Ujunwa (21) spent the first few years of her life believing she had an ideal family. As she grew older, her dad’s affection gave way to fear, verbal abuse and financial abandonment. Through it all, her siblings became her strongest source of comfort and hope.
I’ll never forget the first time I was genuinely convinced my father would make good on his threats to harm my siblings and me. I was about eight at the time.
My mum had gone out, so my four siblings and I were home with my dad. He came in looking for something and quickly decided my mum must have taken it. He ransacked the house and cut into her bags with a razor blade. Then he threatened to burn us alive if she didn’t return the missing item.
My siblings and I huddled together in fear. I packed sweets and biscuits into a bag because I thought we might have to run away. My eldest sister, who was about 16, tried to calm me because I was so afraid.
We didn’t have kerosene at home, so my dad went out and bought some, along with a fresh box of matchsticks. When he returned, he repeated the threat and swung into action almost immediately. Doors were slammed shut, and his paces carried a determination with them.
Our generator was running, and even at that age, I knew a fire would be deadly and spread quickly. Yet, we were trapped in the house, praying and hoping something would soften our father’s resolve.
Eventually, he found the missing item in his own room. He’d always kept that room locked, and none of us was allowed to enter it. Once he found it, he denied threatening to burn us. He claimed he’d only said he would burn my mum’s clothes.
But we knew what we heard. He’d dangled our choice to live right in front of us. Still, we had nowhere else to go, so we had to live with it.
That was just one of the many incidents I lived through with my dad. But it wasn’t always like this.
***
For the first few years of my life, I thought I had the ideal family. I never doubted my parents’ love for each other, and that assurance of love trickled down to my siblings and me.
I’m the last child, so my dad doted on me when I was little. Whenever he bought things for us, he let me choose first. Between the ages of four and seven, I was convinced I loved him more than my mum because he spoiled me so much.
Then, as consciousness matured with the years, I began to notice the cracks.
He spoke to my mum terribly. He’d call her a witch or a prostitute in front of us, often without provocation. The aggression came our way, too.
He’d shout at us and drain our home of ease whenever he was around. We were constantly tense and unable to relax. If he walked into a room, we found somewhere else to be. We couldn’t even breathe properly because the slightest thing could make him turn towards us and start yelling.
I fully realised how much his behaviour had affected me in secondary school. During a Valentine’s Day celebration, a friend told me how her dad had playfully pranked her mum. He acted unconscious, and she’d rushed to him with so much worry and concern. As my friend spoke, I imagined the same thing happening in my house. Then I realised the feelings would have been far from worry or concern. We’d probably be relieved.
By then, even his affection for me no longer felt like love. How could it be when he treated my mum and siblings so badly? I couldn’t separate the version of him who bought me things from the one who scared everyone.
I saw that contradiction clearly on my eighth birthday.
My mum usually organised a small celebration at school, but that year, my dad handled it. He brought cake, gifts and bottled drinks for my teachers. One of the bottles broke, and the headmistress offered to replace it. He smiled and told her it was fine.
But as soon as we got home, he started shouting about the bottle and how we had lost one. He declared that nobody should ever ask him to pay for another birthday celebration. A day that had started with cakes and gifts ended with everyone walking on eggshells.
Living through these experiences with my siblings made us really close. My older sister likes to say we trauma-bonded. We had to watch out for one another and for our mum when it came to our dad.
Over time, we became so emotionally attuned to one another that it sometimes felt like we could tell how the other sibling was feeling, even when we were hundreds of miles apart.
This bond grew even stronger when our dad withdrew financially.
My mum had been a stay-at-home wife for most of our lives. She told us how our dad had encouraged her to quit her job early on, promising to set up a business for her once the children were older. But he never did.
In 2018, he sold the last property he owned and gave my mum ₦1.8 million, supposedly to start the business he’d always promised her. But almost immediately, he stopped paying for necessities, including my brother’s university fees, food and clothing for the house.
My mum had no choice but to use the business capital to keep the family afloat. She eventually began selling thrift clothes to make ends meet.
The rest of us did what we could. It was clear that no one was coming to help us, so we started working to ease the burden on our mum.
My sister became a teacher after NYSC, while my immediate older brother deferred his university plans and worked at a dry-cleaning company. I also had to delay my university plans after completing secondary school in 2021. My family couldn’t afford to put another child through university. So, I took up a job as a salesgirl.
If our sacrifice should have attracted praise from our father, it did the opposite. He was angry, especially after he found out about my brother’s dry-cleaning job. He said he felt embarrassed.
When I eventually admitted that I had a job, he subtly accused me of engaging in prostitution for trying to earn money he refused to give me.
This was our reality. A father who refused to take responsibility but shamed us every chance he got.
***
In 2022, he moved out of our house. He’d apparently developed some complications from an earlier diabetes diagnosis, but he only shared that information with his friends. We only found out about his condition after complications arose and he had to have his leg amputated. He died in July 2026.
When we heard the news, it was bittersweet. We were sad because, despite everything, he was still our dad. At the same time, we felt relieved, as though a chapter of our lives had finally closed. It was as if the shackles holding us had finally come loose.
My mum’s emotions were more complicated. I think part of her still remembers the man she met many years ago. She insists he wasn’t always the person we grew up with and that he changed completely. My siblings and I try to remind her that she doesn’t have to force herself to grieve in a particular way or carry any other burdens because of him.
Even though he’s gone, surviving our turbulent relationship with him has affected other parts of our lives, especially how we approach romantic relationships.
My siblings and I joke that we’re good at ‘clocking bullshit,’ which is our slang for recognising our father’s traits in potential romantic partners. Whenever we meet someone who behaves like him, even a little, we run.
It has made me a very strict partner. I used to make excuses for my dad, but now I struggle to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. If someone does something I consider out of place, I’m more likely to walk away than wait for them to change or repeat it. I know this protects me, but I also know it comes from a place of fear.
I still want to get married and have a healthy relationship someday, but I often wonder how anyone can truly know another person. My mum believed she married a kind man, only for him to become someone she barely recognised. I’m afraid I could meet someone loving who wakes up one day and starts treating me terribly.
Still, my childhood taught me what safe love can look like, even if I didn’t learn it from my father. I learnt it from my siblings.
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