I too wanted to watch the Avatar marathon on Nickelodeon, I wanted to see Ben, Gwendolyn and Gramps defeat Vilgax, or watch the Secret Saturdays on Saturday morning in my pajamas, and on the days NEPA hadn’t deemed us worthy of light, I also would have loved to sleep in. But there was breakfast to help my mother with, pots and plates to wash, and laundry that needed doing by hand. I helped my mother around the house with the laughter of my siblings taunting me, breaking me, scarring me. Resentment is an emotion I know well. After love, anger, and pain, it would be the next feeling to see my life as a worthy home, and it invited itself after the birth of my siblings.
I am the first daughter of four children. On Twitter and in group chats, jokes run rampant on how first children need compensation for parenting our younger siblings and a special kind of therapy for oldest child syndrome and the anxiety that comes with it. The tweet that made it a bit too real for me was one where the Twitter user asked “Is your love language really acts of service or are you just an eldest daughter shocked at the thought of someone else completing a task or responsibility for once”. It's silly to say that I cried, but I did. I felt seen and heard and knew that I was not alone. But even comfortable misery amidst company is still misery.
Why resentment? Thank you for not asking but I’ll still tell you. It feels as though something was taken from me, and what twists the knife is being unable to imagine a world where I was ever in full possession of it. I stopped being a child a long time ago. On the day I was awarded responsibility, my childhood was ripped from my arms and I was unaware because I was busy being told the terms and conditions to a contract I had no desire to enter into, and to make matters worse, this contract had no exit clause. As long as I draw breath, my siblings are partly my responsibility. It has been hammered into me and is reinforced with every “You are a blueprint for them to follow” or “Do not do that don’t you know that your brother and sisters will copy you” and every “They need you to be a good example. If you fail, what will you tell them?”. I felt like a machete being used to blaze a trail, and somehow, I was the one wielding it at the direction of the adults around me.
This is where I say that I don’t hate my siblings or my parents and I mean it. I love them, as a matter of fact, to call the amalgamation of devotion and adoration I have for them love is to compare the water in a cup to the vastness of the ocean. They are irreplaceable gems that I adore and have even come to like, but that does nothing to change the past or bring to question the validity of my emotions. My parents did their best, and they are loving, kind and supportive. My father shares my love for writing and proofreads most of my work, my mother encourages my love for the arts and even gets to be my confidant on most occasions. My sisters and I laugh together in ways I never thought was possible and my brother is an amazing guy that I am honored to call a friend, but I have been hurt.
There are many rules that govern my house, and one of them is “Before you sleep, the sink must be clean” This is simple and reasonable. It helps prevent the infestation of rodents and insects, provides clean utensils for use, and boosts the morale of my mother whenever she enters the kitchen to prepare food. It's a nice rule, easy too, or so you’d think. This instruction was directed towards me and only me for a long time. After a meal, my siblings would drop their dishes in the sink and I would wash everything that was used in the preparation and consumption of that meal, so hopefully, you understand my pain in the story I am about to tell you.
We are a very Yoruba household, so swallow is a staple. (No, my mother hardly prepared Semo, we are cultured!) I think it was amala or wheat and soup we had for lunch on this particular day. My siblings had this habit of using multiple plates and utensils: a bowl for the soup, a small plate for the swallow, and a fork sometimes accompanied by a knife. An understandable habit, except they weren’t the ones who missed crucial climaxes of movies because they were stuck in the kitchen washing unnecessary plates! Before we had dinner on this particular day, I had announced in the living room that anyone who used more than one of anything would wash whatever extra dish they used and I meant it. As my mother served our meal that day, everyone except for one of my sisters used one plate. Even my brother who favored a fork for swallow used his hands to eat that day. After I was done eating, I waited for everyone to finish their food. My baby sister offered to help me take my plate to the sink, but I said no. I had a plan. I eventually went to the kitchen and gingerly set aside the extra plate my younger sister had defiantly used and I cleaned the rest. Bedtime would come quickly and sleep would find me well.
My mother had her own routine. Once we had gone to bed, she would walk around the house to make sure the windows that needed to be closed were, the curtains were in place, the doors were secure, and that her kitchen was clean. On this night, it was, if you didn’t count the lone plate that my sister had not washed. How do I describe what woke me? Let's see, it’s called an abara. For those who haven’t already winced at the memory of one, it’s basically an open palm slap that lands on your back. It is very effective as a method of inflicting pain as one's fingers would be spread for maximum surface impact. This was what jerked me into a state of wakefulness. I was disoriented, but somewhat aware of why.
“Shebi mo ti so fun e pe ko ma fi abo sile sinu sink” Haven’t I told you to not leave plates in the sink?
“It's Damilola’s plate that she did not wash,” I said to my mother as I tried to reach and rub the part of my back that stung.
“Go and wash it now!”.
I protested to no avail. The tears I shed that night were not of pain but anger. My mother had heard me when I made my announcement and saw when my sister offered her two plates. Was I that insignificant that my words had no authority? Why couldn’t I have been given the benefit of the doubt? Could my past and long record of hyper obedience not serve as collateral? I was a marionette, and without my puppeteer’s directions, my words were empty. This was not the only time something like this would happen, but thankfully most of them would not be as violent.
Another thing that was taken from me was the sole ownership of my parents. One day, I was watching The Man In The Iron Mask as I sat by my mother, and the next, I had to endure Barney because my baby sister liked to see a purple dinosaur (that had just two teeth if you really think about it and a dark void where a tongue should have been) sing and dance! The songs were good so I don’t blame her for enjoying them, but I wanted to not watch Barney and Barbie over and over until they haunted my dreams. I wanted to sit by my mother and watch movies with real people. My father and I have always been close, I was and still am his baby girl and he is the perfect man, but at some point, I felt like I was competing for his attention and I am not competitive, so in my mind, my forfeiting was losing. Now I can look back at my melodramatic nature and laugh, but I still somehow feel terrible that I ever had to feel like I was being replaced. Even if it was only in my head, it felt real to me.
There is always that spot in the living room or dining that feels good. Maybe it’s because it’s directly in front of the television or it could be that it’s just perfect for no reason other than it’s where you always sit. The reason doesn’t matter, that spot is yours until you have siblings. Now you have to argue over who got there first. After being called an agbaya for wanting to keep your spot yours, or not sharing your books with children that enjoyed them better as loose-leaf pamphlets, you retreat further into yourself. When it came time to attend school, it would be a boarding school that I would embrace with open arms. Homesick who? Why? I remember the day my parents dropped me off. I did not shed a single tear. This was my emancipation, I felt free. I found joy in the labeling of my items, it was proof that they were distinctly mine and I didn’t have to share them with anyone I didn’t want to. When my French language teacher asked my class what we missed the most about home, I told him my television. He looked at me like I had somehow found the one wrong answer to a question with no wrong answers. I was telling the truth. You only miss the things you like.
“Responsibility builds character” I violently disagree with this statement. It does not. All it does is foster an environment where the performance of ‘omoluabi’ can be honed. Let’s even assume it does build character, who is the character for? We ask too much of firstborns. There are ungodly amounts of first children wandering the streets who are depressed, anxious, and tired. They are also lacking a sense of belonging with the fear of repercussion the only driver of motivation they know. It is a terrible space to exist in.
Growing up too quickly is painful. It destroys a part of you and takes away childish wonder. I was not shocked to learn that the world was unfair, because even in my tiny nucleus of a family, the arbitrary rules I was made to follow became nonexistent for my younger ones. Children should get to be children, whether or not they were fortunate to be the first. It is not their job to be surrogate parents, mini maids, blueprints, or the perfect prototype. That is a heavy weight that should not be placed on their shoulders.
I love it. I'm close to tears
This is a wonderful piece, it beautifully captures what it means to be the first born son or daughter. Thank you ❤️