Growing up, I never truly felt a sense of belonging. My childhood was fragmented, nestled in the shadows of my father’s numerous children, struggling to find my place. My dad had a lot of kids, so his attention wasn’t really on me unless I misbehaved. It’s in those moments of transgression that I saw the fury of my father. Though I knew deep down he loved me, I also knew that ever since he lost my mom, the love of his life, he was never the same.

A Fragmented Family

My father’s attempt to move on with his life was a complicated one. He remarried and had children with different women, eventually marrying the very mistress with whom he had cheated on my mother. When my mother died, she swiftly took her place in our home. As an African child, I was expected to suppress my grief and confusion and obey my elders unfailingly.

A Sanctuary of Warmth and Love

Escape came during school vacations when I visited my mother’s side of the family. Seeing my grandparents filled me with a profound sense of love and belonging. My grandfather, a hardworking man, spent his days driving a Coca-Cola truck. I would rush to greet him late at night, feeling the warmth of his presence as he brought me food. My aunties and cousins would visit, and we’d play until exhaustion claimed us. For once, I wasn’t a shadow, but a cherished part of something larger.

The Return to Reality

Returning to my father’s house after these idyllic breaks was like plunging into a relentless storm. I hated living under my father’s harsh scrutiny, where nothing I did seemed to escape criticism. I needed him to see me, to acknowledge my existence. But I felt like a shadow in the middle of the field, lost and unseen.

Looking back, living in Africa was truly special—a land teeming with unseen beauty and endless vibrancy. Every street corner buzzed with life, and the infectious warmth of the people created a deep sense of community. In those rare, yet profound, moments of freedom, I found the hope that carried me through the darker days.