THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

I arrived home in the real Chioma Obiakaeze’s self. I was dressed in my Jezebel outfit and still had my piercings on.

When my mother took her first glance at me, she could not believe her eyes. She thought I was a complete stranger.

I went to my room without saying anything to her as the last thing I needed from her was her fanatic preaching.

My mother and I lived in the house like strangers for a week. We never spoke to each other because I knew she was still recovering from her shock. Every time she saw me, she started “pleading the blood of Jesus”. I just ignored her every time she did that.

Things got out of hand when I came back home one evening and I found my mother pouring anointing oil all over my room to cast out the demon that has entered her only daughter.

I tried to stop my mother from pouring more anointing oil around my room but she began pouring the oil on me and speaking in tongues. I grabbed the bottle from her and threw it on the ground.

She shouted and stared back at me in shock. Next thing I knew, she rose her hand to slap me but I grabbed her wrist before she could touch my face.

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

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

It didn’t take up to 5 minutes before I saw myself outside my mother’s house, standing outside the gate in the cold night. My mother had kicked me out of the house.

I left my house area to look for somewhere comfortable I could stay for the night. But I didn’t find any.

I sat outside a restaurant and watched families, friends and couples have a good time from a distance. It was then that I began to feel that sting that I had never felt before. The sting of the realization of one fact:

I was alone. I always have been.

For the first time, I thought of my father who died not long after I was born. Would things have been different if he was alive? Or would things have been much worse? Would he be stricter than my mother? Or would he have been the one to soften my mother’s blow?

I cried for the first time. Not for my father, but for the life I would have lived if he were alive. Maybe my mother’s fanaticism wouldn’t have gotten the best of me that it made me lose control when I finally got my freedom.

I wanted to blame my mother. I really wanted to. But my life and the choices I made were also in my own hands as well. Making excuses for them would not undo everything I have lost.

I walked around the streets like a lost dog. It was lonely. It was cold. It was empty. It was the perfect description of my life.

The question now was, where was I going to start from? How was I going to undo everything that has happened from my reckless living? I wanted a home. I wanted to feel accepted. I wanted to be free.

And just like that, I found my way back home, standing in front of the house gate.

I pushed the gate door, thinking it would be locked but to my surprise, it was open. I walked into the compound and found the house door open as well. My mother left it open... for me?

I walked in slowly, hoping to see my mother jumping in front of me with a stick in her hand. But she wasn’t there.

Instead, I saw her kneeling face down in front of the Blessed Virgin Mary’s statue at the back of our parlor. We were back to the place where it all started.

I walked towards her quietly, hoping she would not turn around and pour another anointing oil on my face again. I knelt down next to her and she didn’t move even when she felt my presence next to her.

“Mama.” I called her. But she did not respond.

“Mama.” I called again.

“Nwa m.” She finally called out to me.

She rose her head and stared at the Virgin Mary’s statue.

“I can’t fix you.” She said, “I can’t use you to amend for my past sins either.”

She sighed and continued.

“I wasn’t the best child to my parents either. And I tried so hard to use you to make up for what I had done to my parents in the past. And now, it’s coming back to me.”

I didn’t know where all these confessions were coming from, but I must say, I think my mother was possessed.

“What do you want, Nwa m?” She asked me. “What do you really want?”

I stared at her to see if she was serious, and she actually was. It took a short while for me to get an answer out of my head before I knew what I really wanted,

“I don’t want to be like you, mama.”

She finally looked at me. But not in surprise. It’s like she saw it coming. I could see it in my mother’s eyes, she was tired too. Tired of everything she worked so hard for.

“Are you happy?” She asked, “With yourself?”

Her question stung on my chest like I’ve been stabbed. Because...

“No.” I whimpered, “No, I’m not happy at all, mama.”

And with that confession, I began to cry. I was not happy. I was never happy. I was never happy being the perfect girl my mother wanted me to be, neither was I happy being the reckless girl I’ve been trying to live as. Both worlds created emptiness in me.

“So, what are you going to do about it?” My mother asked me.

I thought long and hard about this question. And there was only one thing left for me to do.

Start again. Start a whole new life.

And mama, you were right. I would thank you for everything you did to me one day. Because you made me realize something.

I would never be like you.