I grew up not knowing my biological father. My mother was a police officer who died when I was only five years old. She gave birth to four children in total: two boys and two girls. My eldest sister is from another man. Her father is still alive, so she stayed with him and her stepmother. The rest of us stayed with our grandparents.

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Life was good until our grandfather died. He was the pillar of the family. When he passed away, everything started falling apart. One day a man from a nearby State came to visit. He said he wanted to take me and my immediate elder sister to live with him. He wanted to help reduce Grandma’s burden and also honour his late friend, our grandfather.

After some discussions, everyone agreed he should take me in. I was 12 years old at the time.

When I got to his house, everything felt new. I kept wondering if I would fit in. In time, I did. I became part of their family. Everyone in the house treated me with love and care. The man of the house took care of me as if I was his lastborn. His wife was not very motherly, but she never maltreated me.

Three years after leaving with them, I found myself preparing for my senior WAEC exams. That was when the issue of my surname came up. The man said he loved me enough to adopt me. He wanted me to register for the exams using his surname. However, he also feared that my stubbornness might one day bring shame to his family name.

Because of that, he invited one of my uncles to witness our agreement that I would be of good behavior as long as I bore his name. That day he told me, “If you ever get into trouble on purpose, my family will not be responsible for you.”

My uncle asked if I was ready to take up their family name. I said yes. There were no legal papers, but I was told that I would be accepted in the community. So I took the family name. I even updated my birth certificate. Life moved on.

Then came 2017. Something happened that broke me. An important ceremony happened in the family but they did not tell me. The man went to pay his wife’s bride price. I only found out when I saw pictures of the event.

When I asked why I was not told, nobody gave me a clear answer. I felt hurt, rejected and left out. I wondered if they isolated me because they didn’t consider me as truly one of them. Just because I bear their surname doesn’t make me their blood, right? I tried to let it go, but I could not forgive or forget their rejection.

When I expressed my pain to my grandmother, she told me not to mind them. She even advised me to get married and not tell them so we’d be even.

Now I live in Ghana. I came here because of my work. I am a suit designer, and I am doing well. But I get angry each time I think about the past. I have not confronted anyone. I just decided to distance myself.

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My adoptive brother, who lives abroad came home and got married. Again, nobody invited me. My adoptive father only called to ask me to sew a suit for him. On the morning of their flight to Abuja, I found out the suit was for the wedding.

I was heartbroken again. I did not confront them. I simply decided to move on. I have made up my mind not to go back. I will keep their name but live my own life here in Ghana.

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I do not plan to marry a Nigerian. I am single, and I am not in a hurry. I just want to stand on my own feet first. Someday, I may visit them with my wife and children. But until then, they will not know anything about me.

Am I ungrateful for thinking this way? They said I was their family. I changed my name to theirs yet they are leaving me out of important family functions. Do I deserve to be left out like this?

—Josh

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