Patricia* (26) struggled with a non-existent relationship with her mum for years until a 2023 incident drove her to cut her mum off for good. In this story, she shares how trying to give her mum a second chance turned out to be a mistake.
Trigger warning: This story contains some descriptions of emotional and physical abuse.
As told to Boluwatife
People describe light-bulb moments as an experience of sudden realisation. Something you weren’t quite sure about suddenly becomes clear. My light-bulb moment happened on my 15th birthday. It was the day I realised that my relationship with my mum wasn’t normal.
I went to my best friend, Onome’s, house that day. Onome lived in my neighbourhood and I often went to her house after school. My mum worked at a hotel restaurant and returned home late, so passing time at Onome’s was almost a daily occurrence.
This time, Onome invited me. She’d cornered me at school and said, “Make sure you come to my house this afternoon.” I thought it was strange because I was always at her house. But I didn’t object and went anyway. I arrived to a mini surprise party.
Onome and her mum had cooked jollof rice and baked a cake. I would’ve doubted it was for me if it didn’t have a big “Happy birthday” written on it. I was so confused, but after thanking them both, I stylishly dragged Onome away to help me understand what was happening. The conversation went something like this:
Me: “What’s going on?”
Onome: “What do you mean, ‘what’s going on?’ We’re trying to wish you a happy birthday! Haven’t you celebrated your birthday with rice and cake before?”
The truth was, I had never experienced that. I’d seen my mum celebrate the birthdays of my stepdad and stepbrother, but when it came to mine, everyone went silent. The most I got was a “Happy birthday” and some muttered prayers. I’m unsure why I never really thought about it until Onome’s surprise. It was my normal, and I didn’t think it was a problem.
That day, I watched Onome’s interactions with her mum with new eyes. They joked, laughed and were gentle with each other. I watched Onome animatedly tell her mum about a new dress she loved in the market and saw how her mum smiled at her as she described the dress.
That was the moment it really hit me. I didn’t have that with my mum. Something was wrong with our relationship.
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It’s not like I was completely oblivious. I knew my mum treated me differently, compared to my step-brother, but I just thought she was raising me differently because I was a girl.
While I did all the chores at home, my brother never did anything. He would break a window, and my mum would beat me because I should’ve “watched him closely.” The beating was always creative. She could use the buckle of a belt today, a metal hanger tomorrow, or put ground pepper in my private part the day after.
Then, she’d report me to my stepfather when he got home from work, often exaggerating my “crimes” so he’d also punish me. His preferred mode of punishment was “ride okada”. I’d hang in the air in a crouched position for what felt like hours, legs shaking and sweat pouring down, until he pitied and released me.
To escape the punishments, I tried to do everything right. I ensured the whole house was always clean, but my mum always found an error. It’s either I missed dust under the table or the beans I cooked was oversalted. When she wasn’t beating me, she was insulting me: “You’re so stupid,” “See your oversized nose,” “You’re a bastard,” “Like father, like daughter.”
By now, you can guess there was bad blood between my mum and my biological dad. My mum had met my dad at uni. He was her married lecturer, but somehow, she got pregnant. He denied the pregnancy and fled. He stopped teaching at the school, and no one knew where he went.
My mum didn’t get any support from her family, so she dropped out of uni to provide for me. She was a struggling single mum for over five years before she met my stepfather. Things got better, but she transferred the hatred and resentment she had for my dad to me. The resentment was clear, but it took me 15 years to see it.
I moved on to uni in 2015, and in the four years I spent there, I can count the number of times my mum called me on one hand. After the initial ₦5k she sent me at the beginning of the semester, she never called again or picked up when I called.
Once, in my first year, I borrowed money to travel home to see if something had happened to my mum, making her unreachable. She was fine. Instead, she screamed at me for coming all the way and “wasting” her money. She was like, “Who do you think will give you money to go back to school? You think money grows on trees?”
I got the message. She didn’t pick my calls because she didn’t want to hear from me. My stepfather gave me ₦10k to return to school the next day. He was also the one who paid my school fees. Left to my mum alone, I probably wouldn’t even attend in the first place.
Beyond school fees, I realised I had to be responsible for myself. I couldn’t depend on my mum for pocket money, so I had to make my own money. I did many things at uni for money: modelling, ushering, makeup, and even hairdressing. I didn’t make big money, but at least I made around ₦10k – ₦30k per gig and survived on that.
I graduated from uni in 2019, and by this time, I’d unofficially cut off my mum completely. I never went home to visit or call; she didn’t either. I only spoke to my stepfather once in a while. He probably knew the stalemate between me and my mum, and he hardly brought her up in conversation. Me, I was determined to make something of myself and never need her again.
After NYSC, I squatted with friends until I got my first big girl job in 2021 — social media manager and writer at a tech company for ₦200k/month. That job was a lifeline.
My boss was the most generous human on the planet. They bought me lunch and dashed me small money here and there. This generosity helped me aggressively save around 70% of my salary, live comfortably, and still afford to share a ₦500k apartment with a friend.
In 2022, I reconnected with my dad by chance. How he found me is a really long story, but it helped that we share a striking resemblance, and my mum made me use his surname. He came to see me — he lives abroad — and apologised for leaving. Apparently, he didn’t have any other children and wanted to be in my life.
I probably shouldn’t have forgiven him so easily, but it was the first time a parent showed that much interest in me. I’m not ashamed to say I wanted to feel that love. So, we reconciled, and while he had to return abroad, he started sending me money occasionally to support me.
By 2023, my salary had bumped to ₦350k, and I’d grown my savings to ₦3.3m. This was minus the random $200 or $500 my dad sent me periodically. In summary, I had money and didn’t lack anything I needed.
Then, out of the blue, my mum reached out to me. I didn’t even know she still had my number. She called, crying and begging to meet up with me. The mistake I made was to invite her to my house.
She came and gave me sob stories of how my stepfather had kicked her out and how my brother had become a drug addict. She apologised for how she had treated me, and claimed she hadn’t reached out for years because she was ashamed. She also said she’d been struggling with managing my brother’s violent behaviour when he was on drugs, and it had contributed to the breakdown of her marriage.
It was the first time I ever saw my mum look so down. She’d lost so much weight and looked so tattered, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. Now that I think about it, I guess I thought she’d finally accept me if she saw how useful I could be to her. So, I decided to help her and give us a second chance at building a mother-daughter relationship.
I took her in and started feeding her. I even sent my brother to a rehabilitation centre and paid for it. He escaped after a month. I just accepted that I tried my best and left him to his antics.
For three months, my mum was nice to me. She talked to me like a human being and seemed interested when I told her about my day. She didn’t hint at what she actually planned to do. I just know that one day, I woke up and couldn’t find my ATM card.
I told my mum about it and mentioned blocking it from my bank app, but she discouraged me. She said she’d seen it the previous day and was sure it just fell somewhere in the house.
Suspecting nothing, I went to work. Around noon, I started seeing debit alerts. Some of the alerts were from betting websites, and others were ATM transfers and withdrawals. Before I could block the card, the thief had wiped 80% of my savings — over ₦2m. I rushed to the bank, but those ones kept telling me stories. I called my mum to inform her, but her line was unavailable.
I went home that day to an empty house. My mum had packed my TV, freezer, generators and washing machine. My neighbour said she’d told him I was moving out. It took me weeks, but I finally traced my mum to her new apartment. When I confronted her, she begged and said she had no choice. My brother had been calling her for money, and she knew I wouldn’t give him, so she gave him my ATM card. I still don’t know how she figured out my PIN.
I should’ve arrested that woman and made her produce her son, but I was tired of the whole drama at that point. I could’ve fought and somehow gotten my money back, but I suddenly lost energy. It was super clear to me that she’d returned to my life only for her son’s benefit, and I just wanted to leave the whole situation.
Losing the money hurt me, but even more hurtful was having to accept I’d never have a mother-daughter relationship. She still tries to call occasionally, but it’s my turn to ignore the calls.
I’m still trying to work through not letting the absence of a mother’s love define my life, but I’m sure of one thing: I’m never giving my mum a second chance again. There are motherless people, and orphans all over the world, and they haven’t died. At least I have my dad. I’ll be fine.
*Names have been changed for anonymity.
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