I got pregnant when I was nineteen. The boy who got me pregnant was a year ahead of me in school and had nothing, just as I had nothing. My mom realized I was pregnant even before I could understand what I was going through. She took me to the hospital, and it was confirmed.

She started beating me in the car on our way back home. She asked who was responsible. I mentioned the name, and she hit my mouth and called me a disgrace to the family.

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The next day, she asked me to pack my bag and everything I had in the house. I was crying, begging her not to send me away. I carried my bag while I followed her to the boy’s house. “You got my daughter pregnant and think you can sleep in peace? She’s here. Keep her.”

Then she turned away. The boy’s father was there. My mom wasn’t ready to hear from the boy or his father. They tried to stop her. She walked briskly away from the scene. The man asked if she was my real mom, and I said yes. He responded, “I can’t believe it. Ask your grandparents who your real mother is.”

He asked his son about the pregnancy, and he denied ever touching me. “Dad, she’s lying. I’ve never even held her hand before, I swear.”

Then he started crying. I insisted he had made me pregnant while also crying. It was like a funeral ground. He cried, I cried. The man took me back to my mom, but my mom didn’t open her door. The man left me there. While I was crying and begging to be allowed in, my mom came out, poured urine on me, and asked me to leave.

She had me when she was eighteen. I topped her record by a year. I was a better child than her but she threw me out of her house for the same offence her parents forgave her. I ended up with my aunt. Her husband insisted I would be a bad influence on their kids, so I was sent away a month later. My aunt asked me to go back home and said she would talk to my mother.

I didn’t. I went to my father’s mother. The same father who abandoned me at birth. The woman took me in and cared for me until I gave birth. She had a bakery. I learned to bake. She showed me the places I could sell the bread and make money. When my child was three years old and I had saved enough, I went back to school while my dad’s mom took care of my daughter.

I didn’t see or hear from my mom. I also decided not to go looking for her. After school, I met Bismarck, and we started dating. I never shared the full story with him, but he knew two things: that I had a daughter and that the only living relative I had was my grandmother.

We got married. I didn’t invite my mom or anyone from her side. They didn’t even know. I moved to Accra with my husband when he got a new job here. We’ve been married for six years and have two children. My mom appeared out of nowhere two years ago, claiming I’m now in a better place and have ignored her.

I asked her, “Who gave you my number?”

She answered, “Is that the only question you can ask?”

I answered, “Please lose my number and don’t call again.”

I cut the call and blocked her. Somehow, she found my husband’s number and called. She narrated stories I’d hidden from him, the pain I’d buried alive long ago. When my husband asked questions about it, all I could do was cry. He said, “Your mom wants back into your life. Let her in so the two of you can heal together.”

I told him, “I’m healed. She’s the only scar I have left in my life. I don’t want her close.”

My husband brought her into our house, thinking seeing her would change my disposition. In the evening, while she was thinking she was going to spend the night, I carried her things, threw them outside, and pushed her out to follow her things. I locked the door and kept the keys. I wished I could even swallow them.

All day, I didn’t react because of the kids. When they slept, I got up to act. She stayed at the door and knocked. My husband was going mad, telling me, “She’s your mother ooo. You’re also a mother ooo. Do you want to live long like her? And you’re treating her like this?”

Unlike me, she had a home to return to. I didn’t pour urine on her. She said she was making me strong when she did all that. Yes, I became strong and a little bit heartless.

The last time I heard from her was through my husband. She said she was sick and dying. My husband sent her money and later told me he had done that. I pretended I didn’t hear. He said, “You’re scaring me ooo. Would you forgive me one day if I go against you?”

Then I laughed. I said, “How many times haven’t you done something against me? And how many times haven’t I forgiven your mistakes? I forgive those who forgive me.”

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Nothing will make me forgive my mom for the way she treated me. For someone who got pregnant as a teenager and saw firsthand the hardship and terror that came with it, I expected empathy, but she gave me hell until I burned to ashes. What now does she want from my ashes?

I don’t want her around. I’ve survived all these years without her. I’ll do the rest all by myself. I needed a mother when I was nineteen. At this point in my life, I don’t need one. All I need is peace. She’s not peace, so she’s not welcome.

—Aggie

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