I grew up with a single mother of seven children. We all lived together in a single room, where food was hardly ever enough to eat. Among all my mother’s men, my father was the only one who truly wanted to stay and take care of us, but unfortunately, he died very young.
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After his death, survival became a daily struggle. We relied on leftover food from relatives. Sometimes we visited them around mealtime so they could serve us something. Because of this constant hardship, there was little to no parental control in the house.
My elder sisters started dating men just to get a little money, and my mother had to be with the father of our last-born in order to feed us and take care of my third sibling, who was an SS patient. She also did menial jobs, but they could never pay her enough to alleviate her burdens.
When I was about six years old, I was sent to live with my grandmother’s younger sister — a well-to-do retired civil servant in the city. She enrolled me in school. Through her, I got the opportunity to be sponsored by an NGO that supports children living in poverty. They paid my school fees, covered my medical bills, and provided relief items until I turned 22. I remain forever grateful for that privilege.
Despite the opportunities I was exposed to, I lived like a maid in that house. From the age of seven, I started selling on the streets — there was nothing I didn’t sell. I suffered all kinds of abuse. You would never know she was my grandmother. At the slightest provocation, she beat me. She would deny me money for school but still force me to sell after classes.
She constantly reminded me how lucky I was that she was taking care of me. “If it hadn’t been for me, you would have ended up pregnant like your sisters,” she would rant. She used my mother’s past to insult me. She delighted in making me feel unwanted, by reminding me that I was a burden.
Home was not enough punishment. She also had the habit of visiting my school every term to report me to my teachers. She would badmouth me to even the ones who genuinely care about my well-being.
Life became even harder when I got to Senior High School. Most mornings, there was no money for school. On the few occasions I was given something, I had to stand outside her room for close to 30 minutes just to collect 4 cedis, accompanied by a stream of insults. What kept me going were the small tips I got from men trying to flirt with me and from some kindhearted people who helped without any ulterior motives.
I remember when we were preparing for WASSCE, my grandmother came to school to report me to the headmaster. She went straight to his office and tried to disgrace me in front of everyone present. Fortunately, the headmaster refused to entertain it.
When she left, he called me into his office. He was shocked to see that I was the one my grandmother came to report that I got home late after school. When I told him my story, he felt sorry for me. He advised me, “Stay on campus after school and study if you are sure you can pass the exams. But if you know you can’t pass, then go home when you close.”
I took his advice and stayed back to study before going home to sell.
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Throughout this time, my mother was absent from my life. She never visited me in the city, and my grandmother never allowed me to visit her either. She used to say my mother had “given” me to her. My older siblings also never checked on me, even though some of them and my aunt lived just a few towns away.
Anyway, we reconnected in 2018 when I completed SHS and moved back to my hometown to live with my uncle. Life there was good. He took me in as his own daughter. He was kind. He taught me what real love felt like. His affection helped me build confidence in myself. Very few people even know I’m not his biological child.
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My mother is late now, but two years before she passed, we started communicating often. She would call whenever she needed something, and I helped whenever I could. Sadly, she passed away just a few days before my wedding. Before that tragic loss, she tried to make amends for some of her past mistakes. The fact that she made the efforts mean a lot to me.
It was during her funeral that I reconnected more deeply with my siblings and aunties. Because of everything I’ve been through, I’ve become reserved. I find it hard to open up to people, especially to family members. I am trying though. Taking it one day at a time.
—Ameen
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