A hand grabbed one of my breasts. It was masculine, big and strong! It wasn’t Joshua’s hand, so it definitely was. . . Oh my God!
It couldn’t be. . at all.
We were having the morning devotion.
We were just five in the sitting room, Dad, Mum, Benson and Benedicta and I, it couldn’t be dad.
He was the only hope I had in the whole wife world. He couldn’t just come and burst my balloon like that. . .
I was already crushed!
My maternity and paternity had not been confirmed till date. I was found at the doorstep of the house at about 8 months old in a basket with a ‘help this baby’. The woman I always call mum had made my stay in the house a living hell, she made it clear that I was not part of then and that she didn’t want me in the house but dad had fought for my stay in thehouse.
If there was a meat stolen in the pot, it would be Edna, if something happened any how in the house, my name would rent the whole air. Even the twins Benson and Benedicta that I was about five years older than, accused, blamed and insulted me at the slightest opportunity.
At 15, I still bed wet, because of this, I was banished from the room I shared with Emmanuella to the balcony. Last night, the breeze had been too much for me that I knew that by the time I would wake up, I would find myself in the pool of my own urine. Anytime I was being flogged by mum, dad would step in. Anytime he did step in the next statement that would follow is ‘if this girl doesn’t eventually cause our breakup Chioma, call me a b******!’ In school, my self esteem had been crushed too.
Mum had come to school before for me to be disgraced on the assembly because I had wet the bed the night before. Since then, I was called the ‘wee-wee Edna’ and sometimes a witch and any evil you could imagine. If you are close to the Samuel family and you have not heard about the ‘wee-wee Edna’ it’s because you are deaf mr dead.
Everyone knew me.
Everyone hated me.
The only one person who said to me that ‘you look good. You are beautiful. What a nice result you have here. You are a great genius’ was the only one person I called ‘Dad’ and meant it. Mr. Samuel, the pastor of our church, my father fumbling my breast? Impossicant! I thought. I was bending over a stool as a punishment for bed wetting again and I had dozed off.
The operation on my breast had woken me up and with sleepy eyes, I looked at Dad beside me. There were his eyes, he was glaring at me, it wasn’t a dream, daddy was really smooching me, he winked and smiled at me as he brought his hand close to me again despite shining “Worthy is the Lamb, seated on the throne’ as he led the devotion.
The infuriation that rose from my inside due to the great disappointment that I was met with this early morning threw me off balance, within the twinkling of an eye, I had deposited two dirty hot slaps in his face.