am scared I will not be able to do better. I desire a family with a woman that I can absolutely leave everything to only because I do not want to make mistakes. I do not want to be the reason it doesn’t work out. I want to have kids who will wake up every morning, happy and excited to see me. Kids who will be happy to talk about me to their friends, kids who will gladly bring their friends home.
I play. I laugh. I make jest of everything, and everyone around me gets a good laugh but deep down, I know, I am broken.
