This story is part of a four-part series. (Part two coming soon).
Content Warning: This story contains descriptions of physical abuse, emotional manipulation, and familial violence. Please read with care.
I was 20 years old when I found out the man I had always believed was my father wasn’t. I wasn’t really surprised. The doubts had been building since I was 17, seeded by the play of events that began unfolding in childhood.
At 11, I moved in with my immediate older brother, Justin, somewhere in the East. He was kind to me, treated me like a princess. But everything changed whenever Pascal, our other brother, came around. The shift in the house was subtle at first, but by the following year, I began to notice.
Pascal had never been particularly close to me. Only on special occasions did he show any warmth. Justin, on the other hand, was affectionate. He taught me how to walk, how to dress, how to talk, like him.
His coworkers used to joke that he treated me better than he did his girlfriend and I always thought that should be a given, seeing as I was his sister. He bought me jewelry, makeup, anything fancy he could afford.
The only thing I didn’t do was dress like a “proper girl.” I was always in shorts, T-shirts, sneakers, and caps. Even now as a mother, I’m still learning what it means to be a woman.
But Pascal was unpredictable. One moment he’d smile at you, the next he’d accuse you of something random and punish you for it. When I turned 12, people around us started whispering that these two weren’t really my brothers. I didn’t want to believe it, but the signs were too loud to ignore.
The starting point of my doubts was when I was in boarding school and lost our jerry can, the one I took to school to store water in. My brothers beat me for days. I was forced to return to school, during the holiday, to search for it.
When the principal saw the scars on my body, she ordered all the dormitories to be opened so I could search properly. I didn’t find it. I went home empty-handed.
The beatings continued. It wasn’t until a Sunday morning, when my church dress slipped and exposed my back full of welts, that the church got involved. The pastor and some members came home with me to plead on my behalf. My brothers didn’t budge.
A kind church member later bought a replacement keg and brought me back. Before he left, he told me something I’ll never forget:
“Anyone who can beat a person for days over a jerry can is not truly related to them. These boys? They’re not your brothers. If I were you, I’d run away.”
Running away had never occured to me despite everything I’d faced with them because where would I go to? I had no one else. I’d moved in with them to escape my mother, whose beatings came with painful words that scarred deeper than any belt.
It turned out the church getting involved was a huge problem and after everyone left, they beat me again, this time for “inviting” church members to lecture them on how to raise a sister. Oh, and I still had to return that exact keg whenever I went back to school.
Eventually, I found the missing keg. A senior student had taken it and when she saw the scars I showed her, she returned it. But even then, I was punished again. Forgiveness didn’t exist in my home. My brothers held grudges like sacred artifacts.
That was the year I started praying. Not for healing, but for Pascal to die. I was 13.
August came and Justin traveled to Port Harcourt for work and left me home alone for a week. He said I was old enough to manage. Food and snacks were stocked. I’d cooked rice, beans, and stew before he left, but I barely touched them. I survived on biscuits, plantain chips, candy, soda, and chocolate.
When he returned, he was shocked to see the food untouched. He teased, “With all that junk, you’re still skinny.” But around 2 a.m., he decided to take stock of our food. Why he chose that hour, I’ll never understand.
He realized the bag of American long-grain rice, gifted by a client, was missing.
What followed was familiar, but nevertheless terrifying. He made me pick my punishment tool: an electric cable, a can, a hanger, or a belt. I picked the electric cable, thinking it’d be less painful. I was wrong. It tore my palms until I bled, then he wrapped my hands and sent me to bed around 3 a.m. I didn’t sleep.
By 6 a.m., I was up again, for more beatings. He believed our neighbor had cooked our rice and that I gave it to her. My screams filled the air, but no one came. People avoided our family because my brothers never listened regardless of the pleading from the neighbor’s so every one eventually learnt to mind their business instead.
After he left for work, the neighbor he accused me of giving the rice apologized and swore she got her rice from an aunt. They tended to my wounds and helped with my chores. That night, Justin said nothing. The matter died.
When I returned to school that September, I thought it was all behind me. Even when my mom visited at Christmas, nothing was said. But during Easter the following year as Justin got ready for work at 5 a.m., he told Pascal about the rice incident. The beating that followed dragged me out of my sleep.
This time, there were no options. Pascal broke a stool, tore off one of its legs, and used it on me…
To be continued…
This is the first part of this story. Part Two continues here. Stay tuned for Part Three and Four!
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Where’s part 3 😭
It’s up on the blog now!