Tales of A Single Mum

Episode Twenty

...I was born with a silver spoon, you know? My father went to the best Ivy League schools in the world, my mother was a brilliant Hospital Chief Matron. My three siblings and I didn’t want anything as children. We had cooks and nannies and a host of other domestic staff. Our clothes were always brand new clothes from around the world or at a UTC store in Nigeria. We had so many toys it was like a mini “Toys R Us” Store. Because of my father’s social standing, my parents wined and dined with the crème de la crème of society and in turn their kids were our friends.

It would seem that we lived the dream life. Yes, I guess we did by some people’s standards. Something though was terribly wrong. While we seemed to be a real life Stanford family, we hid a secret. A secret of a deep unhappiness. My dear parents had it all materially but never got along. First the quarrels were hushed so the kids couldn’t hear, then they became louder as they threw caution to the wind. My parents didn’t have many good things to say about each other. Apart from applauding his academic qualifications, we never heard my mother call my father a good man, or vice versa. There were no romantic touches, or long walks together, or private couple jokes.

I was 15 years old when my mother moved out of their bedroom and started sleeping on the living room sofa. My father never came out there to get her. He just stayed in the bedroom on his own. No explanation was offered to us and from our end no questions were asked. Not long after, my mother started taking her showers in our bathroom and her belongings began to appear bit by bit in the girls’ room. To me there was a sort of finality in that singular act. The marriage was over in some sense. We were too young to face them and I guess they thought it was none of our businesses. Many times we would watch them not speak to each other for days. Between us kids we tried to process what was going on. why our parents didn’t love each other like the parents of the other families that we knew.

One time my older sister who by nature of being bigger, was the bravest one, staged an intervention. I remember us slouched in our different sofas watching my parents as my sister tried to make them talk out their problems. We the younger ones did not interfere, we just watched in silence. The meeting ended in a screaming match and we the kids, silently dispersed. That was the last time anyone spoke about their marriage. The yelling became normal background static in the house, if we were in the living room we would raise the volume of the television to block out the sound. The door slamming didn’t startle us anymore; neither did the name calling. It was all part of our daily lives. With each passing day, we found that we cared less about what was going on but deep down inside, we all could not wait for the day that we would be old enough to leave the toxic environment.

It was not until I grew up and got married that I realised how much of an impact my parents’ turbulent marriage had on my decision making and my emotions. I married the very first person who came along without proper scrutiny or courtship. I just wanted to be away from home. I had a warped idea of what marriage should be. three years and two children later, I realised I had married a monster and I was living a new nightmare every waking day. I knew I had to get out but I had no Idea how. and I had been threatened too many times to think that we could have a civil conversation and go our separate ways peacefully. Eventually when I watched for too long how my daughter would scamper at the sound of her father and felt myself cower in fear every time he was near, I didn’t wait for the perfect opportunity to present itself I just took the one I saw and ran and never looked back.

It’s been three years on my own now. I’m a mother with two kids of my own. The years have passed by, yet some things never change. My parents, still married, who are now Septuagenarians, still have shouting matches whenever they are near each other. I am still tormented whenever I remember what I went through in the hands of my ex-husband.

At least now I have peace. Maybe just maybe one day I will know what true love is. I’m not so sure I would recognize it when I see it though. Between my childhood and my early marriage, I haven’t got a clue. Oh well Que serra serra is what I say.

Namaste!