It all Squared Up

Dear God,

She paused. The silence was loud. It felt like she was playing a weird movie in her head. And then as if compelled to explain the images she was viewing, she started talking in slow motion….

“The laughter in the banter square was thick and contagious, the sound of our shared craziness”, she smiled gently as she was caught in a whirlwind of old memories. “Remember when Nneka tried to dye her hair blue, and it turned green?” Chuka teased, earning a playful shove from Nneka. “Or when Richard thought he could fly off the roof with a bedsheet?” “Super Man”, we all shouted, the room exploding with renewed laughter.

She tried to laugh but the tears overtook the sounds.

Chuka, ever the joker, chimed in, “You know, sometimes I wonder if we’re even related. Richard’s forehead for one. We’re all so different despite the mummy look-alike.”

“Yeah, especially you, Chuka,” Nneka quipped, “You’re like the family’s wild card, if it wasn’t for Chika your twin, we would assume Mum picked you from the forest.” Chuka threw his napkin at her as we rolled with laughter.

We always joked about our varying features, our personality quirks, and the sheer improbability of our family all sharing the same parents because of our different levels of craziness. But it was all in good fun, of course. Or so we thought, she said in a whisper.

I stared at her silently. (It was a harmless jest, a light-hearted jab at their contrasting personalities. Little did they know, those words were a whisper of a truth yet to be unearthed). Hmmm.

“We have always made outlandish jokes about ourselves, she continued as if reading my mind and trying to justify the whole shenanigan. It wasn’t the 1st time. It meant nothing. Was meant to mean nothing”.

But a casual hangout with our childhood friends, the Okorie siblings, changed everything. They were part of the families we invited to the Banter Square. Our Parents were best of friends, so, naturally, the children followed suite. In fact, many thought we were cousins. The air crackled with disbelief on that day as the Okories revealed they weren’t full siblings, a revelation born from a DNA test.

“Wait, you guys are serious?” Richard asked, his voice laced with disbelief. The siblings exchanged uneasy glances; their playful banters now replaced with a strange, unsettling silence. For some strange reasons, the Okories were very much like us. Friendly, different and easy with words. We could turn anything into a resounding joke. So, they too made jokes about their families with us. But that day, the harmless jokes about their differences suddenly felt heavy, laden with unspoken questions”.

“After that day, a silent curiosity settled amongst us. Should we, should we not? Do we have any reasons to doubt our parents? No, we did not, but Chuka was a daredevil, he just started plucking our hairs. At 1st, he said he would use it for money rituals. We laughed till there was no sound coming out again. Stupid Chuka would not even know ritual even if it stared him in the face. He was too unserious for such complexities. So, we settled that it was okay for a DNA test. Afterall, what were we afraid to find? There was nothing to hide. We are who we said we are…. right?

The results arrived, and the world we knew shattered. We weren’t siblings, not in the way we thought. The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by Chuka’s trembling whisper, “This… this can’t be real.” What have I done?”

Our last born Nneka’s eyes filled with tears, “What does this mean?”

We had no choice now. We had opened a can of worms, and we needed to know why they were there. We needed answers. But who will approach the matter? Finally, cued by our eldest Nnamdi, we resolved, we either know or die trying. So, we confronted our mother.

Her silence was a heavy, suffocating blanket. “Mom, we need answers,” Nneka pleaded, her voice breaking. But mum will not as much as look at us, her lips pressed tightly together. “You had no right to do what you did. You had no right to question our integrity this way. There are things… you wouldn’t understand.”

Richard’s anger flared, “Understand what? That we’re not related?”

“Mama, talk to us! Just say something!” Chuka screamed.

She sat there, eyes vacant, lips pressed together, her silence louder than any words she could have spoken.

“You owe us this much! We are your children! Or at least… we thought we were,” my voice broke again.

Just then, father, entered the room, his presence a heavy weight. He looked at our mum, then at us, his children, his face etched with sorrow. He sat in his usual chair, watching. Unmoving. We watched him. Waiting for an eruption of reactions or actions. But no, he just sat their staring at us. The fact that the news didn’t break him was interesting. Did he know?

That was when the panic set in. This was not just some crazy, random occurrence. This was… something bigger. A pattern. A buried truth that people like our mother and the Okorie’s mother had taken to their graves.

And then, when we thought we would die from the silence, our father spoke.

“I don’t care what you found out or why.” His voice was firm, steady. “You are all my children. And you always will be.”

Chuka laughed, sharp and bitter. “But we are not, are we? From were I stand; we are maybe the result of some sick experiment!”

Our father stood. “You don’t understand. This… is deeper and older than you know… this was done to protect our legacy.”

“WHAT LEGACY?!” I screamed. “WHO DOES THIS? WHO HIDES THIS? WHO LIVES A LIE FOR DECADES?!”

“Igbo men do,” he said simply, his voice still firm. “Your mother… she is not the villain in this story. She is the saviour. She did what had to be done.”

Father’s voice, thick with emotion, filled the room. He revealed a truth that had been hidden for years. Our mum, a woman of extraordinary compassion, had helped our father who was unable to bear children. In the Igbo tradition, to uphold the family lineage, she had conceived discreetly to have children for our father. A well-kept secret, shared only between couple. And then, slowly, piece by piece, the truth unravelled and hit us squarely. Our father… the man we revered… had been infertile. Our mother… the woman we blamed… had taken it upon herself to ensure he had a legacy.

“Your mother is a good woman,” Father said firmly, “I have never had cause to doubt her love and loyalty to me. She did this out of love, out of a desire to protect the family. And I dare anyone who would question that or love her less.”

Our heads reeled; our worlds turned upside down. We were no longer just siblings; we are a testament to our mother’s extraordinary love and our father’s silent complicity. The realisation that our father knew all along, was a second shock wave, as deep as the first.

We stared, not knowing whether to be horrified or glorified. It was tradition. An ancient, silent tradition.

A wife, finding her husband incapable, would bear children for him—children from men chosen in the shadows. And she would carry the burden of secrecy till her dying breath.

We had not been raised in deception. We had been raised in sacrifice. And for the first time, I didn’t know whether to scream… or weep…. or laugh.

Then memories assailed me. Distant, distorted images.

Mama crying every time she became pregnant. Unlike other women who were pampered, she worked harder when she was pregnant (as if she was punishing herself for being pregnant). Always moving, always pushing through the exhaustion. And she made us work too. That was how she earned the nickname from us —“Slave Master”.

She was insistent on making us understudy our father, do everything the way he did it. It was as if she was trying to map his characteristics into us. His words were law—unopposed, unquestioned. But he was a kind man, so his laws were fair.

I tried to recall a time they ever quarrelled, if there had been an inkling of discomfort. But it was never there. If they fought, we never saw it.

What kind of man was this, our father? To bear this secret, keep it, and still raise children not his? And yet, here he was. Silent. Steady. Unshaken.

“Tell me, children,” Mama finally spoke, voice hoarse, eyes glistening with tears. “Do you still think less of me now?”

We all rose as one and hugged our mum. Nnamdi pulled Father into the circle of hugs, and we all held each other, crying and laughing together.

Our initial shock had given way to a strange sense of understanding. Our bond, forged in shared experiences and love, remained strong.

“We’re still family,” Nneka said, her voice filled with a newfound sense of understanding. “Nothing can change that.” Richard nodded,

“Yeah, we’re just… a little more complicated.” Chuka, the crazy one giggled.

Finally, she looked at me, a mix of sadness and acceptance in her eyes. “We agreed that we will let sleeping dogs lie. We agreed that we will not seek to know who the biologicals are. And we made a pact at the banter square, all of us staring Chuka down. But if I know Chuka and the way his eyes were glistering, he won’t let go! Maybe he has already found out! Oh God!”

What a story, Lord, What a story! No wonder you look more at the hearts of men than their actions. How harshly I judged their mum at 1st. How harshly we all are bound to judge at first. We could have easily condemned a very honourable and noble woman because of our impressions. Forgive me, Lord, help me to stay my judgements until all the facts are in. Help me to hear the other side of the story before I make a call.

And to every mother out there, who has had to do unspeakable things just to hold the strings of the family together…. You are true Champions!

And to every father out there, who has had to sacrifice honour and dignity to uphold a noble tradition and raise generations of nobility…. You are Heros!

This is your daughter Lord; you just taught me to look beyond the drama for the lessons.

Done.

So now, I am checking in.