My beginning...

02:02 - The day I was born. The day I started struggling. I recall my mom telling me, sometimes ago, how she was in labour for about 12 hours until I was born, on her birthday. Can you imagine that?

As a child growing up, from age 3 or 4, I had pulse - which was a very thick yellowish smelly stuff coming out of my ears for a while. It was a thing of shame for me, as a child. This pulse was very disgraceful, to say the least. I was always with a pack of cotton wool every day, stuffing them into my ears, just to control it.

It went on till age 7. Then, I could not even concentrate in school because I just wanted to make sure the pulse wasn't dropping off my ears. My parents were worried sick about what to do to stop it. I was frequenting the hospital because my ears needed to be flushed in the mornings and evenings. It was a very traumatic experience for me, to say the least. The routine became every week, hospital, every week, drugs.

At some point - you know how Nigerians can be, concerned and well-meaning people started suggesting a lot of unthinkable things for my parents to use to help clear it. I will never forget that a woman suggested that my parents pour diesel into my ears, daily. Yes, they did it.

They used a lot of native leaves, too. Think of what Yoruba people can do and say, they did it. Then, one day, a man in my church advised my parents to use honey. I was even tired at this point. Of course, they tried it. Slowly and steadily, this pulse dried up.

My parents became worried about my poor performance in school. Then, my dad came to school to speak with my class teacher, at the time. My class teacher and the headmistress put measures in place to ensure that I was not entitled to break time. I would pick up my books and head to the headmistress' office to read and eat my food. Then, in Primary 3, my dad observed that my grades were a bit better. He went a step ahead of me, by enrolling me in after-school lessons.

My father 'empowered' my primary 3 teacher to discipline me because no child of his would be a "dullard."

My teacher was always asking me questions in class, doubling my share of the strokes of the cane he was dishing out to the rest of the class. He took it a step further, by giving me more assignments than other students.

Every time my dad came to pick me up from school, I could not understand why he was always thanking my teacher. I mean, he was making my life miserable, all thanks to you. Oh, I didn't know mathematics, right from Primary School, by the way. It just felt so foreign to me. My mathematics assignments were done by my dad.

In Primary Four, my grades had greatly improved. The grades didn't have a choice, considering the measures that had been put in place by my dad and teachers.

In Primary 5, I became the head girl of the school. I am sure it sounds like a "From Grass to Grace" story. thging really happened in Primary 5, but I was doing well, and became the top of my class every term. I had a competitor. Well, not really. But, my teacher was always riling me up by telling me that Abimbola (who was the head boy and the closest thing to a friend that I had at the time), did better than I did in tests or exams before handing our notes and scripts to us. I disliked the man, and I didn't fail to let him know it and even show it. Abimbola was very brilliant and he was always coming second. And, yours faithfully, was the first.

So, what was that man trying to prove? I don't know.

My story got more interesting when I entered secondary school. My mom was a teacher in the secondary school I attended. My mom had already threatened me to either lead my class, or I won't like what she'd do to me. (Basically, she'll deal with me by flogging me).

I suffered a lot in secondary school. Emotional suffering. How? So, first term, my mom would wake me by midnight every single day to read and she would be by my side asking me questions about what I had read.

And, in case you are wondering how I survived waking up early to study and not sleeping till night as a young growing child, for the six years I spent in secondary school, I have no idea. I never slept during any class, too. Eh, sleep? I dare not. My mother's words about how: "mi o le wa ni school yen, máa dẹ̀ máa patewo fún ọmolomo kan, nigba ti ọmọ temi wa ni class yen..." which loosely translates as "I can't be in that school and I'll be clapping for other people's children when my child is in that class" was always ringing in my ears. This meant that for every speech and prize-giving day, my name must be called to receive an award, else, I was inviting trouble into paradise.

With this at the back of my mind, I came second place, in my first year in secondary school, in second term. Ah! Trouble in paradise. There was this Creative Arts teacher who was always coming during the weekends to teach my classmates. I was not always in school on weekends because I attended a boarding school albeit, being a day student. So, I'll get to school on Monday to meet the notes for this subject that had been written over the weekend. Oh, my sweet sweet mother would help me write the notes because she wanted me to concentrate on other subjects I was being taught. Well, turns out I didn't "do well" in this subject in the Second term. If my photographic memory serves me well, I think I scored an 80+ on the subject. Which from my parents' perspective was a failure. I mean, how dare I?! I was beaten. Oh, beaten. I felt horrible for a ten-year-old, at the time.

The third term's resumption came, it was on a rainy Wednesday. Traumatized people remember the littlest things. Or, maybe it's just me. My dad followed my mom and me to my school that day with a cane. He wanted my class teacher at the time to flog me for failing. Mind you, my percentage, for that second term, was an 85+, if I remember correctly.

My class teacher, whom I still dislike to date, flogged me in the staff room. And, I remember that he had flogged me in the first term for what was so trivial (why I didn't write the date on my Agric note, he was just looking for a flimsy excuse to beat me that day and that was the beginning of my hatred for him). Everyone in the staff room suddenly had something to say about my being too overconfident, hence, why I came second. Innocent me. I was so disappointed in myself and I swore to never come second again till I graduated. I was still waking up to read by midnight. My body had gotten used to the routine.

Well, you can guess the outcome of my determination. I came first and the best overall, coming out as the best in 15 subjects. Yeah, aside from Mathematics. I was always reading, cramming, and memorizing like my life depended on it. For six years, I maintained that record. I didn't want to be in my parent's bad books.

At home, half the time, my parents flogged me for not doing what they expected me to do. It was like this: my siblings do something, and I'm supposed to be the one to monitor them and ensure they do what's right. And, if they don't: "Are you not the firstborn? You should have known better. You should have done this, done that...etc." 99% of the time, I was so clueless because you didn't tell me to do it. You just expected me to know how to do it, like cooking. You never showed me how it's done, never told me what not to do and what to do. You just wanted me to know what to do. And, when I don't do what you didn't tell me to do, but expect me to know that I was meant to do it, I was in trouble.

An incident comes to mind. I had a teacher in secondary school who was almost every student's favourite. He was my friend - that cool uncle that's always relatable and fun to be with. I could talk to him about any and everything. I was always visiting his office, sometimes, after school. We just talk and talk and gist. My mom had been warning me about the way I was unnecessarily close to him. She went as far as telling my daddy, that maybe I wanted to marry him and be a second wife. I was so disgusted. Of course, my dad beat me that night. I lost balance for some days, literally. I had to keep it all to myself and even avoid talking to this man, except when he came to my class to teach and stuff.

That's why when I failed in 200l at University, I was in tears for days. Failure was so foreign to me. It felt like my world came crashing down. Other people were reading very hard, some didn't even read as hard as I thought I was doing, yet they had A's in the courses I failed woefully in. I didn't understand why. These lecturers have proved me wrong. I concluded that maybe I didn't know anything after all. It was why I had to send a text to my parents about my CGPA because I could not dare call them or look them in the eye. I was begging them profusely in the text message because I thought I had disappointed them. I mean, I didn't understand why I failed. I was so so surprised they went all: "We are so proud of you" on me. But, I could not believe it. It sounded too good to be true. I still don't believe them. Success to me meant doing well academically.

Even when I had a 'D' in Mathematics, in my WAEC exams, I bawled and wailed. I felt like a disappointment. My parents tried to encourage me and say all sorts, but it didn't work. I try to read between the lines of what might not even be a big deal. I read a lot of meaning into words, actions, body language, and whatnot. I try to not overdo it. But, I can't seem to help myself.

I find it difficult to talk about what I am going through because I don't know how to. The things that do not take people time to move on from, leave me in tears, through the night. And, all smiles during the day. I use humor and sarcasm to cover up for how I feel, sometimes.

I was raised to live life without making mistakes. And, I conclusively decided that perfectionists aren't humans. Humans are easily flawed, hence, why we need a saviour.

Who tells my story? I am the one. I can't change my beginning because they have formed a part of who I am now. I'm learning to unlearn a lot of things that I picked while I was growing up. As a young adult, I have the days ahead of me to live intentionally and tell a more beautiful story of my becoming. For me, this is only the beginning of my story.