To outsiders, Efosa’s (38) dad was the definition of dependable — the man who went above and beyond for strangers. But for him, the man everyone praised never existed.
In this story, he talks about growing up invisible in a polygamous family, the trauma of verbal and physical abuse, and how years of emotional neglect still shape how he sees himself.
This is his story, edited by Adeyinka
Growing up, my father was a figure of admiration. People loved him. His friends trusted him. He was the dependable man who would go out of his way to fix someone else’s problem, even if it meant driving across town to help their kid sort out an expulsion from school.
But for his own children? He rarely showed up.
My relationship with him was practically non-existent. He was the man who occasionally appeared in our home, sat with my mum for a while, and was gone by morning. There was no emotional connection, no nurturing presence; just a ghost who drifted in and out of our lives.
He had multiple wives, and my mum wasn’t the “main” one — she was one of the women on the outside. And that status trickled down to us, his kids from the “other” women. We were afterthoughts, obligations he clearly didn’t want to meet.
As a child, I would visit him during the holidays. But those visits were far from warm. His house was crowded with step-siblings, cousins, and — worst of all — dogs I was terrified of. He knew this. But somehow, I always ended up stuck in a room with them. Maybe that’s why big dogs still unsettle me even now as an adult.
Basic things were hard to come by in his house. Asking for something as simple as soap or toothpaste came with interrogations and guilt. School fees? That was a battle. And when he finally pressured my mum into letting me live with him full-time, it became clear: this wasn’t a home, it was a prison.
One thing that always confused me growing up was hearing how rich and generous he supposedly was. He had so much, did so much for everyone. And yet, I couldn’t relate. He was that person for everyone else — until it was time to be that for his own kids.
There was a day he actually told us: “You know, in homes where parents can’t pay school fees for all the children, some children drop out so the others can go — until the parents can afford to train everyone.”
That was his idea of parenting advice. From the man celebrated for his generosity.
Meanwhile, our mums — especially mine — said things like, “Whatever it takes, you will go to school. You will finish. You will have what you need.” They were the ones making sacrifices, not speeches.
And going out with him? It was supposed to be fun — family events, parties, park outings, things other kids looked forward to. We had some of those moments, but they were never relaxing because you were bracing for what demand or outrageous expectation he’d throw your way.
You’d be playing like every other kid and — boom — he’d shout, insult you, and make sure everyone around knew you were, in his words, the “most stupid child that ever existed.” He never held back.
A small mistake — dropping something, forgetting something, breaking a glass — could become a full-blown character assassination. Not correction, just verbal destruction.
And the thing is, I wasn’t asking not to be corrected. I was a child eager to learn and be guided. Instead, he made sure we knew we weren’t just wrong, we were “worthless,” “useless,” “bastards,” “incompetent.”
What do you expect a child to carry into adulthood when those are the words constantly spoken over them?
And it wasn’t just the degrading words; it extended to physical violence.
There was a time he beat me so badly, I ended up with a blood clot in my eye. A child. A blood clot, from being hit. That was the first and only time something that severe happened, but it wasn’t the only time we got beaten. The beatings were common, and anything could trigger them.
What hurt the most was watching him be the perfect father, just not to us. If a friend’s child needed help, he showed up. If a relative’s kid was in trouble, he went out of his way to fix it. But for his own children? We were invisible. I started to believe the lie that we were unworthy of his love simply because of who our mothers were.
Yes, there were some good times — some smiles, some jokes shared. But even those moments were fragile, always tense with the fear that something would ruin them. I learnt early on to hold my breath through a good moment, always bracing for the turn.
Among my friends, I stood out in ways I didn’t know how to explain. They had two-parent homes. Family vacations. Stability. I had silence. Shame. A family structure I was too embarrassed to talk about. I would call half-siblings “cousins” and pretend everything was fine because polygamy wasn’t just uncommon, it was judged. And I didn’t want to be judged more than I already felt by life.
My mum, however, was our anchor. She never spoke ill of him. In fact, she encouraged us to reach out, to maintain some kind of connection. “Do it for yourself,” she’d say. She worked tirelessly, gave everything she had to keep us grounded, even when we had nothing. She made it clear: we mattered.
After she passed away, he tried to reach out. But by then, I had nothing left to say. How do you show sympathy for someone whose life you made harder at every turn? How do you show up after years of absence and expect to lead the grieving?
I never confronted him — not out of fear, but because I’d already made peace with what he was. Any conversation now would feel like trying to fix something I’ve long accepted will never be whole. He is who he is. I am who I’ve become.
Present Day: A Different World
These days, I observe people — men my age, some younger — and their relationships with their dads. I see how they hug, laugh, and call to gist. I listen to how they speak about their fathers with ease and warmth.
And every time, it feels alien to me. I can’t relate. Not even a little.
The idea of having a conversation with my dad without tension, guilt and discomfort? Unimaginable. I don’t know if I’d be scared, guarded, or simply uninterested. I don’t know how to engage with him without feeling like I’m pretending.
What I’ve Learned
That experience shaped me more than I ever wanted to admit. I still struggle with feeling deserving. Compliments confuse me. Opportunities make me question if I belong. I step aside too often, convinced someone else should go first.
And there’s the part about being a parent myself. I’ve always wanted kids. I still do. But I’m haunted by the fear of becoming another version of my father.
I don’t have the answers yet. But I’ve learned something important: You can carry pain and still choose peace. You can come from silence and still find your voice. You can come from emotional neglect and still decide to be present for yourself, others, and the life you want to build.
This isn’t a story about resentment. It’s a story about release.
And maybe someone out there needs to hear it.
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