I was nine or eleven when I first saw my mom and uncle George coming down the stairs of our house. He tapped on my cheek, pulled it, and said something that sounded like, “This your girl would grow up to be a very beautiful girl someday.” Dad wasn’t inside the house when I went in. When mom returned to the room and I asked where my dad was, he started acting up saying all sorts of things. She was angry that I was asking about my dad.

On my fifteenth birthday, uncle George brought me biscuits and drinks, and ended up staying upstairs with my mom for a very long time. Dad wasn’t around and my senior brother was also in school. My mind never rested any time I saw mom and Uncle George together. And the surprising thing was, anytime he came around, dad wasn’t around. I dared not ask questions. I tried on two occasions and mom ended up insulting me. One time, if I didn’t swerve her on time, her blow would have landed on my mouth, and if it did, I’m sure I would have lost some teeth or got my lips swollen. 

 The problem was, dad wasn’t always around. He was a big truck driver and was almost always on the road, traveling. 

One late night, I was awakened by the sound of heavy rains. The wind entered my room and started causing destruction. The doors of our house got opened and slammed repeatedly. The curtains gave way for the rainwater to get into my room. I woke up, closed the window, went to the hall, and started closing the windows there too. I saw my parents room slightly opened. I thought mom hadn’t heard of the pouring rain so I decided to go in there and ask her to shut her windows. I opened the door gently only to see my mom on top of another man. Their back was facing the door so they didn’t see me come in. Immediately I saw them, I sneaked out quietly.

The view got me traumatized. For so many minutes I was in my room thinking of who that man could be. “Or dad came home while I was asleep and didn’t notice it?” I asked myself. I stayed awake until late dawn when I heard their footsteps approaching. When they passed by my door, I got up, opened the door gently to see who that man was. It was uncle George. Uncle George had been my father’s friend for a very long time. According to my senior brother, he grew up seeing them together all the time in the vicinity. When Uncle George’s wife died during childbirth some years ago, it was my dad who stayed by his side, comforting him and encouraging him to take the death of his wife as a man and not break down. Any time we cooked, my dad asked my mom to send some of the food to uncle George since her wife was dead. My mom went there often, serving him food and sometimes helping him with certain house chores. I would want to believe that’s where their affair started.

When dad returned from his trip in two days’ time, I pushed him to a corner and told him what I saw. Seeing how my dad was looking when I told him, I didn’t have the courage to tell him that the man involved was George. Being the man that he was, he set my mom a trap and she fell into it squarely. It was that classic trap where a man pretends he had traveled and come home unannounced only to catch his wife in the act. When my dad realized it was his own friend George who had been sleeping with his wife, he screamed, “George…George…George, so it’s you?” He then let himself fall on the ground like an empty sack thrown to the floor. That was when George ashamedly walked hurriedly past him and left the house. 

Dad was a good man. Even when it hurt to see his wife in bed with his own friend, he didn’t turn violent. Yes, he was visibly shaken but he didn’t throw fire and thunder at any of them. He remained on the floor all night, sobbing and talking to himself. To cut matters short, he divorced my mom. Uncle George left the community, never to be seen again. And to date, no one knows the reason why my dad divorced my mom except the three of us—mom herself, dad, and me. I remember crying and telling my dad never to tell my mom that I was the one who gave him the information leading to the catch. He said, “You know I won’t do that.”

When mom was leaving the house, she wanted to take me along. My dad roared, “You dare not touch my daughter with those your filthy hands.” Mom left for my grandparents’ house. When my brother came from school and heard what had happened, he decided to take my mother’s side. He went and live with my mom. If I tell you I hated my mom with all my heart, it would be an understatement. I even felt shy about having a mother like her. 

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Dad was never the same again. He took to drinking and became a quiet man. Always looking up and thinking of something. When I was seventeen, dad got married again and brought the woman to live with us. It was that woman I called “mom” proudly. She was caring at first and everything she did showed that she indeed loved me until she got pregnant and gave birth. That was when she started maltreating me. I was almost twenty years but this woman treated me like I was seven. She beat me, starved, and denied me my share of the money dad left in her care. I didn’t tell my dad at first but when things got out of hand, right in front of her, I told my dad everything. She kept saying I was lying but my dad knew I couldn’t tell a lie. That same day, I told my dad I would rather live with my mom than to stay in the house and get abused continuously. 

I left the house the following day and went to my mom. She cried when she saw me. She cried more when I told her my story of abuse at the hands of my father’s new wife. She said, “No one can be a better mom to you than your own mother. You’re mine and I’ll take care of you.” The best form of love I’d ever experienced came from my mom. She’ll do everything for me and go any length to ensure my safety. It was with her that I realized how much I’ve missed her. All my hatred for her melted into regret—regret from telling my dad about her infidelity and causing their divorce. “Would she start to hate me if she gets to know I was the one who reported her deeds to my dad?” I wondered. 

I’m thirty-two years now, married and have two kids of my own. My mom lives with me now, taking care of my kids while I go to work. Sometimes I want to tell her the secret of how I found her in bed with George and how I told my dad about it. I want to confess to her. I want to come clean so I can free my conscience but I look at her and how happy she is and tell myself, “She had moved on. No need to bring her dirty past back to her present.” 

—Maabena