Life As It Is

March 9

Today started with my phone vibrating against my pillow.

I didn’t even open my eyes at first. I knew it was either my alarm or my mother. My alarm rings like it is begging. My mother calls like she is summoning.

It was Mum.

I cleared my throat before answering, trying to sound less like someone who slept at 2 a.m. after pretending to read Company Law.

“Good morning, Ma.”

There was a pause. That pause mothers use when they are about to say something that is not a greeting.

“Elle, you hardly call anybody.”

No good morning. No how are you. Straight to the charge sheet.

I closed my eyes and turned to face the wall.

“I called last week, Ma.”

“You called your father. You did not call me. You don’t call your sisters. If we don’t call you, you will not call.”

Her voice was not angry. It was something softer. Something more dangerous. Disappointed, but wrapped in concern.

I sat up slowly.

“It’s not like that,” I said, even though sometimes it is exactly like that.

Being the last born is a strange position to occupy.

You grow up surrounded by people who are already becoming themselves. By the time you are learning how to tie your shoelaces, someone else is already preparing for WAEC. When you are just entering secondary school, someone else is filling out university forms. When you are just figuring out who you are, they are already leaving.

And somehow, you are always the one catching up.

I am the last born.

The last to start school.

The last to write WAEC.

The last to enter university.

The last to still be “in school” when everyone else has moved on to real life.

My two sisters are abroad now. Different countries. Different time zones. Different versions of adulthood.

Sometimes when I scroll through our family group chat, it feels like I am watching a life I haven’t reached yet.

One is posting pictures in a winter coat, snow in the background, complaining about the cold like it is a personal enemy. The other sends voice notes about work stress and grocery prices in a currency I still convert in my head.

And then there is me.

Still on campus.

Still buying pure water.

Still writing exams.

Still explaining to people that law is five years, not four.

Mum continued on the phone.

“You don’t check on anybody. Even your eldest sister said you have not called her this year.”

Guilt sat down beside me on the bed.

It’s not that I don’t think about them. I do. Randomly. When I see something that reminds me of home. When I am eating jollof rice that is not as good as my mother’s. When I pass a mother scolding her child in the market.

But thinking is not calling.

And adulthood has a way of convincing you that everyone understands your silence.

“School has just been busy,” I said finally.

“Everybody is busy,” she replied gently. “But we must still hear from each other.”

We must still hear from each other.

There was something in that sentence.

When my sisters were still in Nigeria, the house was loud. Always loud. There was always someone arguing over the remote. Someone blasting music. Someone ironing at the last minute. Someone asking Mum where their other shoe was as if she personally hid it.

I used to complain about the noise.

Now the house is quiet.

I know because whenever I go home during holidays, the quiet greets me at the door.

It is not an empty quiet. My parents are there. But it is a different kind of sound. Slower. Older.

Mum doesn’t shout as much. Dad watches the news without competing with three different conversations in the background. The dining table feels bigger.

Being the last born means you are the final chapter of your parents’ active parenting years.

When my eldest sister was in 500 level, the entire house revolved around her graduation. Relatives called. Aunties visited. My parents traveled proudly for the ceremony.

When my second sister finished, it was the same celebration, though slightly calmer.

Now it is my turn.

But it feels different.

Not because they are not proud. I know they are.

But because this time, there are fewer people at home to prepare with.

No sisters to argue about outfits with.

No one to tease me about finally “growing up.”

No one to secretly advise me about what to expect next.

They will probably fly in for graduation. At least one of them. Maybe both if work allows.

But there is something about physical absence that technology cannot fully fix.

After Mum finished reminding me that family is not a one-way street, she asked about school. About my project. About whether I am eating well.

“Are you sleeping at night?” she asked.

I almost laughed.

“Sometimes.”

“Elle.”

“I’m fine, Ma.”

She sighed. I could picture her adjusting her wrapper, probably standing in the kitchen, phone pressed between her ear and shoulder.

“You are the only one with us now,” she said softly. “If you don’t call, the house is too quiet.”

That sentence stayed with me long after the call ended.

You are the only one with us now.

I never thought of it that way.

I have always seen myself as the one left behind. The one still in school while others have moved forward. The one still dependent. The one still becoming.

I did not consider that to them, I am the remaining child at home. The last laughter echoing in their hallway. The last set of exam results to anticipate. The last convocation to plan.

When my sisters left Nigeria, I remember the airport vividly.

The first time, I was excited. It felt glamorous. International departure. Big suitcases. Tears mixed with ambition.

The second time, it hurt more. Because I knew the pattern. I knew what “see you soon” actually meant.

After the second departure, the house changed permanently.

I moved into one of their rooms. Their posters came down slowly. Their clothes reduced to a few forgotten pieces at the back of the wardrobe.

It was subtle, but I felt it.

I became the only child at home.

And with that came a strange mixture of freedom and pressure.

Freedom, because there were fewer comparisons. Fewer voices correcting me. Fewer eyes monitoring my every move.

Pressure, because now all my parents’ daily attention had one destination.

Me.

If I came home late, they noticed immediately.

If I was quiet at dinner, they asked questions.

If my result was slightly lower than expected, it was magnified.

Not out of cruelty. Out of focus.

Being the last born means you are both the baby and the final investment.

My sisters paved the way in many ways. They made mistakes first. They negotiated curfews first. They argued about career paths first.

By the time it got to me, some battles had already been fought.

But some expectations had also increased.

“You have seen your sisters,” relatives would say. “You too will do well.”

It always sounded like encouragement. But sometimes it felt like a measuring tape.

I love my sisters. Deeply.

The eldest is calm, structured, the kind of person who plans five years ahead and actually follows through. The second is warmer, expressive, calls me randomly to gossip and then sends me money “for no reason.”

They check on me. They send advice. They remind me to apply for opportunities. They ask about boys in that suspicious but loving tone.

But time zones are stubborn things.

Sometimes when I want to talk, they are at work.

When they are free, I am in class.

When we finally align, someone’s WiFi is misbehaving.

So our conversations become scheduled. Intentional. Shorter than they used to be when we shared a room and secrets after lights out.

Mum is right.

I hardly call.

Not because I don’t care.

But because sometimes calling makes the distance more real.

When I hear the echo in my sister’s apartment abroad, when I hear the different accent creeping into her voice, when I hear how tired she sounds from navigating a foreign country, it reminds me that we are no longer in the same chapter.

And I am still here.

Still the last born.

Still the final one in process.

Sometimes I wonder if being the last born means you are always slightly delayed.

Last to be taken fully seriously.

Last to be independent.

Last to leave.

Last to arrive.

But maybe it also means you get to observe more.

I watched my sisters pack their lives into suitcases and leave. I watched my parents adjust to silence. I watched our family stretch across continents and still try to remain whole.

And now, I am on the edge of my own departure.

Law school is ending.

Soon, I will no longer be the child “still in university.”

I will enter the next phase. Law School. Work. Adulthood in its full glare.

Maybe that is why Mum’s complaint hit me harder this morning.

Because it reminded me that time is moving in every direction at once.

My sisters are building lives abroad.

My parents are growing older at home.

And I am standing at the bridge between who I was and who I am becoming.

After the call, I sat on my bed for a long time.

The hostel was noisy outside. Someone was laughing loudly in the corridor. A bucket fell. A generator started somewhere in the distance.

Life was happening.

I picked up my phone and opened our family group chat.

The last message was from three days ago. A forwarded devotional from Mum. A thumbs-up from Dad. A heart emoji from my second sister.

I typed:

“Good morning my people ❤️ Just finished talking to Mum. I miss you all.”

Almost immediately, replies came.

“Look who finally remembered she has a family,” my eldest sister wrote.

I smiled.

“Abeg leave her,” the second replied. “Baby of the house is busy becoming Senior Advocate.”

Dad sent a laughing emoji. Mum sent, “God bless you my daughter.”

It was small. Simple.

But it felt like stitching something back together.

Maybe being the last born does not mean being last in everything.

Maybe it means being the final thread that ties everyone’s earlier chapters together.

The one who remembers the noise and the quiet.

The one who carries stories from the past into the future.

The one who stands at the end of childhood and looks back with gratitude instead of hurry.

Tonight, I will call my sisters properly. Not rushed. Not distracted.

I will ask about the snow and the stress and the grocery prices.

I will tell them about campus and graduation plans and how Mum complained about me.

And one day, when I am the one packing a suitcase maybe not abroad, maybe just into another city I hope I remember this version of myself.

The last born in a slightly quieter house.

The girl whose mother just wanted to hear her voice.

The sister who is still learning that love requires effort, not assumption.

For now, I am still here.

Still their child.

Still their sister.

Still becoming.

And maybe that is not being last.

Maybe that is simply being next.