TRIGGER WARNING: Childhood Ecstasy contains themes of childhood trauma, physical punishment, family conflict, emotional distress, fear, neglect, and difficult family experiences. Some scenes contain descriptions of corporal punishment and experiences that may be upsetting or triggering for some readers. Please read at your own comfort level and take a break whenever you need one.
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I was about seven years old when I began to understand that a home could feel like a prison.
Not because I knew what a prison was. I didn't. I was too young to understand the meaning of confinement, too young to question why other children were allowed to play outside but my siblings and I weren't. I only knew that there were things other children did that we were never allowed to do. Things as ordinary as playing with the children next door, visiting our cousins, or running around outside without having to worry about the consequences.
We were different.
I didn't know the word "confinement" then. I didn't think of my home as a prison. It was just my home. But looking back now, I think that is probably the closest word I can find for what it felt like.
We lived in a bungalow with four big rooms, a large kitchen, a storeroom, a large bathroom, a smaller bathroom that we children used, a dining area, and a large parlour. There were two steps leading into the parlour, and inside were two large couches and two single couches that could only take one person each.
There was also a study room.
That room was probably one of the most important places in our childhood because studying was almost everything we knew how to do. The study room had about four chairs, two desks, a whiteboard, and a large green metal drawer where we kept our textbooks and notebooks. We spent more than half of our childhood here, in this small space.
My parents made us study after school until 6 p.m. So when other children were outside playing, my elder brother and I were probably sitting somewhere with a book in front of us.
The house had enough room for children to run around and be themselves. But there was very little freedom in it.
My parents were strict. They were hot-tempered, and their rules were not the kind you could negotiate. You either followed them, or you face the consequences, and by that, I probably mean getting a black eye.
When my parents were away, we were locked inside the house. Before they left, lunch and dinner would be portioned out for us. Nothing more. That was what we were expected to eat. We knew quite well what would befall upon us if we were to take extra food from the pot. If we were still hungry, we had to endure it. We must endure.
My elder brother was nine, my younger brother was four, and I was seven. I was still trying to make sense of a childhood that had so many rules and so little freedom.
At seven, I didn't understand why being hungry was something I had to be careful about.
My younger brother would sometimes whisper to me that he was hungry. When it became too much for him, he would cry, but even then, he tried not to make too much noise.
I hated hearing him cry. I hated the tears.
And I hated that I couldn't do much about it. I hated knowing that there was food somewhere in the house but that we couldn't simply eat until we were satisfied.
I only knew that if my younger brother said he was hungry, there wasn't much I could do about it.
When my father left for work, my mother would lock us inside and go to her shop. She usually took our baby sister, who was only a few months old, and sometimes one of my younger sisters too. That left my elder brother, my younger brother, and me at home.
We had a routine.
After having lunch, we would go into the study room, pull a bedsheet over the chairs, and turn the space into something that could pass for a little hiding place. A safe space where our little "imaginations" could wander for a bit. We stayed there, and sometimes we slept.
We didn't really play under the bedsheet.
We didn't even know what kinds of games existed!
"What game were we even supposed to play?" we always thought to ourselves.
My elder brother and I challenged each other to spelling bees. We would test each other on words, trying to spell them correctly, and when we ran out of words or simply got bored, we would turn to the Oxford dictionary. The latest edition at the time.
My father liked asking us about new words we had learnt and their meanings.
God help us if he asked us about something we hadn't studied that day.
So we read.
We were children, but studying was so much a part of our lives that we didn't know what it felt like to play the way other children did. After school, we were expected to study until six in the evening. There was always something to read, something to learn, something to remember.
We didn't even know how to speak Pidgin then. We were what the modern day Nigerians call "Ajebo".
Sometimes, after reading for a while, we would get tired and fall asleep under the bedsheet.
I don't remember us laughing much in that little space. I don't remember the kind of silly conversations children usually have when they're left alone. What I clearly remember is the studying, the hunger, and the quiet.
That was our version of passing time and ignoring the hunger.
Our childhood was mostly school, studying, chores, eating what we were given, and trying not to get into trouble.
Then there was the guava tree. The only one in the compound.
It stood directly outside the study room. From the window, we could see it very clearly. We could even tell which fruits were ripe enough to pluck.
Sometimes the guavas were very ripe and sweet. Other times, they were sweet but still a little unripe.
We didn't care too much.
A guava was a guava.
When my younger brother and younger sister complained that they were hungry, my elder brother and I would sometimes sneak outside to pluck some for everyone. We were older, and we thought we could climb the tree. Our younger siblings were still too small, so we never let them come with us.
We didn't really discuss it beforehand.
There was a protective gate just after the main parlour door. My elder brother and I could squeeze our little bodies through it.
We would go out, pluck the guavas, and come back.
We had to bring our slippers inside and hide them so there would be no evidence that we had gone out.
When we returned with the guavas, my siblings would be excited.
"Today's guava looks bigger oo."
"Thank God mummy is not back yet."
Those little moments made me happy.
I was scared of being caught, but I was also proud of myself. I had managed to do something for them. I had found a way to make their hunger a little easier to bear.
I didn't feel guilty.
I didn't regret it.
I knew I was breaking a rule, but my siblings were hungry. What was I supposed to do? Sit there and watch my younger siblings cry because they wanted food when I knew there were guavas right outside for them to eat?
I couldn't do that.
So I kept going.
And then there was the sound of my mother's motorcycle.
I could recognize it anywhere.
Even if more than two motorcycles were approaching at the same time, I could tell which one was hers.
That sound meant we had to move.
Fast.
"Be quick, mummy is back."
"Arrange the chairs and return the books to the drawer."
We knew exactly what to do.
The chairs had to be put back. The books had to go into the metal drawer. The room had to look normal again.
And we had to be ready to greet her first when she came through the door.
My mother's return was never just the end of her absence. It was a moment we had to prepare for.
I was the girl.
So the chores were mine.
The dishes were mine. The cleaning was mine. The responsibility for anything out of place was mine.
My mother would call out in a loud, aggressive voice.
"Riley, why is this thing here?"
"Riley, why did you leave this here?"
It didn't matter who had put it there. It didn't matter whether I had even touched it.
I was the one expected to explain myself.
I was the girl, so all of the house chores were mine. The dishes, the cleaning, and anything out of place somehow became my responsibility. it's funny how I already knew how to wash heavy jeans at that age.
Stupid stereotype!
I always got the questions. So whenever I heard that motorcycle, I knew I had to be ready.
I knew what could happen if I wasn't.
And even when we managed to get everything right, I don't remember feeling relieved for very long.
There was always another day.
Another afternoon.
Another sound of a motorcycle approaching.
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Childhood Ecstasy
Non-FictionWhat happens when childhood is supposed to feel like freedom, but home feels like a place where you have to survive? Childhood Ecstasy is a raw, intimate journey through growing up, family, fear, love, loneliness, laughter, pain, and the strange lit...
