African parents :Tough love or toxicity. (Part 2)
This is a another part of this same African parents : Tough love or toxicity?. This part was written by my friend Lola. She runs a very cool blog. Www.Reflectionoir.net .
kindly visit. Personallly. I really like her part. She came up with it in no time. I really pressured her. Let's continue.
It’s the late 80s in Lagos, Nigeria, “Eddie Quansa” is playing on the radio. My dad is sitting up reading a newspaper with a chewing stick between his teeth. My mum is plaiting my sister, Ada’s hair and every slight movement my sister makes, lands her a slap on her cheeks or a knock on her neatly carved scalp. It’s not just hair making, it’s every activity. It’s wearing the wrong shirt, it’s running late to church for Sunday mass, It’s oversleeping, overeating, even over reading. This is a norm in my household, and the same goes for some African children.
Our parents are said to be a representation of God on earth for us. Our mothers and fathers are the closest we can get to the bridge of life. I can’t say it’s the realization of this that leads to them being power hungry. Power hungry to the point of insanity. Don’t get me wrong, our parents are still ours and every opportunity we get we want to show appreciation. Appreciation after the several humiliations we have suffered in their hands. It’s not humiliation it’s love.
It’s love that I compare you with your cousins. It’s love that I beat you to the point of abuse. I swear I don’t hate you, I just follow the Holy book, “Do not spare the rod and spoil the child”. You speak of religion to me? How dare you? I am losing myself and constantly seeking validation.
I swear I love you that’s why you must not have a boyfriend or a girlfriend till you’re ready to marry. It’s love that I make sure you read. It’s love that I shout at you.
It’s love! It’s love! It’s love!
What is love without pain right?!
It’s love that I am here with depression right? It’s love that you don’t seem to see it as I stare into space with your words hitting me left right left right mimicking the beat of a talking drum. Ebenezer Obey once said, “Ore mi e se pele pele”. Why can’t you take it easy? Why can’t you see that I am bleeding on the inside?
“Daddy, tell me if I’m doing well”.
“Mummy, do I look good in this dress? My hips are showing and I don’t want my stomach to bulge out?”
I seek constant validation. I have no self esteem. Your words have created an impact so toxic I am used to it. I come back crawling waiting to hear your insults and receive whatever you have for me. I am like a baby who has just had its first taste of Sugar cane. I cling to its stem and can’t seem to let go. You my parents, have damaged me.
But you’re not all that bad. I promise! You provide for us and make life a bit better. You show affection the best way you can. A wise man once said that you can only show what you have received. Maybe you never received love, that could be the only explanation. I am going crazy here. Help me understand.
“Obianuju, you are just looking as I call you. Are you a baby? Why can’t you be like my sister’s daughter. She knows what to do before being told”, says my mum as she gives me a side eye.
“Ada, better put your head in one place before I slap you. I’m not touching your hair again o”, finishes my mum.
I give my sister a sympathetic look.
I breathe in, “okay ma”.
How dare I say more? One wrong word could get me beaten or worse have me answering to members of my extended family.
I stand up and slowly tip toe to my father’s study. I grab the dictionary, and search for Toxic. Still not what I want. I find my fathers desktop computer turned on with the blue logo of internet explorer welcoming me. This is a risk I must take, I type in Toxic People. I find myself on Toxic Relationship, “a relationship characterized by behaviors on the part of the toxic partner that are emotionally and, not infrequently, physically damaging to their partner”.
My parents are toxic. It proves it. It proves it.
But is it more of toxicity or tough love? Am I in an unhealthy relationship with my parents? How do I leave?
“Obianuju Onyinye Okafor, what are you doing with my desktop computer?”, shouts my father at the entrance of his study. How did I get so carried away not to notice? He comes to me and grabs me by my ear.
“You better talk now or you’re in soup”, he says as he drags me to the living room removing his belt from his neatly ironed trousers. “You’re not saying anything, abi?”
I kneel in front of him. I feel the belt against my fair skin. I count with each whip.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
My mother just sits there. She dare not say anything to her husband as he disciplines his children. I have no idea where the strength comes from and I shout at the top of my voice.
“You and mummy are toxic”. I don’t know what happens next, maybe the word awakens everyone but soon my brother and sister rush to the living room. My mother has gotten up from the chair.
“Obianuju what did you say?”
I repeat it, “you and daddy are toxic”.
“Toxic kwa?”, my mother responds.
“You mistreat us and we are in an unhealthy relationship with the both of you. It’s constant comparisons and insults and making us feel inferior due to your dominance or maybe insecurity”, I finish.
My sister gasps and uses both hands to cover her mouth. My brother looks at me with pride. My father looks at me with his belt in one hand and the other hand itching to slap me.
How dare I call them out like this? How dare I shout my feelings? How dare I disrupt a tyranny? How dare I call out the toxicity? It’s a new dawn here in the Okafor household. One for good or bad, I can’t seem to answer that.
But first let’s find a way to cover up these belt marks, school resumes tomorrow.
kindly visit. Personallly. I really like her part. She came up with it in no time. I really pressured her. Let's continue.
It’s the late 80s in Lagos, Nigeria, “Eddie Quansa” is playing on the radio. My dad is sitting up reading a newspaper with a chewing stick between his teeth. My mum is plaiting my sister, Ada’s hair and every slight movement my sister makes, lands her a slap on her cheeks or a knock on her neatly carved scalp. It’s not just hair making, it’s every activity. It’s wearing the wrong shirt, it’s running late to church for Sunday mass, It’s oversleeping, overeating, even over reading. This is a norm in my household, and the same goes for some African children.
Our parents are said to be a representation of God on earth for us. Our mothers and fathers are the closest we can get to the bridge of life. I can’t say it’s the realization of this that leads to them being power hungry. Power hungry to the point of insanity. Don’t get me wrong, our parents are still ours and every opportunity we get we want to show appreciation. Appreciation after the several humiliations we have suffered in their hands. It’s not humiliation it’s love.
It’s love that I compare you with your cousins. It’s love that I beat you to the point of abuse. I swear I don’t hate you, I just follow the Holy book, “Do not spare the rod and spoil the child”. You speak of religion to me? How dare you? I am losing myself and constantly seeking validation.
I swear I love you that’s why you must not have a boyfriend or a girlfriend till you’re ready to marry. It’s love that I make sure you read. It’s love that I shout at you.
It’s love! It’s love! It’s love!
What is love without pain right?!
It’s love that I am here with depression right? It’s love that you don’t seem to see it as I stare into space with your words hitting me left right left right mimicking the beat of a talking drum. Ebenezer Obey once said, “Ore mi e se pele pele”. Why can’t you take it easy? Why can’t you see that I am bleeding on the inside?
“Daddy, tell me if I’m doing well”.
“Mummy, do I look good in this dress? My hips are showing and I don’t want my stomach to bulge out?”
I seek constant validation. I have no self esteem. Your words have created an impact so toxic I am used to it. I come back crawling waiting to hear your insults and receive whatever you have for me. I am like a baby who has just had its first taste of Sugar cane. I cling to its stem and can’t seem to let go. You my parents, have damaged me.
But you’re not all that bad. I promise! You provide for us and make life a bit better. You show affection the best way you can. A wise man once said that you can only show what you have received. Maybe you never received love, that could be the only explanation. I am going crazy here. Help me understand.
“Obianuju, you are just looking as I call you. Are you a baby? Why can’t you be like my sister’s daughter. She knows what to do before being told”, says my mum as she gives me a side eye.
“Ada, better put your head in one place before I slap you. I’m not touching your hair again o”, finishes my mum.
I give my sister a sympathetic look.
I breathe in, “okay ma”.
How dare I say more? One wrong word could get me beaten or worse have me answering to members of my extended family.
I stand up and slowly tip toe to my father’s study. I grab the dictionary, and search for Toxic. Still not what I want. I find my fathers desktop computer turned on with the blue logo of internet explorer welcoming me. This is a risk I must take, I type in Toxic People. I find myself on Toxic Relationship, “a relationship characterized by behaviors on the part of the toxic partner that are emotionally and, not infrequently, physically damaging to their partner”.
My parents are toxic. It proves it. It proves it.
But is it more of toxicity or tough love? Am I in an unhealthy relationship with my parents? How do I leave?
“Obianuju Onyinye Okafor, what are you doing with my desktop computer?”, shouts my father at the entrance of his study. How did I get so carried away not to notice? He comes to me and grabs me by my ear.
“You better talk now or you’re in soup”, he says as he drags me to the living room removing his belt from his neatly ironed trousers. “You’re not saying anything, abi?”
I kneel in front of him. I feel the belt against my fair skin. I count with each whip.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
My mother just sits there. She dare not say anything to her husband as he disciplines his children. I have no idea where the strength comes from and I shout at the top of my voice.
“You and mummy are toxic”. I don’t know what happens next, maybe the word awakens everyone but soon my brother and sister rush to the living room. My mother has gotten up from the chair.
“Obianuju what did you say?”
I repeat it, “you and daddy are toxic”.
“Toxic kwa?”, my mother responds.
“You mistreat us and we are in an unhealthy relationship with the both of you. It’s constant comparisons and insults and making us feel inferior due to your dominance or maybe insecurity”, I finish.
My sister gasps and uses both hands to cover her mouth. My brother looks at me with pride. My father looks at me with his belt in one hand and the other hand itching to slap me.
How dare I call them out like this? How dare I shout my feelings? How dare I disrupt a tyranny? How dare I call out the toxicity? It’s a new dawn here in the Okafor household. One for good or bad, I can’t seem to answer that.
But first let’s find a way to cover up these belt marks, school resumes tomorrow.
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