My parents ruled their household with an iron fist and reigned fear and terror in the hearts and minds of their children, the housekeepers and extended family members. With the exception of a few chosen favorites, nobody was saved from an unpredictable daily life of the most egregious forms of emotional, psychological and physical abuse. My father often talked about the importance of instilling fear into the hearts and minds of his children. With his loud baritone voice, his words would cut into you much deeper than the tree branches and whips used by them for daily beatings.
Both of them had a tumultuous relationship filled with adultery and infidelity and my mother often took out her anger on specific children. As with all narcissistic mothers, she had her favorites and there was me, the black sheep. No one knew what the day would bring as their mood determined the day. If you dare set their dinnerware wrong, or the China plate was not properly cleaned, or you added too much or too little servings, ate their leftovers without permission, or a speck of dust was left on the table you were told to wipe, you could receive several strokes of canes cut from long tree branches, made to face the wall and raise your hands for several hours or even have the food you served thrown in your face. As years went by, the tree branches got bigger, longer and better designed to leave welts, bruises and on many occasions break the skin and cause serious injuries. As they both aged, they began to employ the guards to hold the hands and feet of the child while they flogged them naked. Once, my oldest brother met such fate for playing my father’s 1980s music records and I received a similar punishment for making an international call to a high school boyfriend at the age of sixteen.
Hidden Behind the Gates
The housekeepers were beaten and tortured daily. On one occasion, my mother boiled hot water with pepper and threw it on the driver for arriving late from an errand. All of this happened behind the fence of the Alatise family. On the outside, both parents were socialites and active members of humanitarian clubs of an elite group in Nigeria. They received international funds and awards for service to the local community, they ran orphanages for children and hosted many elaborate parties in and outside the home. Part of my job from age seven was to pluck and prepare the chicken, meat, vegetables in the outdoor burn fire and help the housekeepers cook the party meals for at least one hundred guests.
My parents were rarely home on weekends as they both would get beautifully dressed for owambe (local name for parties) parties. My mother had the best gold jewelry and traditional Yoruba dresses money can buy. We lived in what seemed an opulent part of Lagos and our home was fenced within a large compound. There were at least two guards stationed at the gate and no one could come in without permission from my parents.
Understanding How Wounds were Inflicted
I am not writing this background story to demonize my parents and I am not looking for a pity party or play the blame game. I am writing my story as a background for the reader to understand the wounds inflicted on my body, mind and spirit and to follow the storyline as I journeyed into the psych to heal my buried traumas and discover the truth about who and what I am.
While I have read many books about parental bonds in my research studies, I long knew that my life was beyond extraordinary and my bond with my parents was devoid of any form of love. If there was any, it was to thank them for clothing, feeding and housing us in such a privileged home where poverty was literally 90 percent of the country. Far from a healthy bond, my mother’s voice would strike the most heart retching fear. The sound of her car horn to signal to the guards to open the gates announcing her return home, brought the worst frenzy, panic and anxiety attacks. All of my five younger brothers and sister would begin to cry, and I would often vomit from my heart beating so fast, it felt like it would jump out of my body at any moment. We would frantically clean the house and set the pot on the stove to cook her dinner. I had learned to cook in the kitchen by age seven and serve food to my siblings. We had daily chores along with the housekeepers and since they often ran away, or got fired for not doing a satisfactory job, the children had to fill in with extra chores until a new help was brought from the village.
The Audacity of Hope
As my mother arrives and parks the car, it is my job to run out and kneel on the ground… “welcome mommy”, I grab her bag and would race upstairs to open her bedroom door. I must move fast, for any sign of lax will be met with floggings. I then go in her room to change her sheet, lay her bed, sweep and wipe the furniture. She would then leave her dirty underwear and I would pick it up to wash them. Depending on her mood, I could be subjected to flogging for not laying the bed right or washing her underwear clean. If she brought anything home for the children, she would throw it on the floor, and we must kneel to pick it up. On some occasions, she would punch me so hard in the stomach that I would pass out.
My siblings and I were not encouraged to love or show any form of empathy towards one another. My mother made sure she instilled a divide and conquer rule, so sibling rivalry and jealousy was a common feature. Since she had her favorites and as I was the scape goat, siblings often distanced themselves, teased and geared at me for doing so many bad things. They knew that so long as the mother projected her anger on one particular child, they were saved from it and better me than them.
My parents were classic textbook narcissists. The sociopathic types that seemed to enjoy inflicting pain on others. This does not mean that I blame them for anything. This is not a journey of projecting anger, resentment, or rage, but one of understanding. We want to heal ourselves and we have to do that with love and forgiveness for ourselves and our parents. I do not believe in creating victims. We are accountable for our own lives and feelings. To be healthy, I first have to understand what I experienced as a daughter of two narcissistic parents, and then I can move forward in psychological and spiritual recovery. Without understanding what my parent’s narcissism did to me, it is impossible to recover.
If my story brings comfort and a hope of healing to one person out there, then my job is done.
I am closer to completing my first book entitled:
Indigen
Journeys of a wounded healer in spiritual psychotherapy
