“Being chosen is the greatest gift you can give to another human being.”- Trevoh Noah, Born A Crime.
But Choosing You, Is the greatest gift YOU can give to yourself…
I couldn’t help agreeing with the quote above the day I came across it in Trevoh Noah’s Born A Crime. It captured in a few words the way I felt living with my uncle and his wife: unchosen, unwanted, unloved, unvalued, unseen, unaccepted. It wasn’t so much Aunt’s inability to love me like one of her children that made me feel rejected. I don’t think I would have minded that I wasn’t loved like that by my Uncle and his wife; after all, despite being his blood relative, I was still not my uncle’s daughter. No, it was the totality of Aunty’s unkindness towards me — which was especially poignant whenever she spat at me. It was Uncle’s inability to protect me, which he managed to achieve by pretending he wasn’t aware of his wife’s bullying. Above all, it was the ‘normalization’ of the bullying itself. This was made apparent when my little cousins began to spit (casually and frequently) on me and in my food. Which they did, knowing they would not be held accountable.
The way someone treats you speaks more about their character, not yours!
The greatest satisfaction for those who bully and demean others comes from having an audience witness their show of ‘power.’ Whether it happens on the playground, in private homes or the plush offices of Fortune 500 CEOs, a person who wants others to live in fear and trembling is never satisfied until his displayed of ‘authority’ is witnessed by other people.
It wasn't any different from my uncle’s wife’s mindset.
Though there could not possibly have been any lesson to be learned from my humiliation, Uncle’s wife didn’t see it that way. She wanted others to believe that I was a ‘bad’ girl, that I was ‘stubborn’ and wicked.’ Please don’t ask me why. Maybe convincing herself that I was indeed stubborn and wicked was her way of achieving absolution from any guilt she might have felt from bullying a little child? I shall never know. Because, though I was handling all the chores in the house and doing so ‘impressively for such a young child’ — as one of her colleagues once observed — my uncle’s wife cut me no slag, nor did she ever thank me or acknowledge my contribution to the smooth running of her home. Instead, she was at pains to point out my every mistake. And ‘disciplined’ me for them: frequently and before other people. I hated this. More than I hated rejection, more than the face slapping, more than the ear boxing, more than being spat on. Aunty knew that too. We live on the ground floor of an estate housing government staff. There was never shortages of people coming and going along the common areas — such as the open space on the back and front of the buildings where young people and children play football or other recreational sports. I remember this one time she poured a full bowl of corn pap all over me and made sure many people saw me in that state.
It happened one Saturday morning. I know it was a Saturday because it was usually the only day in the week the family came together for a big breakfast. I had refused to eat a porridge soaked in milk — a dish that was not to my taste and which my uncle’s wife knew too well and had never forced on me before that day. But she did that Saturday morning. I had refused, of course. As usual, Aunty saw my refusal as a personal affront. Snatching the bowl of thick porridge off the kitchen stove, she had emptied its content all over my head. Not satisfied with the immediate result, she’d then spread the mess into my ears, all over my face, down the front of my dress and all over my back with her fingers. When she was done, my entire body was covered in the mushy, soggy mess, and I could barely see.
