From here on are the confessions of an African older sister to her only younger sister:

We were commodities, distributed to different ends of the country, but for some reason—definitely childlike delusion—I didn't think I could be more alone like I had been two years prior. I was in for a ride.

The first time you confessed your love to me was in 2009.

I had been shipped to you during that long vacation break—an opportunity for me to finally catch my breath, or so I thought. But nothing prepared me for how hostile you were towards me. Not even the ride-a-bike punishment and whooping Uncle meted out to me upon my arrival hurt half as much as the anger in your eyes.

My offence? Something as minute as buying a notebook with a money gift I had received. But for some reason, you were livid. And even though I still bore marks from Uncle's strokes, you whooped me mercilessly, tears escaping your eyes.

Ironically, that was actually the first time I knew you loved me. I saw the frustration in your eyes and heard the exhaustion in your words as you screamed them at me amidst my loud pleas. Every other sibling in their catchment area had good reports, except me.

You had heard tales of all the escapades I was involved in. I was into petty theft—if you'll call taking from my own savings box that. I was stubborn and wouldn't listen to instructions. And I behaved like I was possessed.

Actually, that's to put it lightly. What I was was a nine-year-old child who had been bewitched by the same witchcraft our mother had used to kill our father five years prior. But we were in a game, unbeknownst to me, and whether I knew it or not, it was already rigged against me. So, it didn't matter if Aunty was right; I was younger, so she couldn't have lied against me. And woe be unto a typical Nigerian home to give a child an audience after an elder has spoken. How disrespectful!

So, I took the fall just so Aunty could save her own face, and you threw in your support for her, albeit grudgingly.

The next time you confessed your love to me was in 2016.

I was too cowardly to run away from the family I had known and grown to despise, so when I had the opportunity that didn't entirely portray my leaving as abscondment, I took it. I applied to school in Zaria.

For a child that had never gone past her birthplace, that was quite the distance. The terrorist attacks in the region were also a major issue. But you never complained or tried to convince me to stay back, even though our uncles blamed you for my actions—a default reaction you had gotten used to since our parents demise twelve years prior.

Instead, in August, when word got to us about exams, you gathered all you had at the time, took me to the bus park and shipped me off to a strange man's land in a night bus. All by myself. With my clothes, your tecno phone which was your only means of communication and pleas for me never to forget where I was coming from.

I sometimes wonder if I'd have stayed back if you'd asked me to, but I'm glad you never did. I was too cowardly to have turned you down, and I probably would've resented you for it.

The next time you'll confess your love to me wouldn't be so far off—just three months away from the last.

It was the week of your wedding and it was happening in our hometown, where we didn't even have any memories. Apparently, as an African orphan, your first offence is being African, and the next? You won't believe it, but it's actually being an orphan. This translates to having no one stand up for you in situations like choosing where you'll prefer to have your wedding.

My arrival to the village had been delayed by a day, and you wouldn't stop throwing tantrums for “leaving you all by yourself” in the village. It didn't matter that my excuse was genuine or that you were ten years older than I am—you needed me to be there for you, and when I didn't show up as agreed, you moped.

You know, my best friend had just left me for someone else, and it felt good to have you as a rebound.

Another episodic confession I remember would commence from then on and span the length of two years.

Things had taken a different turn for me a week into arriving at Zaria, so instead of lurking around, I had shipped myself to Keffi, where I knew a person or two, unlike Zaria. That wasn't the good part, though. The good part was that you were an hour away from me.

That was the closest I had been to two of my siblings at the same time, and I was ecstatic. But not for long.

How was it that I was in that land for almost nine years after forfeiting school to be a primary caregiver to our brother, and you only visited us once? I couldn't make sense of it.

I couldn't wrap my head around how you couldn't come see us. I was livid. It felt like you had joined everyone else to pile on me. So, I nursed the hurt. It lulled me to sleep on the nights I was too hungry to give in. And when everything seemed overwhelming and I needed an escape, guess who manned the gates that pulled me into my fantasies?

It was so strong, I couldn't bring myself to come to yours like I used to. Truly, the hurt from your loved one was deadly because it was from then on that I learnt to take baby steps into the world of non-chalance.

I was so sure that there was no going back from here for us. Until the next time you confessed that you loved me.

You'd ranted to everyone about how distant I had grown, and though they hadn't told me you were hurt by it, I had all my answers. For I had grown on the silence of your love, and I had learned that for you, it was easier to act. And in the event that you couldn't, you'll still hurt as much as you'd have if you had said it with your mouth.

And the next time you confessed your love me, it was without your contribution. I was older, and so, I saw and understood your sacrifices in 4K.

I understood the pain of wanting to be the rebel in our own overbearing African home but putting a leash on it because you had three younger ones whose welfare was largely dependent on your obedience. I understood the sacrifice of being a first born…daughter. In an African home. With no parents.

It might have delayed for too long, but here is my own confession: I love you, too.