Strangling Ties

A perfect life begins at home. That should be everyone’s mantra, but some parents like my own do not have that mentality with them, I see them as selfish because that’s what they are. Selfish parents, that’s what they are. In the heart of Abuja, where the city’s modern skyline clashed with the vibrant chaos of its markets, our family home stood as a symbol of outward success but inner turmoil. The Smith residence, a two-story house with manicured hedges and gleaming windows, was the envy of our neighborhood. Inside, however, the air was thick with expectations, not love. My name is Sheila, Sheila Smith, and I’m the one who’s seen it all—the rise and fall of my siblings’ dreams under the weight of our parents’ ambition. Picture this, a home with loving parents, it should breed successful children right? That’s what should be, but my parents, they broke my siblings and I because they cared more about themselves, their name, their face and their image. I know they all mean the same thing but I had to be specific because my parents never ceased to remind my siblings and I and with that, they ruined almost all of our lives, almost ruined mine too though but I woke up to reality sooner than some of my siblings did. Growing up in that house, where every conversation circled back to the family’s reputation, we were molded to reflect their glory. Our parents, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, were not just wealthy; they were obsessed with being seen as the pinnacle of success. Their voices echoed through our marble-floored living room, reminding us, “The Smith name must shine!” I was young, maybe ten, when I first noticed the strain in my siblings’ eyes, the way they shrank under the pressure to be perfect. Well, growing up, we never knew it was affecting us, we just thought we were doing what was right and what was expected of us, not gonna lie, some of their overbearing teachings were handy and good, but they did more bad than good. They taught us discipline—how to sit straight, speak eloquently, and excel in school—but those lessons came with a cost: our individuality. First to talk about the first child, Happiness, she is a great singer, she’s bold, jovial, knows what to say at the right time and deep down in her, I know she never wanted to be a boring person even though that’s what she is now. Happiness was the light of our family, a girl with a voice that could hush a room or spark a celebration. In our crowded neighborhood, where gospel choirs and street musicians filled the air, Happiness stood out. At sixteen, she’d sing at church events, her voice soaring over the congregation, earning gasps and applause. Her laughter was infectious, her quick wit a shield against the world’s harshness. She’d dance around our house, belting out original songs, dreaming of stages far beyond Abuja. For the record, my parents aren’t pastors, they do not even hold any post in the church but they are held in a very high esteem by everyone around and I personally know it’s because of the money they have. My father, a real estate mogul, and my mother, a boutique owner, were the church’s biggest donors, their names whispered with reverence. Their wealth built the new church hall, funded community events, and ensured their influence was unchallenged. When my parents saw my sister’s passion for music and heard her beautiful voice, they were indeed happy, they enrolled her in music class as she instructed and made her grow more fond of music. They bought her a sleek keyboard, a microphone stand, and lessons with a renowned vocal coach from Lagos. Happiness thrived, her confidence blooming like the hibiscus in our garden. She bought everything she would need to pass music classes and everything was going well, my sister kept on going to music classes, kept passing and kept singing. Her weekends were filled with lessons, her evenings with practice, her voice echoing through our home as she perfected every note. Eventually, she started singing for people, she started going viral on social media, she came up with a stage name which was her first name but was spelt differently. “Happyness,” she called herself, with a “y” to reflect her unique spark. Clips of her performances at local talent shows spread across facegram and Ticktok, her voice captivating thousands. She was invited to sing at weddings, community events, even a regional festival, where crowds chanted her stage name. Everyone was genuinely happy for her and should also my parents but unfortunately, they weren’t and for the most ridiculous reason, because my sister’s stage name doesn’t include her surname (their name), they asked my sister to change it to include the surname but she argued that it’s not done that way but she was soon proven wrong as examples of those who use their full name was brought to her. One evening, over a tense family dinner, my father slammed his phone on the table, pointing to articles about artists like Yemi Alade, Micheal Jackson, Kanye West , Korede Bello who used family names. “You must be Happiness Smith!” he demanded, his voice shaking the chandelier above. Happiness, her fork frozen mid-air, explained that her stage name was her brand, a reflection of her soul, not a family banner. But then, she argued that she didn't want to use her full name and what she was using now was what she wants to use. Her defiance was quiet but firm, her eyes meeting our parents’ with a courage I envied. Then, my parents had to put her on condition, that if she was going to be allowed to sing again, she would have to use the full name, everyone was in awe as this shouldn’t even be what a parent should be mad about in the first place as the child is the one doing the whole work and should be allowed to use whatever she wants to use. Neighbors whispered in shock, friends messaged Happiness in support, but our parents were unrelenting. Everyone tried their best to get them back down on it but they refused, including the church pastor but he couldn’t say much about it because my parents were basically the one sponsoring him so everyone turned to my sister to change it just for her to be able to continue singing, everyone saw a potential singer but my parents saw something else—a way to cement their legacy.