WHAT is this? I was a Daddy’s girl growing up-nothing my father did ever seemed wrong to me. I would always side with him over my mum, and he knew it. He used that to his advantage, something I’ve only come to understand in hindsight. To be clear, I don’t hate my mum-I love her. But at the time, I saw her as spoiled. I thought my dad gave her everything, yet all she did was complain or demand more.
That was my dad’s explanation whenever I asked him why they quarrelled so often. I was young and couldn’t understand the complexities. Can you believe I even helped my dad when he brought women home? I was his lookout. He told me he “had to look outside” because my mum was never satisfied with anything he did for her. When my mum returned, she would occasionally question me. “Sandra, I can smell a woman’s perfume in the house.
Who came here while I was out?” I would lie-telling her no one had come or blaming it on a neighbour. Eventually, I started spraying Raid insecticide in the air to mask the women’s perfume. I lied for my dad whenever I saw strange women in his car, and he rewarded me with money for covering for him. How old was I then? Maybe 12, perhaps even younger. Now, let me give you some context.
My parents should never have been married. They had nothing in common-not their religion, not their cultural background. My mum was Muslim, devout in her faith. My dad was a Christian but wasn’t serious about religion, nor Islam. They came from different parts of the country-my mum from the west, my dad from the east. They didn’t even speak each other’s native language; they mostly communicated in pidgin or English. How did they end up together? My mum became pregnant while she was in school. Her father, an Imam, disowned her and sent her out of his house. He vowed she would never be welcome back after choosing to have a child with an infidel-a Christian, and an unserious one at that. My maternal
grandmother, however, didn’t let that last long. She sought out my mum at my dad’s parents’ house. My paternal grandmother took my mum and me in, caring for us until my grandfather’s fatwa was lifted. My maternal grandmother didn’t let the situation last for long, or so I’ve been told. She went looking for my mum at my dad’s parents’ house. My other grandmother, my dad’s mum, took us inmy mum and me-and cared for us until my grandfather’s fatwa was eventually lifted.
But enough about my birth. My dad adored me from the very beginning. Not that my mother didn’t love me, but I suppose I wasn’t her favorite. They went on to have more childrenfive in total-and with each new arrival, my parents seemed to drift farther apart. To clarify, my dad never laid a hand on my mum. No, he didn’t physically hurt her. But looking back, he emotionally abused her. He would say things that reduced her to tears. When I asked him why she was crying, he always claimed she had started it. And I believed him. I didn’t bother questioning my mum. So, over time, I naturally gravitated toward my dad’s side, while my younger siblings firmly stood by our mum. When I was in university, I would be overjoyed whenever my dad visited me, but when it was my mum, it was usually to reprimand me for something.
My dad never did that. Instead, he’d say things like, “Ha, Sandy, if your mother finds out, you’ll be in trouble. I trust you to be smart.” Looking back now with the benefit of hindsight, I can see my father didn’t raise me well at all. But he didn’t do this out of hatred or ill will. It was simply who he was. And despite everything, I still love him. Now, here I am, married with children of my own, and oh, dear Lord, I’ve married a man who cheats and lies so effortlessly that I find myself asking, “Where did I meet this demon?” Is this karma for all the years I lied and schemed with my dad against my mum? Am I being punished for not standing by my mother? You know, I recognize the same traits in my husband that my father had. Perhaps that’s what drew me to him in the first place. He’s a free spirit, someone who never takes life too seriously. But he still behaves like a young man in school rather than a husband and father of two. He lies about work trips outside Lagos, when in reality, he’s with young university girls far away from home. You’d think marriage would put an end to his rascality, but no-he lies about virtually everything. As I reflect on my marital troubles, I can’t help but suspect I’m being punished. I can’t even turn to my mum for advice on dealing with my h u s b a n d ‘ s indiscretions. A mother should be the ideal confidant, but for me, guilt stands in the way.
Series, first published in thisislagos.ng, was written and edited by Peju Akande and based on true stories
