You know, African parents can be very annoying. There is a part in the bible that says, "Honor your father and mother so that your days will be long."

Parents will scream that out just to threaten you- constantly remind you that there is a prerequisite for a long life. I guess they forgot the next line. “Fathers, do not provoke your children to anger by the way you treat them."

Parents intentionally and unintentionally provoke their children, knowing that they cannot do anything. If you by any chance fight for yourself, you’re being disrespectful, and they will say… “Your children will do the same to you.”

I guess I should start with an Introduction- I am Gbenga, and I'm 26 years old, and I'm different. For years, my mother has pleaded for me to do things the same way other children did. "Gbenga, your mates are playing ball, go and follow them." 

"Gbenga, those children don't write like this."

"Your mates are already doing algebra. Why can't you do it?"

Thank God for my elder sister, who reminded her, "Mummy, this boy has Autism. He is different, not less, but different."

The way my mother would be so humble after Kemi changed it for her was kind of satisfying. I think my mother used to forget that I was autistic, even when it brought so many problems for her and her marriage. In-laws were claiming that she had used juju to steal my "normality" and the whisperings of the very judgmental society that made her go into hiding.

My mother had done a lot for me. It was A LOT. I had a couple of annoying habits growing up, like picking up empty bottle covers and storing them under my bed for no reason and then tearing clothes of different colours.

I was heavily fascinated by various colours. Luckily, one of my mother's numerous pastors knew and understood that I was. After the pastor confirmed my path for art, it sparked something inside my mother. She got money and bought art supplies for me, hoping that my savantism would be instantly activated. 

I had an uncanny memory; I could remember anyone, place and thing I have come in contact with. The first drawing I did was the hospital ward I was born in. 

It was spot-on- the nurse's grouchy faces, the lack of quality materials in the room, everything. My mother wept, thinking of my incredible use of detail in my work. My extended family weren't easily impressed and said with their noses in the air," Oh, how can he remember the room if he was just a new born? I bet his mother paid someone to draw this and wants us to believe that he drew it!"

You can never satisfy human beings. So, I decided to humble them by doing an artwork right in their faces so that they would know the son of the cursed mother created that. 

Another thing about me that people found weird was how I could write in any Microsoft Word font… Times new roman, Cambria, Bookman old style…. 

I didn’t even know how I did these things. I just loved them. 

I was now tagged as a savant and received much attention- the good kind.

You may have wondered why I haven't mentioned my father in my story. My father is…. something. 

He was thrilled about having a son, but when the weird habits began to show… you know, the self-injury, the loud meltdowns which he termed as 'desperate cries for attention', the destruction of property… The man turned bad, like really bad. 

He would huff and puff like a wolf, threatening to kill and destroy. He not only threatened to kill me but said that my mother would be next in line to die. He started with insults that broke her self-esteem, to punches that left scars on her body. 

Long story short, he left the family. His last words to me before his departure were, “You will never be somebody in life.” 

That insult of ten years still gives me shivers to this age. 

My sister, Kemi, grew an unbearable hatred for him for what he did to me and our mother. She never once cried about his abandonment like my mother did. Instead, she channelled the energy into providing for the home and made me explore art.

And I made it.

My first exhibition show was a little small; it was visited by my mother and Kemi's close friends. I sold two paintings out of 12. 

Here is another thing about parents. They expect so much. In her mind, she thought she could do "Abracadabra, and I would sell all my paintings, and I would be on FOX news, I would shake the president's hands… not the one in Nigeria, though. 

She expected a lot. 

Kemi didn't give up on letting everyone see her brother's art; she made a friend, Joshua, who is her husband now; the friendship or whatever they termed it to be, took me higher in the art world. 

Joshua's art-enthusiastic father visited our home. My quick drawing of him touched him so much that he made it his responsibility to make sure I was known. 

My mother thinks it's God, but I think it's just luck.

In the next exhibition, I sold over 15 paintings. I got national recognition and then, slowly, intentional recognition. 

Andddd…. my father returned after seeing my success in the papers. 

Fear men. He started taking credit for the wins, talking about how he was there the whole time and encouraged me; well, if you call threats of murder encouragement, sure.

I knew where my father was while I was trying to be better. He had his nonsense-filled head buried in a very busty woman's chest over at Abuja. 

My mother didn't confront him for the sake of peace; she didn't want to revisit old matters. But Kemi. Oh my God, Kemi is a firecracker; as small as she is, she could create conflict that could shake the world. 

Kemi confronted him on being a terrible father and swore that he would never get a cent of the money I had made. 

That's the thing about having a neurotypical sibling. Kemi did everything for me- if society tried to pick a fight with me, Kemi would turn to them, look at them up and down and ask," Any problem?"

Kemi once made a grown woman cry in church because she cleared the woman for having opinions about me. 

She wasn't joking about protecting me from bad energy- in the society and my home. 

Do you know what the most annoying thing was? My father never sat me down to say, "I'm proud of you, son.' Or "I'm sorry."

It's like "I'm sorry" used to disturb parents' souls. They feel like if they utter it to their children, there will be chaos on earth. They never apologize. 

I waited for my father to say, "I'm sorry for all the lashes, beatings, threats, insults…" but he said nothing. Kemi eventually got her way, and my father didn't come close to us again.

We weren't satisfied. My father needed to be taught a lesson by his Autistic son.

So, I went down the petty road as heavily influenced by Kemi. 

My father's company had gone bankrupt, and he needed to sell it off quickly to make ends meet for himself and his new bimbo. 

Last week, my sister and I arrived as the new owners of the company. My father was confused, seeing us. Kemi explained that she was turning his company of 20 years into a Special needs recreation centre. 

He didn't say a word, but he knew that he had messed up by saying that his autistic son would never make a dime in his life or own anything. 

Someday, I hope that he will apologize for everything he did, and maybe I will have the chance to tell him, "All I needed was patience and support."

I'm not going to wait for him to come back to his senses, though. I have an art career and a new organization to run. 

But I have to admit, this has to be one of the greatest paybacks ever. 

So, I say, "In his face for not believing that every individual with a difference has something special about them and can take on the world."