‘It’s okay to journey through life, as long as you don’t forget to take yourself with you.’ Chief Akpan Udoh Akpan Amaeto (my late father)
I left my uncle’s house with one burning desire: to be successful. Success means different things to different people, of course. To me, it meant obtaining a good education.
But getting a good education was easier said than done. My father, though wise in many ways, was still a product of his culture. And so ours was a polygamous home, with two wives and twelve children. Despite good intentions, managing such a home can be fraught with all manner of challenges, including the competition for resources. But Papa managed to design a system to ensure ‘equal distribution of the resources in our home. It was based on the concept of first come, first serve, and it was strictly adhered to in education. What that meant was the progress to the next ladder in each child’s educational journey was dependent on his or her birth placement — the first child got in first, the second follows, then the third, and so on.
My father’s tier practices seemed the only sensible route for a man determined to maintain fairness and peaceful co-existence in his family at all cost. But his logic, though practical, did not work for me and my aspirations. I was a girl growing up in a male-dominated society, emphasising marriage as the most ‘rational’ route on the must-accomplish list of a girl child. My father was an avid believer in education and used to say, ‘even ‘if I cannot educate you to the level I would like, let education be the most important thing you get when you start getting things for yourself.’ But Papa was from a big family, with members with different mindsets on educating a girl child. Despite his own beliefs, who knew what would happen if a viable suitor showed up? Papa himself might be amenable to my refusal, but what about my many uncles and Papa’s friends? he might be pressured into pressurizing me to get married when I wasn’t ready.
I could not allow that.
Aunty mocking voice the evening before she took me back to my family was like a loud drum at the back of my head. ‘The only future you can hope for is marriage to some dirty, old man back in the village. I give two years, if not months, to receive news of your impregnation by some wretched old man.’
Waiting for my turn to get an education was not an option. I risked making Aunty’s prediction come true. If I wanted a good education, I was going to have to get it for myself.
And that’s precisely what I did.
One of my big sisters lived in another city at that time — a place called Port Harcourt, another state’s capital city. She had gone there in search of a job, also because one of our paternal aunties was married to some big chief down there. When I arrived there, it turned out my big sister was yet to get a job. It didn’t matter to me. My aim for choosing PH was not so that I could depend on her. I wanted a place with familiar faces, somewhere I could feel at home. At the same time, I searched for a job that could enable me to continue my education. Though I was wary of serving someone in their home after my recent bad experience, I didn’t care what kind of job I got as long as I understood that I would be allowed time off to attend evening school.
Not long after my arrival, I got a job with a young couple — with the explicit agreement that I would be allowed to study. I didn’t expect them to pay for my studies; I made that clear. I just wanted to be allowed the evenings off to do my thing. They agreed to my conditions. This couple had no children; that was a deliberate decision, too — I didn’t want to end up working for people who would use the excuse of ‘needing someone to stay with the children while they were out as a justification to sabotage my studies.
After paying my first salary as soon as it was due, I could buy necessities like toiletries since they didn’t provide them. My employer suggested holding onto my wages until I was ready to pay for my studies. ‘So you don’t waste it or spend it,’ the wife said. As if! I thought but allowed them to hold onto the money for me anyway.
