Before gaining admission into the university, I stayed home alone while everyone went about their businesses either to school or work. Before going to work, a primary school, where she was head teacher, my mom would give me some house chores to do, either wash clothes, go to the market, scrub the kitchen pots and gutter, or sweep our apartment, I also washed my dad’s two cars every morning. Soon, I became tired of these chores and poured out my vexation into my diary. I wrote of how I felt like a maid and wanted to get out of the house soon, I wrote how angry I was at my dad for never letting me go visit guys that invited me to their house, I was really mad at them.
So one fateful Saturday, after doing the laundry with my mom, I had a big fight with my younger sister and I shouted how I’ve being slaving off at home while she played with friends at home, my mom heard my rants and told me to shut up, she said I was behaving like an *agbaya* (Immature adult) that got me madder. I went straight to my dairy and wrote how I hated everyone including my parents, my emotions were running wild and I can still remember how my breathes fell heavily as I poured out my pain into my diary in a ragged handwriting.
I was still writing when my mom called from the bathroom that I should help her stir the food on the gas cooker, “why didn’t she call my younger sister, why me? Everytime me!” These were the thoughts in my head as I grudgingly went to do her bidding, I left my diary opened on the table in our little hallway but before I came back my mom had noticed the ugly scrawls on the book and picked it up.
My parents loved their kids with legible and beautiful writings and they had taught us right from a tender age to always write legibly on the lines of our books. So when my mom saw the writing, she initially thought it was for my little brother and she went in search of him with the book in her hand. I marched up to her and told her it was my dairy, she looked closely again at the angry write ups and read out what I’d written. When she got to the point where I’d written that I hated everyone, the book fell from her hand and a tear slipped from her freshly bathed faced. My heart tore out, I loved my mom!
She looked at me right in the eyes as tears fell from her eyes, I fell down at her feet and started to cry too. I wept out how sorry I was, she simply wiped her face and went to her room, locking the door behind her. My sister looked pitily at me and shook her head. I felt like the world was against me, no one understood my point. I was suddenly overcome with fear when I thought of my dad, what would he do if he read the diary because my mom already took it with her. I got up, wiped my tears, and began to call on God, it might be my last day on earth if my dad read the diary.
When I heard the honk of my dad’s car, announcing his arrival, I obediently ran over to open the gate. I greeted him and he winked at me, unaware of what had happened. My heart sank down to my toes. He went inside to meet his wife and I went to my room to pray, my heart beating madly. My sister came inside and sat on my bed, saying nothing, she was looking tense. My younger brother came in minutes later and I thought he’d been sent to summon me for my judgement but he came to assure me that my parents were actually talking about my Uncle. He’d been eavesdropping for me. My mom did not tell my Dad about the diary but she punished me in her own ways.
For four days, she did not talk to me! She replied not my greetings nor did she send me on any errand. I began to miss her, missed her teasings and even the works. She’d only dish out my food and leave me alone. I wrote letters to her, seeking her forgiveness but she said nothing. When our neighbors asked what happened because they noticed the tension in the house when my dad wasn’t around, I replied nothing but it was obvious something was wrong.