THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

“Nwa m, you’ve changed.” My mother looked at me with wide eyes as my hands were clasped around her wrist.

“No, I didn’t. I just got tired of trying to please you.” I said.

And that was the truth.

But before we get to the root of this matter, let me take you to the place where it all began...

Growing up in a strict Catholic household was synonymous to what I imagined hell fire to be - a place full of mental agony.

I was the only daughter of my single mother. I was the Apple of her eyes. Of course, the Apple that my mother created, not God.

At the age of 6, my mother gave me a list of things that would make me not “rapturable”;

1. Nose piercing - Hell fire

2. High heels - Hell fire

3. Colored hair - Hell fire

4. Short dress - Hell fire

5. Earring - Hell fire

6. Waist beads - Hell fire

7. Leg chain - Hell fire

8. Tattoo - Hell fire

9. Fixing nails - Hell fire

10. Make up - Hell fire

11. Looking into the eyes of a man - Hell fire

12. Not bending when you greet - Hell fire

13. Skipping rosary prayer for one day - Hell fire

14. Missing one Sunday mass - Hell fire

15. Skipping Holy Communion - Hell fire

16. Going to Pentecostal church - Hell fire

17. Watching movie - Hell fire

18. Listening to music - Hell fire

19. Singing - Hell fire

20. Jumping - Hell fire

21. Sleeping - Hell fire

22. Snoring - Hell fire

23. Being a woman - Hell fire

Obviously, the last 7 were not part of my mother’s list. But you get where I am coming from. My mother was over-exaggerating.

At the age of 7, my mother knelt me down in front of the Blessed Virgin Mary’s statue at the back of our big parlor in the house. She knelt down next to me and made me take a vow in front of the Blessed Virgin Mary’s statue. I vowed to never disrespect her or any elder. I vowed to never dress indecently. I vowed to abstain from sex before marriage. I vowed to never be friends with any boy. And I vowed to be silenced; to never talk back to anybody even if they offend me. Because Jesus said, “When somebody slaps you on one cheek, turn the other.”

Looking back at it now made me realize how unreasonable the vows were. I was too young to understand any of it.

But as the perfect daughter I was, I religiously followed them and everything else she told me to do.

“Chioma Obiakaeze.” My mother would call my full name when she wants to give me a warning after beating me for the slightest mistake I made, “You will thank me for this one day.”

“Yes, mama. Thank you for beating me.” I would foolishly reply back every time this happened.

I grew up as a quiet girl. Never voicing out my opinions.

I grew up with scars all over my body, because God forbid my mother “spare the rod and spoil the child”.

I grew up with only female friends. I mean, what do you expect from a girl who only attended an all-girls Catholic primary and secondary school.

But little by little, the farther I was away from my mother, the more I began to see the light. The truth. The truth that would set me free from this mental agony.

At age 12, I got an award for Best Behaved Girl in my class because I was quiet. Looking back at it now, it was absurd. The award for best behaved girl was supposed to be for girls who used their voice to make a difference and those who worked hard to accomplish something phenomenal in their academics, not for their quietness. There was no reward for being silenced.

In my mother’s dictionary, being quiet is synonymous to being a good girl.

But like the popular saying goes;

Ndi na ano wayo kacha di egwu.

The quiet ones are the most dangerous ones.