Love Indeed

Who Am I ?

My name is Dee Adams, and this is where my story really begins.

I grew up in a house where love lived in the walls. My parents, Mr. Dennis Adams and Mrs. Khleo Adams, raised me with the kind of care that made the world outside seem bearable, even when it wasn’t. Being the first child — and the only daughter — made me feel both special and responsible. Behind me were my two brothers: Drew, loud and mischievous, and Davis, soft-spoken with eyes that seemed to study everything.

Our home was never the biggest, but it was warm. The paint on the walls carried the faint scent of polish, the curtains danced with every evening breeze, and the kitchen was always alive with the smell of stew, jollof rice, or fried plantain. Even on days when my parents argued — and yes, they did sometimes, about money or my father’s long hours at work — the house never lost its heartbeat. The quarrels ended, laughter returned, and we went on living with the kind of bond only families like ours could understand.

“Dee!” my mother’s voice would float through the house on Saturday mornings. “Don’t just sit there, go and check what your brothers are doing before they scatter my kitchen.” I would roll my eyes, but I always went. More often than not, I’d find Drew trying to climb onto the counter while Davis sat nearby, warning in his small serious voice, “Mummy will catch you, oh!” Drew always laughed in defiance, but it was usually Davis who ran to tell on him the moment things got risky. The chaos never lasted long, but it made our home lively.

One of my fondest memories is of a rainy afternoon when power went out suddenly. The three of us sat in the living room, restless, while my father lit a kerosene lamp. Drew, ever the restless one, dared me to tell a scary story. “You’re the big sister,” he teased, “you should know something.” I made up a tale about a woman who could hear whispers in the rain. Halfway through, Drew screamed and pretended someone was tugging at his shirt. Davis nearly cried before Daddy came in and declared, “Enough! All of you, come here.” He pulled us close, humming a soft tune that blended with the rhythm of the rain. In moments like that, I felt the safest.

Home was laughter, arguments, reconciliations, meals around the dining table, and little rituals that glued us together. Inside, I was never lonely. But outside… that was different.

Church was one of the few places where I thought I might belong. On Sundays, I wore my best dresses, my Bible tucked under my arm, and sat with a small group of girls who smiled at me during choir practice. We whispered about the new youth pastor, traded sweets, and sometimes walked out together after service. But by Monday, when I saw them in school, everything changed. They had their own circles, their own groups of friends, and I became a polite wave in the hallway. I would smile, they would smile back, but I never sat with them. I was like a bookmark in their story — useful in one setting, forgotten in another. I told myself it didn’t matter, but deep down, it stung.

In school, friendship was like a competition. Girls grouped themselves by looks, by who had the latest hairstyles, the nicest shoes, the lightest skin. And me? I didn’t fit. I am a dark-skinned, slim girl with big eyes that people noticed a little too quickly. “Your eyes are so big,” they would say, but it was never quite a compliment. And then the whispers came. Too dark… not pretty enough… why does she hang around us?

I still remember one break period when I tried to join a group of girls braiding each other’s hair under a tree. I sat down, hoping my presence would be accepted. But after a few minutes, one of them turned and said, “Dee, don’t you have other friends?” The others giggled, not cruelly, but enough to send me walking away, heat burning my cheeks. That day, I went to sit alone under the mango tree near the back fence, pretending to read while my heart tightened. I learned then that sometimes rejection doesn’t come with shouts or insults. Sometimes, it comes softly — with a laugh that doesn’t include you.

So I stayed apart.

The boys, on the other hand, were easier. They didn’t care if my skin was dark or if my eyes were too wide. They pulled me into their games, joked with me, let me laugh freely. With them, I felt lighter. Once, when a group of us played football during break, a boy shouted, “Pass the ball to Dee, she runs fast!” For a moment, I was just one of them. But I never got too close. I knew how quickly rumors spread — how a girl surrounded by boys could suddenly carry names that stuck for years. I wanted their company, but not the cost. So I laughed with them, but always from just enough distance to protect myself. It was a balancing act: not lonely, but never truly belonging.

Every day, I carried those small wounds home, and home healed me in ways no one else could. One night after school, I sat at the dining table, staring at my food without eating. My father noticed immediately. “Dee,” he said gently, his deep voice filling the silence, “what’s the matter?”

“Nothing, Daddy,” I muttered.

He put down his spoon and studied me, the way only fathers could. “You know I can tell when something is wrong.”

I sighed. “It’s just… people at school. Sometimes I feel like I don’t fit in.”

He reached across the table, resting his hand on mine. “Listen to me. You don’t need everyone to see your worth. You need to see it yourself first. People’s opinions don’t define you.”

I looked at him, his eyes steady and full of quiet strength, and something in me loosened. My father always had a way of making the world less heavy.

My mother added softly, “And besides, one day you’ll find friends who love you for who you are. Until then, you already have us.”

Her words, simple as they were, stayed with me. Later that night, I lay in bed replaying her voice. Maybe she was right. Maybe one day I would find people who wouldn’t make me feel like an intruder in their circle.

By the time my senior exams came, I was no longer afraid of endings. I was eager for beginnings. The day I walked out of my last exam hall, I felt lighter than I had in years. The walls of my secondary school, the whispers, the quiet rejections — they no longer had power over me.

At home that evening, I burst into the living room. “Mummy! Daddy! I’m done!”

My brothers jumped around me, shouting, “Aunty Dee is free! Aunty Dee is free!” Drew even attempted to lift me off the ground, though he was far too small. Davis, as always, followed with a more serious tone: “Now you will leave us and go to university.” But even he couldn’t hide his smile.

My father smiled calmly, as he always did, but his eyes sparkled with pride. “Well done,” he said, his voice steady, but I could hear the joy beneath it. My mother hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe.

And in my heart, I whispered a promise: The university will be different.

There, no one would know my past. No one would judge me for being too dark, too quiet, too anything. I would be Dee Adams — a blank page, ready to write my own story.

I imagined walking across campus with friends who would call my name with joy, sitting in lecture halls with people who wanted me there, laughing under trees with girls who didn’t measure me against skin tones. I imagined being part of something, not just on the outside looking in.

That night, lying in bed with the ceiling fan humming above me, I whispered to myself: This is your chance. Don’t waste it.

I had no idea what waited for me beyond those gates, but I carried my hope like a torch. Because no matter how safe home was, I longed for the world outside to claim me too.