Growing up, when I looked at my daddy, I saw a superhero. He was my Superman and my Spiderman, the man who wore my caps backwards and made me feel like the centre of his world. To me, he was a good father. But he was a terrible husband.

I am my father’s firstborn, his handbag. Wherever you saw Daddy, you saw me trailing right behind. We were a package deal. Because of this, I saw my parents’ story from the front row.

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My mum met my dad when she came to Accra after senior high school. He was the only one who helped her, the first and only man she ever knew. He never hid how much he hated her, not even from us children. The hatred was blaring, right in our eyes. He would beat her, but more than that, he abused her verbally, constantly. Maybe he saw her as his enemy instead of his helper. I will never know.

But, he treated me with so much love and care, always pampering me, I started to see my mother as the villain. The things I would do that Daddy would laugh off, Mama would punish me for. It got to a point where I did not even like her. A part of me was even happy that Daddy was treating her that way. I saw her as the bad person.

I thank God for what my mum did, but I remember when it all started. The abuse began when my dad got a job in Cape Coast and had to relocate. We were supposed to join him, but Mum had work in Accra, so they devised a plan: he would come to us every weekend.

That was when it started, small, small. He would shout at her if the sugar in his tea was too much, if the salt was too little, if a light was on in the afternoon, or if the radio was a little too loud. Then the shouting turned to throwing his hands.

My mother was one of those women who left their battles to God. “God will change him,” she would say. “God will bring his heart home again.” Every single day, she left it in the hands of God, until she realized that if she did not leave, she would die. It was evident he was going to kill her. So one morning, she called for the marriage to be dissolved.

And I hated her even more for it. She was leaving my father, who was a good father to me. I automatically thought that meant he was a good husband. I prayed for them to get back together.

Somewhere in 2009, they buried the hatchet and came back together. That was when my baby brother was born. But Mama left my daddy again because, this time around too, things did not work out.

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I need to talk about my mother’s strength, because even now, it’s hard for me to understand.

Throughout everything, my mum never once turned us against our father. She never painted him as the villain, even when he was one to her. For instance, the woman he left her for in Cape Coast, Adowa, had a child for him in 2011. The funny thing is, when it also didn’t work out between them, the breakup was not easy. They were throwing curses at each other, at each other’s throats, ready to devour themselves. It got so bad my dad’s family had to step in.

And that’s the surprising part: my dad’s family, especially his elder sister, always defended my mum. This aunt loved my mother so much that she once had my own father arrested for beating my mum terribly. I will always be grateful for that.

My father moved on to other women, one named Mansa, and then finally, to Esi. The strange thing is, I knew all these women. My mum knew I knew them. Another woman might have forbidden me from speaking to them, but not my mother. She would even ask about their wellbeing and encourage me to call them. To this day, I cannot understand this kind of forgiveness. It is a mystery to me.

Then, in 2021, we heard through the grapevine that my dad was about to marry Esi. The whole thing was in motion. He was formally asking for her hand, invitations were being sent out, but not to us. We were not on the list.

By that point in my life, I wasn’t the little girl who saw her dad as a superhero anymore. I had seen the deep pain he caused my mother, and I had grown to resent him for it. He knew exactly how I felt. He knew I saw his flaws, all of them. So his solution was to just write us out of his new story. He deliberately left us out of the wedding and even told his family not to tell us. The message was clear: we were part of a past he was ready to leave behind.

He married Esi in November 2021. And then, tragically, he died exactly one month later, at our family house in Dansoman.

His death is all tangled up with one of my biggest regrets. At the time, I was trying to get into nursing school. Let’s just say my mind was very hot, and I was counting on my dad’s connection at 37 Military Hospital to secure my admission.

The day before he died, my mum had a strong feeling. She was on my neck all day, pestering me to call him and check on my application. I was still so angry I refused, but that evening, she forced my hand.

It was the last time I ever spoke to him. “Will you not forgive me for not inviting you to my engagement?” that was he asked me, but I was too angry at him and at the whole situation. For God’s sake, I am your daughter. We were a dream when he carried me on his arms when he walked through town, so what happened? All I cared about in that moment was my school application. I know it was selfish of me. When he promised to handle it in the morning, I just hung up.

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The next morning, I called him a thousand times and he did not pick up. So, I told my mother, convinced he was too angry to help his own daughter. On her way to check on him, she heard the news. He was gone.

And even now, after his death, my mum still wants me to be family with my father’s wife.

My mum is a very good woman, and my dad did not deserve her. I feel he wasted her time. She has not been in any relationship since their separation, and she is 47. To be honest, my mum is very beautiful and looks nothing like her age. She looks much younger. But I feel she is still traumatized by her experience with him.

God bless my mom and make her happy, because Auntie Florence has really suffered.

—Juliet

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