parenting guilt

Kate* (32) moved abroad in 2021 after losing her husband to a preventable death, determined to raise her children in a sane environment. However, her work hours and inability to afford child care make her often rethink her decision.

As told to Boluwatife

Image by Freepik

Five years ago, if you’d asked me if I’d ever leave Nigeria, I’d have said a big no and probably lectured you about the importance of staying to build your motherland. That’s how much I believed in the Nigerian dream.

But look at me now. I’m far away in Canada, with almost no connections to home and the only regret I have is how relocation is affecting my children.

My Nigerian dream died on the same day as most other Nigerians. Oct 20, 2020, the day Nigeria killed her citizens for demanding better from her leaders. My husband, Lanre*, and I had given our all during the #EndSARS protests. We weren’t just fighting to end police brutality. In our minds, we wanted to remove all the rotten eggs that were giving our beloved Nigeria a bad name.

Lanre was just as patriotic as I was, if not more. He would stand at the junction reading newspaper headlines at the vendor stand and argue with everyone else there about politics.

His favourite thing to watch was the news, and we bonded over the latest political events. It sounds weird, but that was our preferred type of gist since we married in 2014.

So, of course, it was a no-brainer that we’d participate in the protests. But then the shooting happened, and everything changed.

I think the first time Lanre brought up japa as a possibility was when the Lagos governor went on air to say he didn’t know who ordered the shootings. We’d discussed japa before, but it had always been about others who chose to leave. It’d never been a possibility for us.

It took me a while to accept his new vision. We had good banking jobs in Nigeria, our two children were under three years old, and our immediate family members lived in Nigeria. My Nigerian dream was dead, but I knew starting afresh in a new place would be difficult.

Still, I followed Lanre’s lead, and we began the Canada Express Entry process in 2021. We even created two individual profiles to increase our chances of getting the Invitation To Apply (ITA). We wrote IELTS and sold our landed properties to raise money.

Unfortunately, Lanre passed away four months later. The bus he was travelling in had an accident, and onlookers thought it was better to film the scene than actually rush the victims to the hospital.

When they finally took my husband to the hospital, the nurses said they didn’t have enough oxygen. My husband was already dead before I heard and rushed to the hospital.

I wanted to die. It was like my whole world had crashed before my eyes. I must’ve suffered functional depression in the weeks that followed because I didn’t want to live anymore, but I still had to turn up for my children. I still don’t know how I managed it.

Ironically, I got the ITA about a month after my husband passed. I was prepared to ignore it, but I told my mum, and she encouraged me to take the opportunity. Nigeria had killed my dream and taken my husband, too. What else was I staying back for? Wasn’t it better to move somewhere that works and secure my children’s future?

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So, with the help of family and friends, I raised money and arrived in Canada with my children in 2021.

We first lived in Manitoba for two years with someone I got introduced to through a church member back in Nigeria. Manitoba felt like a home away from home. Our host was extremely kind and helped look after my children when I had to look for jobs and even when I finally found work.

My children adapted well at first. It was a strange land with no familiar faces around, and they didn’t know why they suddenly had to wear heavy clothing, but we were still together, and they were fine.

But we had to move to Toronto in 2023 because of my new job, and it hasn’t been as easy. I work two jobs and often can’t spend time with my children after they return from school.

I also can’t afford a live-in nanny, so most of the time, I drop my children off with my Nigerian neighbours after school so I can rush off to my next job. My eldest has complained that one of my neighbours’ children is always stealing his snacks, but there’s not much I can do apart from giving him more snacks. I can’t complain to people who are helping me out.

My youngest has also taken to crying for her daddy every time I drop them off. I’m not sure if she even remembers him because he died when she was barely a year old. But every time she’s upset now, she asks for her daddy.

I’m working towards getting a trusted babysitter who can come in for a few hours and leave so my children don’t have to stay out of their home after school. But I also fear it may not be the solution. What if they resent me because I don’t spend enough time with them?

I also had long work hours back in Nigeria, but daddy was also there, and we lived close to family members, so they always saw their cousins. Even in Manitoba, there was always someone familiar with them. Now, they have to deal with daddy’s absence and spend time with people they don’t like.

I try to focus on why I came here in the first place: Securing a better future for my children, but I’m concerned I’m failing in the present. What’s worse, I don’t really have people to talk to. Many Nigerians are in Toronto, but there’s no real sense of community. Everyone has their own wahala to face.

I also can’t tell family back home about my parenting struggles because I’ll sound stupid. Like, how do you have an opportunity people would kill for, and you’re complaining?

Sometimes, I wonder if I should’ve stayed back in Nigeria, but the news I hear daily from back home renews my resolve. I can only keep pushing and hope it all works out soon.

*Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: My Parents Separated After 25 Years of Marriage. I Wish It Happened Earlier
As told to Boluwatife

Image designed by Freepik

I choose to remember the nine months and two days I was pregnant with my baby girl, Moyo*, as the best time of my life.

It’s ironic because it was an unplanned pregnancy, and it came at the worst possible time. But it’s what gave me Moyo. If I had the opportunity to do it all again, I’d choose to have her here today.

I discovered I was pregnant in the middle of my final year at the university in 2021. I’d been sick for about two weeks, but I assumed it was malaria and the stress of pursuing my project supervisor all over the school. It was my mum who insisted I take a pregnancy test, and well, you know how that turned out.

I’d only dated my baby daddy and coursemate for about seven months when I got pregnant, so expectedly, he wasn’t thrilled about it. My parents insisted on meeting with his family so they could take responsibility, but he kept posting the meeting and giving excuses till we signed out from school. He never came with his family, and he’s only sent money twice since then: ₦60k to buy baby clothes while I was still pregnant and ₦50k to support hospital fees.

My parents weren’t happy and didn’t hide it. We live in a self-contained apartment with my younger sister; our financial situation isn’t great. So there were snide remarks about me bringing an extra mouth to feed and why I decided to reward their sending me to school with a baby born out of wedlock.

Despite the tension around me, I was determined to find peace within myself and eagerly wait for my baby. I wouldn’t be the first or the last to have a baby outside wedlock, so I knew I’d be fine. Even though those months should’ve felt like the “bad times” people talk about, I decided only to remember it as good. I was quite optimistic.

ALSO READ: I Became a Mum at 19 and a Granny at 36

But bad times last sometimes.

My birthing arrangement was to deliver with the help of a local midwife. It was far cheaper, and this midwife had birthed many kids in the neighbourhood, so I felt I was in good hands.

My delivery was long and traumatic. My baby was breech, and the midwife had to rotate her. I laboured for two days before I eventually had Moyo. I thought that was the end of it, but when she was six weeks old, I noticed something was wrong. She never lifted her right arm and wouldn’t grab my finger with that hand when I put it in her palm, unlike when I did the same with her left hand.

I told my mum, and we took Moyo to the midwife, who prescribed some herbs and told us to always rub a menthol-based ointment on the arm. She also encouraged us to keep the left arm wrapped so she’d be forced to try to use her right hand. We did that for about a month, but nothing changed.

At this point, I was extremely worried. I convinced my mum to allow me to take Moyo to the hospital. I’d wanted us to go the hospital route right from the beginning, but my mum was paying, so I had to play to her tune. She eventually had no choice but to agree when she saw there was no improvement.

We were given a diagnosis at the hospital: Erb’s palsy. Apparently, the delivery was too traumatic, and the midwife hadn’t handled it properly. When asked why I hadn’t brought her to the hospital immediately I noticed it, I said, “I didn’t know it was that serious.” I can’t forget the judgemental look I got from the doctor after I uttered those words.

What kind of mother takes potential paralysis with such levity? He later said I’m a first-time mum, but my mother should’ve known better. But I honestly thought it was my fault. If I had my own money, professionals would have birthed my daughter, or we would’ve sought treatment earlier.

After the diagnosis came five months of physical therapy for Moyo. Each session cost around ₦7k, including transportation, and we had at least one session per week. When my mum started murmuring about how much we spent going to the hospital weekly, I borrowed ₦20k from a friend and started an online thrift business. I didn’t make that much profit immediately, but I could at least cover transportation costs so my mum could see I wasn’t just expecting her to take on everything. I didn’t want to make the mistake of cutting costs again and potentially paralysing my child for life.

Moyo is one year old now, and she has vastly improved. She favours her left arm, which looks slightly bigger, but she has full use of the right arm. I still think about how close I was to ruining her life and wonder if I’m really qualified to be a good mother.

I long to be in another relationship, but also feel guilty about it because didn’t a man show me shege just a few years ago? I have to remind myself that I’m human, and not only have I made some mistakes, but I’ve also made good decisions. I started a business, and it’s thriving. I sought medical care for Moyo before it was too late.

I may not be the world’s best mother, but taking care of Moyo is my priority, and I’m doing well enough in that aspect, considering the circumstances. I still have a long way to go to give her the best care possible, but it’s one step at a time. We’ll be fine… I hope.

*Names were changed for anonymity.

NEXT READ: Having Kids Took Me From Middle-Class to Poor

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