My mother brought me to Lagos in 2006. I had just turned 10. It was my first time in Lagos, so I was very happy. We were going to visit some family members for a while; that’s what my mother told me. We packed a lot of clothes and left for Lagos on a Friday morning. My younger brother and my dad stayed back in Benin. On my first day in Lagos, we went to Lagos Market, past through the busy markets and the crowded bus stations. I couldn’t stop looking around; at the tall buildings, the old ugly buildings — it was all so different. I developed neck pain that day, but I was insatiable; I wanted to see everything.

We used to go to the Island very often. I didn’t know it was because my mother was a maid for the woman she called our “Aunty”. I knew something was funny because we didn’t chat like we usually did with family at home. She often called my mother or me out of the blue or at odd hours to help with something and that was the end. After about two months, we returned to Benin.

I didn’t think about being an adult when I was younger. I don’t think children can understand what it means to be an adult; how do you want to explain all the things that adults go through to them? All I did as a child was go to school, do housework and play. That trip to Lagos was the first time I was in a place where I had to gauge everything carefully. It was my first adult experience. The next time I went to Lagos after I finished JSS 3, I went to start work. My parents had been talking about getting work; they felt that I had to start earning my keep.

The truth is, I’m not from a wealthy family. My father drives a bus and my mother does anything she can find as long as it brings money.

I initially thought they would ask me to learn a skill like sewing or hairdressing. But when they started talking about going to Lagos, I asked, “What’s happening here?” In response, my mother advised to be a good child. She said I had to face my work and be honest with other people. I thought it was good-natured mother-to-child advice until she told me that I was going to live with one of our big aunties as a househelp.

I didn’t have to think twice before I ran away from home two days. I ran to our pastor’s house and asked him to beg them. With time, I calmed down. They convinced me that we needed the money, so I came to Lagos a second time. The only plan I had was to do exactly what my mother did back then. I thought that if I made enough money, I could just leave after a few months.

I’m still with the same family that I moved in with. I think the day that I collected my first salary of 20,000 naira was the first day I saw myself as an adult. I didn’t spend the money; I gave it to my madam and she helped me send it home to my mother. The other thing that made me mature was loneliness. My madam used to come back from work at around 9 pm. Her children were outside the country for school, so it was just us helpers in the house. In my first year working there, I was almost raped. It was the boy they brought to man the compound gate. It was on one of those nights when my madam and her husband went to church for vigils. I was afraid to tell anybody. And if I had told my mother, she would ask me to come back. I didn’t want to. About two years ago, I got the courage to tell my madam and oga about the almost-rape incident. They had already sent the boy away before this time. In fact, he was sent away not long after he forced himself on me. They were very angry that I did not tell them when it happened. I thought, “Something wey don happen since.” But I understand sha.

The family has been so nice to me from day one. Most people don’t know I work for them, even in the estate. They have two boys and a girl. They’re all older than me. People often assume I’m their niece.

Many things have changed, and I’m not as close to my family. We always talk on the phone, and I travel home twice a year for one week. Benin has become a different place for me. It’s almost a different life. I don’t know how to explain it. Somewhere along the line, I started to make the most of what I had in Lagos.

Since I moved to Lagos, I’ve learned to make hair and fashion design. I’ve also gone to good schools. Currently, I’m getting ready for exams in UNILAG. After this, na final year. Them no dey tell person. My people are okay at home. Things are better and the money from here still helps. I don’t get a salary for housework. My madam has a shop along Ogudu Road. I manage the place. We sell drinks in wholesale, so she pays me from there.

My oga is late now. He passed last year – you know these sicknesses that old people always have. So it’s just me and my madam now. She’s very old, but she’s still stubborn, and I’m the only one that can take care of her. It doesn’t affect school that much, except during exams. She always wants to talk about something. Her children are all abroad; she used to travel there before but not anymore.

Just take every day as it comes.

That’s my big lesson from growing up. See that time I was crying about coming to Lagos? What plan did I have for myself? I just wanted to stay with my family. I’ve been lucky sha. Some girls have come to this same Lagos and the story has been something else entirely. When I tell people who are close to me that I never cooked for the house, they don’t believe. But that’s life. I’m just taking it as it comes. I’m not thinking about what will happen when my madam dies. When we get there, we’ll see what happens.

We want to know how young people become adults. The question we ask is “What’s your coming of age story?” Every Thursday, we’ll bring you the story one young Nigerian’s journey to adulthood and how it shaped them.

Sometime last year, my family began to take down photos of my father around the house. He often disappeared for long spells. Each time, when he returned, he was in tatters and broke. This time was different; it was the longest he’d gone. We knew he would return, but we decided there would be no room for him when he did.

My older sister and I wanted to create a normal life while drugs could still relieve the pain of our 56-year-old mother who suffered from diabetes. We craved normalcy, even if it felt a little too late.

When I was born 25 years ago, my parents were traders from Eastern Nigeria who were finding their feet in Lagos. My father had come from Owerri to apprentice with an older uncle and set up his cassette store after a few years. They had my sister immediately. I was their way of celebrating their first decent apartment, a room and parlour in Ebute-Metta.

Life wasn’t eventful while growing up. The exciting things that happened were my mother’s not-so-frequent bouts of illness, mostly because someone always got to stay home with he — usually my sister. But she always got well after a few days, especially when her people sent herbs from home. So we’d settle back into routine; I was assistant daddy, I’d finish from school and go to the shop. My father would tell me stories about his childhood while I helped around. My sister would go to my mother’s stall in the market and we’d meet at home at night.

It was a good way to live if you’re the kind of person who believes in the dignity of labour. Not if you’re ambitious. Definitely not if you dreamed of seeing out your final days in a big house in your village. That was the reason my father gave when we first noticed things were going south with him. And I believed him. On some days, I’d go to his shop and he’d be nowhere to be found. So I’d wait until he returned, reeking of cigarettes and cheap alcohol. He’d instruct me to not tell my mother, but she noticed when he began to return with bloodshot eyes and empty pockets. Then he began to buy big bottles of Regal gin and take long swigs as he wished, home or at work, day or night.

Looking back, we shouldn’t have just watched it happen. When my mother got tired and confronted him for the first time, he hit her across the face. I can still remember the sound and the swelling. I was in SS1 at the time and now had a key to the shop. He stormed out and didn’t return for days. When he did, he was hungry, drunk and a complete mess. My mother rushed out to carry him. She was crying. She cleaned him up, gave him food, painkillers and put him to bed. My sister and I were shocked. It was our father, but we were upset that she seemed to have so quickly forgotten about a fresh wound.

That’s how it began. First, he stopped going to the shop. Then he’d disappear for days at a time, and later weeks, only to show up at my mother’s stall at the market. Sometimes, we’d meet him at home when we got back from church. By the time my sister left secondary school in 2008, our relationship had broken down. My mother’s ugu and condiments kept a roof over our head. We still lived in the same house in Ebute-Metta. Our landlord was nice enough to let us pay our rent every six months as long as we paid on time. My father was a complete no-show, even when my mother had her first crisis in 2011.

They say she was always falling sick as a child. In those days, things like that were chalked down to ‘ogbanje’ so she had several ritual incisions down her back and arm to keep her alive. Still, she kept falling sick. As she grew older, her health forced her to live safe, so she ate well and had no vices, except, of course, my father. Things gradually worsened when she moved with him to Lagos. The pressure of being a sole provider didn’t help either.

Neither myself nor my sister ever gave university much thought. I can’t remember discussing it with my parents. Who would send us? Our alcoholic father? A mother who’s been bedridden for years?

When I left secondary school, I continued to run the CD shop which also became a game centre. Since then, I’ve learned to do some electrical jobs: fixing television sets, irons, minor wiring, installing DSTV. Most of the money goes into getting drugs for my mother.

My sister has had to grow up too. After secondary school, she took up my mother’s stall. But she was never going to stay there for long. She’s hardworking but also very pretty. It’s the kind of youthful beauty that rich people like to spend on. When we were younger, people often gave her money; my father scolded her for it, but we all knew it wasn’t her fault. She has ‘friends’ who ‘helped’ her open a small food place in Jibowu. She sells Igbo food to drivers working in the transport companies. I think she makes new ‘friends’ there too. That’s none of my business. She often comes home, tired and angry. She’s 28 now. I know she’s thinking about her life too.

We don’t know how long my mother has left, but we’ve spent every day preparing since we took the photos down. She doesn’t leave the house anymore, except to attend church or go to the hospital. The day my father came back home, she was asleep. My sister had gotten some area boys to look out for him, in case she ever showed up. Because we’d lived there for so long, they knew the story. He returned with a friend, who looked like he’d been in a drug den all his life. The boys didn’t let him into the compound. When he began to make a scene, the boys carried him away. All I heard was his screaming, and later, stories of what happened. He never came back.

Sometimes, I catch myself waiting for my mother to go so I can start living. I know my sister does too. She talks about it. “Who go marry me when I don be like old cargo,” she says. I want to tell her that marriage isn’t a great idea; the only one we know broke everybody involved. I feel like I’ve settled for a lot of things because of my parents. I don’t have a girlfriend. I can’t afford the girls that I like.

If there’s anything that I’ve learned from my parents and adulthood, it’s that the people in your life are crucial as the decisions you make. That’s why I move at a steady pace; I don’t want to be like my father. I want to go for a technical program and learn electrical work properly. For now, my life revolves around what’s left of my mother’s. It’s this uncertainty that leads my day-to-day life. What will happen when she passes? I don’t know. For now, we do what we can and hope for the best.