I AM NOT MY FATHER

When I was a boy, I thought fear was normal. I thought every home went quiet when a man walked in. I thought every child learned to listen to footsteps before lifting their head. I didn’t know there was another way to grow up. We lived in Lagos, in a house that looked ordinary from the outside. Neighbors greeted us. Children played football on the street. But inside our walls, life was measured by my father’s mood. Some evenings felt safe. Others felt like waiting for thunder. My father’s anger was unpredictable. When his voice changed, my body reacted before my mind did. I learned to freeze, to stay small, to disappear without moving. My mother tried to protect us. When things began to shift, she would send me away. “Go inside,” she’d say. Sometimes she turned on the radio, as if sound could protect us. Even when I obeyed, fear had a way of traveling through walls. At night, after everything went quiet again, my mother would come into my room. She never explained. She never complained. She would smooth my hair and whisper, “Sleep.” I didn’t understand it then, but now I know—she was pretending to be strong so I wouldn’t be afraid. I became a very observant child. I studied my father the way people study weather—searching for signs, hoping for calm, preparing for storms. He worked long hours. Outside, people respected him. Inside, whatever followed him home often landed on my mother. Stress, frustration, anger—she carried what he dropped. My mother was gentle, but life had hardened her silence. She ran the home, cared for us, and still smiled at neighbors. She rarely spoke back. Not because she agreed—but because she was protecting something. Me. My sister. What little peace remained. I have one sibling, a younger sister. I learned early that being her brother meant staying alert. When tension filled the room, I would sit close to her, hold her hand, whisper stories that made no sense. I couldn’t stop what was happening, but I could make sure she wasn’t alone. Our house followed unspoken rules. Speak softly. Don’t ask questions. Don’t draw attention. I learned them too well. Some nights, I lay awake listening to the walls, wondering how a place called “home” could feel so unsafe. I wondered if anger was something you inherited, like a name. I wondered if one day, without meaning to, I would become him. That thought scared me more than anything else. Then one night, something happened—something small, but different. My sister squeezed my hand and whispered, “Are we going to be okay?” I opened my mouth to answer… and realized I didn’t know. That was the first time I understood something was wrong. Not just in my house—but in what it was turning me into. And that was the night I began to fear my future.