THE VISIT

Story Time With Abbie

I have been carrying around a lie for as long as I can remember. I tell myself these lies because I don't want to appear vulnerable. I believe showing my feelings makes me look weak, and I never want to appear weak because people take advantage of the weak. So, I always put up the tough girl facade.

"So, will you come visit us?" my older brother asked, trying to persuade me. "Everyone will be around, and the last time this happened was four years ago."

"I'll be working, and you know I'm saving up for my rent," I replied, giving excuses because I didn't want to go home. "I don't want to spend unnecessarily."

"Just think about it, Abbie," he said, trying to joke. "I hope your work is paying you in millions." But I could hear the disappointment in his voice.

"You can come and meet me, and we'll go together, then come back together," he pressed further.

"I'll let you know," I trailed off the call.

I love my siblings; I love my family. But despite this, I've intentionally kept my distance for so long. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, as I built a life far away from them. I chose a university on the other side of the country, desperate for a fresh start. Yet, the ache within me lingered.

I'm consumed by a deep-seated anger, directed at no one in particular. It's a residue of all I endured alone during my childhood – the struggles, the silence, the solitude. My fists still clench at the memory, my eyes welling up with tears. Now I think I'm alone, no matter how surrounded I am; I still think I'm alone.

There's no sibling in my family with a similar story; everyone had a different point of view while growing up. If you called us together to speak about our experiences, you'd think we were from different parts of the world.

My older sister experienced blindness. My older brother experienced verbal and physical abuse.

I experienced sexual abuse and abandonment.

My younger brother, the baby of the house, never shows or talks about his feelings, and this scares me so much.

"Baby girl, are you coming tomorrow?" my sister asked, her voice laced with a deep sigh. I hesitated, unsure if I was ready to face our family dynamics again. "I'll know tomorrow," I said, wanting to see my siblings so much.

It had been a long time since we were together; if I didn't make it this time, I didn't know when something like this would happen again.

I wanted to go so badly, but my mother would be there, and my mother and I are known for our constant squabbles. I didn't have the mental strength for any of those fights.

"Oh God, please help me make the right decision," I prayed silently before going to bed.

I set out that morning as early as 6 a.m. to the motor park, where I would get a vehicle to take me to my mother's house. The park was rowdy, as expected. Different conductors lined up, shouting out various locations, trying to get passengers to fill up their vehicles. Some vehicles looked rickety, and I wondered why road safety officials would still let them operate.

The motor park smelt like a mixture of urine and freshly cooked food. I could perceive the bleached palm oil used in cooking.

"You dey go Jigawa?" one conductor asked. I walked off, shaking my head, as I went to look for a driver commuting my route.

“Madam, write your name here,” the conductor instructed, pointing at a tiny space on the manifesto where I was to fill in my details.

“Your money na 7,800, but I no get change to give you now. Meet driver,” he said, turning away sharply, hoping I wouldn't ask the driver immediately and his intention to abscond with my money remained intact.

I knew there was no way I was getting that change, and mentally, I had parted ways with it.

The journey was about six hours long and bearably inconvenient.

“I just arrived,” I said to my sister in a low tone, who was on the other end of the call.

“Welcome, my dear. Call Mommy, she will pick you up.” I didn't bring myself to call my mother because I didn't tell her I was coming. I hoped she would hear it from my siblings.

I was too angry to speak with her about anything; she offended me a few days back, and I was waiting for an apology that I knew would never come. So I stood by the landmark in the address I was given and hoped my mother won’t have a problem finding me.

Most of the time, when people hear anger, they immediately think of an uncontrollable outburst. But anger is so much more than that. Anger manifests itself in many ways. It could come in rage, silence, or laughter, but the similarities in these different expressions are the incomprehensible actions untamed anger makes you take.

An African proverb says, “Anger and madness are brothers.” There's a way anger destroys a man; first, it will make sure you lose everything. It then isolates you before it finally makes you mad. You'll look into the mirror and see your burning eyes and distorted face looking back at you. You'll begin to wonder how you let it get to that point. You'll think of the different steps you would have taken to de-escalate the situation.

At the end of the day, not many people are pleased with the decisions they made when they were angry.

I sighted my mother's silver Lexus jeep and waved. I greeted her, thanked her for picking me up, and dropped my bag at the back seat before going to the front passenger seat to join her.

“April, you didn't even tell me you were coming,” my mother said, her voice flat and neutral. I felt a familiar knot form in my stomach.

“I wasn't sure I'd be coming, Ma,”

I responded unenthusiastically. I knew there was a part of her that wanted to talk about our issue, but she didn't.

My mother's expression remained closed-off, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. The silence between us grew thick, heavy with unspoken words and unresolved tensions. My siblings were so excited to see me; I recall my brothers telling me how much they loved and missed me.

My sister quickly brought out the black T-shirt she had waited to give me.

“If you don't like it, give it back,” she joked as she tossed the shirt onto my body.

“Thank you, sis,” I smiled and fitted the shirt onto my upper body. Laughter filled our home; the constant goofing around was what I missed the most. God blessed my family with a sense of humor.

My mom brought out the bag of souvenirs she brought back from her last trip to London, and there was something for everyone. It hit me as I stood in the middle of the sitting room, watching the activities around me take place. Why did I want to deny myself this happiness? Every other feeling I had seemed insignificant compared to how I felt at that moment.

These people loved me; I felt it. It was real; I didn't doubt it. I felt as though if I stretched out my hand, I'd be able to touch the love.

I saw my beautiful cousins, Soma and Lilian. Soma was six years old the last time I saw him; he's now eleven and almost my height. I give him a few years, and he'll be taller than me. The last time I saw Lilian, she was eight, but now a teenager, filling my ears with every trending slang she could remember. Her mom called me to a corner and talked about how elated Lilian was when she heard I was coming. In fact, she was so uninterested in everything until she heard I was around. She said Lilian looked up to me and would always brag about her cool older sister to all her friends at school.

I felt a surge of warmth fill my heart; I didn't know I had such an impact on this young girl. From then on, I decided to be the best aunt and look out for my baby girl. Besides eating well-prepared meals, this was the highlight of my visit.

Whatever annoyance I felt for my mom was long gone now; it didn't matter. I should cut her some slack; she's doing her best. She never had an easy life, and deep down, I knew this.

It dawned on me that I was never alone, and I was loved for just existing, something I thought was impossible. I thought about my childhood and all the lies I told myself to survive. The anger I felt back then still lingers, a constant reminder of what I went through. I remember nights spent crying myself to sleep, wondering why my family couldn't be like the ones I saw on TV, with laughter and warmth that seemed to seep from the screen into my longing heart.

Why did I have to suffer in silence? The pain I felt then still echoes within me, a hollow ache that refuses to fade. But now, I am ready to unlearn every lie, I am ready to let go of those feelings that held me back for so long, I am ready to live. Something in me healed that day.

"When will you come visiting again?" was the most asked question I got from my family, and deep down, I knew it would be long before I returned home again. Anger and bitterness had stolen a lot from me; now the thieves have been caught, and they've been found guilty. Trust, justice will be served.

The lie I tell myself, the lie I force myself to believe, so I don't appear weak or vulnerable is that I don't miss anybody, that I don't have the ability to long for the absence of another. But this is a LIE. I miss my family; I miss my friends; I miss some of the relationships I lost; I miss being genuinely happy.

As I look back, I realize that the lies I told myself were a shield, a desperate attempt to protect myself from the pain. But the truth, no matter how hard it is to face, sets me free. I'm still piecing together the fragments of my childhood, still learning to navigate the scars. But with each step forward, I claim a little more of myself. I'm finding my voice, my strength, and my resilience.

The journey ahead won't be easy, but I'm ready to face it, one truth at a time.