Foreign Soil, Fierce Soul

I know you’re wondering who this is, so allow me to introduce myself. My name is Maya Hopson, a student at the University of Lagos. I can already hear the next question: “But you don’t have a Nigerian name!” That’s because I’m an immigrant in Nigeria. To survive, I had to run away from my abusive stepmom, who trafficked me to Lagos with the intention of selling me off as a maid. I grew up in the United States—specifically, in Oklahoma—in a middle-class family of lecturers. My parents believed education was the ultimate key to success, even though their income told a different story. Still, they made sure I never lacked anything. Their sacrifices shielded me from feeling less than others, and I carried myself with pride. My mother, Emily, was the type of person who made everything seem achievable. Her laughter could light up a room, and she had a unique talent for transforming mundane days into exciting adventures. My father, Mr. Hopson, was strict yet just, a principled man who valued hard work and integrity in thought. On December 20, 2023, my dad received a call: my mom had collapsed at work. That day marked the beginning of life’s bittersweet memories. She never recovered. Day after day, she remained in the hospital, and the doctors couldn’t find the cause of her illness. My dad, however, refused to accept their uncertainty. He became fixated on uncovering answers, dedicating countless hours to studying rare diseases, seeking advice from specialists, and even exploring alternative medicine. Yet, nothing seemed to help. Her body weakened, her voice grew softer, and ultimately, she faded away. One night, drunk and broken, he muttered strange words—how she wasn’t the target, how he blamed himself for dragging her into “this mess.” My young mind couldn’t grasp what he meant. I dismissed it as the alcohol talking, but those words lingered in the back of my mind. What mess? What target? Was there something he wasn’t telling me? Her death shattered everything. I lost my childhood joy, the warmth of my father—who drowned himself in bottles and frivolous women—and even my spark for education. I started skipping school, wandering off in the streets to see if one day, just one day, I’ll see my mom again and she’ll tell me that it was all a dream, but I guess that wish will not come to pass after all. Politics, law, and order, once lively topics in our home, became noise to him. He no longer cared, and I no longer recognized the man who had raised me. Every moment spent in the house only led to moments of agony and pain that refused to go away. “What do you mean you want to remarry?!” Those were the words that came out of my mouth 3 months later. My dad called me to the living room one night, reminiscing about the lovely moments we shared with Mom and how she would be happy if we finally picked up the pieces and healed. For once, I felt relieved that my dad, the man I grew to adore and admire has finally returned, but I didn’t expect him to drop that bombshell of marriage on me. “I know it seems so sudden and all, but trust me, she’s a good person and an old friend of your mom.” He explained. For a split moment, I began to wonder if he ever cheated on my mom because how on earth could you go in for my mom’s friend. And what’s worse- she moves in tomorrow! I couldn’t shake off that feeling of doom that would crawl in at the sight of this new woman. Still, then again, I must say that I felt happy now knowing that my dad was ready to move past the grief, so for the sake of his happiness, I decided to welcome my stepmom, Anita, with open arms, and that my friends were the worst mistake of my life. Anita was completely different from my mom. Sure, she was refined, but she was also distant. Her smile didn’t light up her eyes, and her presence was like a shadow looming over the house. She moved the furniture around, swapped out the curtains, and even attempted to change who I was. She referred to me as "sweetheart" in a tone that oozed condescension. Day One: The couch shifted over six inches to the left. Day Three: Mom's beloved curtains swapped out for some beige eyesores. Day Five: "Maya, have you ever thought about switching your major? Premed is way more practical than English." Day Seven: "Maya, honey, have you considered styling your hair differently?" The house I grew up in, where I took my first steps, celebrated birthday parties, and enjoyed Mom's famous pancake breakfasts, now felt like an Airbnb where I'd overstayed my welcome. "Oh, you live here? That's cool. Well, we've done some redecorating, so you might want to adapt or just leave?" Thanks, I really hate it. I made an effort to be polite, but every conversation felt like a struggle for room, for remembrance, for my mother’s legacy. I started to feel like an outsider in my own house. My father, blinded by love, failed to see the subtle jabs, the manner in which Anita brushed off my sorrow as mere teenage drama. "Teenage drama." Oh yes, because mourning your deceased mother is merely a phase, similar to emo music or dreaming of becoming a professional YouTuber. Dad was so blinded by love that it was cutting off blood flow to his brain. Me: "Dad, Anita just mentioned that Mom would be upset with my grades." Dad: "I'm sure she had good intentions, sweetheart." Me: "Dad, Anita discarded Mom's cherished vase." Dad: "It was likely an accident, Maya. Don't overreact." Me: "Dad, Anita actually said she's happy Mom is gone so she could 'finally have you.'" Dad: "You must have misunderstood her, honey." I began to spend more time outdoors, just to avoid her sharp words and unnecessary nagging. However, the most painful aspect wasn't Anita; it was the silence. The silence that existed between my father and me. Each time I attempted to discuss Mom, the silence intensified as he diverted the conversation. This silence made it clear that I was isolated.