MY name is Motunde and I grew up with my parents and siblings in a one-room apartment. My dad was a carpenter while my mum worked as a cleaner in a school. My dad was a wicked man and he gave me the impression that all men were like that. I remember he would come home in a drunken state, demand his food and beat the hell out of my mum if she wasted time. Adding salt to my mum’s injury, he would make love to her violently in the middle of the night not caring whether we were awake, watching or not. My mother was over-worked, so love-making, well… sex in their case was unwelcome most of the time. My dad never showed her love and instead blamed her for his misfortunes. Yet, he hardly gave her enough money for our upkeep and feeding which is why she over-worked to get more money. Looking back, at 32 years, she looked 50. It was very unfortunate. Luck, however, smiled on my dad when his popularity in our slum fetched him the councillorship position. We moved out of our one-room to a three-room where a fresh babe was waiting for us – heavily pregnant for my dad. And he announced that whoever was not happy about it could excuse him and leave the house. My mother didn’t say a word and instead asked him which room we could occupy. He shoved us all in one room which served as a store for our few belongings as well. My dad constantly read the riot act and it was like a prison yard. In spite of his growing wealth, he never gave us enough and we had to depend on my mum who had accepted her fate.
When my father’s wife put to bed and was delivered of her baby, all hell was let loose as the centre could no longer hold in the house. As timid as we were, my father couldn’t stand our presence. One day, a scuffle ensued between my step-mother and my mum who obviously couldn’t take the humiliation anymore and in his wife’s defence, my dad hit my mother on the head with a pestle. She suffered a dementia and her family suggested she left my dad for safety. My dad wasted no time in sending us all away. We moved to my grandparent’s house at Ikorodu. Life was hard. We were just surrounded by poverty. I had to start hawking pap which my grandmother made and in the process I got deflowered at 15+ by one of my customers. I was eight weeks pregnant before I realised it. The young man denied me outrightly much to the chagrin of those who were aware of our dalliance. We all accepted my fate. My grandmother who insisted I continued schooling sent me to her an aunt in Ogbomosho to study and sit for my school leaving certificate while I left my baby with her.
At Ogbomosho, life was even harder. My aunt reluctantly took me in. I was very unhappy because she rarely showed me love and instead enslaved me and never failed to call me a little whore who had become a liability to her. She loved to use the word-a’kosibero (an abusive Yoruba term for anyone who inconveniences others with his unfortunate circumstance). While I concentrated on my coaching classes, very determined to pass my exams, I found solace in Dipo. He was my first real love as he nurtured me like an egg. He boosted my ego and made me feel like a champion. I would say his love for me spurred me on and enabled me pass my exams in flying colours. One day, on his way back from Lagos, he died in a fatal accident. I also died that day. I’d be correct to say I ran mad and was insane for the next three months. By the time his parents discovered their late son had a child on his way to the world, I was four months pregnant. My disgruntled and childless aunt had abandoned me to the care of the church we attended. At 19, I brought Dipo back into the world much to the delight of his parents. I didn’t mind giving them their grandson as he only caused me pain and made me cry every single day. It was painful but I had to move on. I was living in one of the rooms in the church compound and had to depend on the pastor-in-charge for my upkeep. The lecherous man took advantage of my vulnerability and was always coming to my room when everyone had gone to sleep to have carnal knowledge of me. He would just pounce on me mercilessly. At 21, I got pregnant again. The “man of God” insisted I aborted the pregnancy but I refused as I still feared terminating a pregnancy as my aunt’s history put so much fear into my heart. Before long, a junior pastor who had been monitoring his boss exposed him to his wife only for the evil man to accuse me of being sent by the devil to seduce him. No one except the junior pastor who left the church immediately would believe my side of the story. I gave birth to the child while I worked at a restaurant, and posted him to my grandma as I didn’t even have an accommodation. A young woman, who didn’t like cooking and would rather buy stews from us, took interest in me, asked me to be her cook and I gladly accepted. A year after, they had to relocate abroad. To my surprise, I was invited along so I could double as her children’s nanny. They were very generous to me and sent me to college. Their affluence rubbed off on me easily, you could never trace me to my horrible past/background.
While studying Software Engineering, I met Siji, a committed child of God in church where we worked in the same department. We’ve been courting in the Christian way for the past 18months. On my 28th birthday, he proposed to me in the presence of his parents and my foster parents at a surprise dinner he organised for me. He got a yes. Wedding plans are in top gear. I have been discussing with my family members who are over the moon with joy. However, I am sick with worry because Siji doesn’t know about my past. I am too scared to open up and terrified not to. What do you suggest please?