Happiness is such a common word. It means different things to different people. If you should ask little boy what he wants to be happy, he’d probably tell you candies or boxes of chocolate. But if you ask me what can make me happy, I’ll tell you death and wanting to live. For those who don’t know me and who probably would know me after these tragic notes surface on the social media, my name is Adigun. And ending my life is, well, the best thing ever. I’m not depressed. I’m not financially incapacitated. My best friend, Toun, did not quarrel with me. There are many developments as to what I did. And I shall reveal them to you in sequences.
My father is a failure. He is this kind of a failed person that wants others to fail like him—consciously or unconsciously. He is never rich. That hasn’t been my concern. After all, I’ve been taught that if one doesn’t have today, one would have tomorrow. When I was growing up, I believe I had the best dad ever, but as I was much older, I discovered he’s nothing but a backward person. And may he remain backward forever. My mother is only the elite in our family. By elite, I mean she’s atleast educated. She even is not that educated sef. I heard my dad impregnated her after she passed her UTME and my mum was, well, resigned to leave with him. She struggled without his support to bag Teachers Grade II certificate and later NCE. My dad did not contribute a dime to her education. He does not have a recognisable job. He is all these kinds of clerics that collect money from people, assuring them that their problems—spiritual or not—would be solved. Sometimes, he makes much money. Sometimes he makes little. How my dad became this miserable is something I might reveal and if I forget not to include it, kindly ask him after my demise.
My mother rose through the ranks in her teaching job and begin to get fat salary. My father is always jealous of this. He wants us, his children, to be closer to him than my mum. So, he will ask questions like: “If you have your first salary, how much will you give to your mother and me?” If anyone says they will give my mum the larger percentage, he’ll beat them and call them bastards, vagabonds. My mum is the only reason we eat balanced diet. Even at such, my dad is always angry that it is obvious she’s contributing higher in terms of food. My mum also buys us clothes from her purse. My dad only buys us clothes once or twice in a year (which is not even constant), during Id-el-Fitr and Id-el-Kabir. Well, he manages to pay our school fees and buys us only Mathematics and English textbooks and we inherit them after one of us has finished using it.
Many times, we eat with little meat or no meat at all. This angers me. Why? Because I find it unbearable. I had asked him one day that why didn’t he have two children that he can adequately cater for, than having seven of us he struggles to feed. The response was severe beatings. It was that day I stood up to him. It was the day I also resolved never to live his kind of life.
Apart from the little provisions, my mother makes, she also has a worst side: which is her comparison of us with others. To us, we are not good children. Any slight misdemeanour, she would say she regretted giving birth to us and wished she could poison us. These cruel words inchoate in my head. I wanted to leave the house, but there was nowhere to go, so I tried to endure. I discovered that my mum and dad marriage is a forced one. Like they never wanted to be together, which is true. Every time, they hurl insults to themselves and swearwords. These acts affect my thinking and productivity. My dad does not want my mum to be richer than her, that’s why he always discourages her anytime she says she wants to execute a business idea. My mum foolishly agreed.
Because I don’t want to be caught in this kind of living, I struggled to get into the university. There was no motivation. But I pushed. It was at the university that I discovered that academic qualification only is not enough to get a job, and that learning important skills is needed. But I don’t have money. Anytime I mention that I want to take professional courses, my dad will shout at me on the phone, saying I don’t even worth him wasting his money on my education. But it is my mum that pays most of the school fees. I held back my tears.
To be financially independent, I did menial jobs. I was then able to gather money to learn skills. After two years, I was making stipends. But I saved them. When my dad learned of this, he cursed me, saying I would come to no good. That I made money and kept it to myself. I don’t know how he brainwashed my mum too. She cursed me too. They both stopped sending me money. It’s not like they’ve really been sending me money before. I was left on my own. These times were turbulent.
It was during this cruel neglect from my parents that I met Toun. Toun is a life-saver who would not save my life. She came to me at the University’s Reading room, when she heard my sobs. She tapped me gently and I looked up to behold a spectroscopic fancy. She asked me what the matter was. I lied. I Told her I just remembered a bad memory. Perhaps she knew I wasn’t saying the truth. We became friends in the following weeks, and she always help me with food stuff, when she knew of my predicament. Despite these challenges, I was not daunted. My parents had disowned me just like that. Toun would always visit me at Kenneth Mellanby Hall, where I squat with a friend, who asks me to wash his plates after eating so he can give me shelter. He wanted Toun, but she didn’t want him. He later threw me out of the room. Toun, took me in her self-contained apartment at Ajibode. She wasn’t worried I was a guy. She tells me sweet words and says all will be good. I strongly believed this, so I worked hard to excel.
Then one day, I saw my dad’s post on Facebook. He called the attention of his family that I am a bastard and that he has disowned me. I cried bitterly. I almost stabbed myself with a knife save for Toun’s swift intervention. I told her what the matter was. She walked to the kitchen to get me a glass of water. I heard her sobs too. Toun cried for me. She said I would achieve my dreams. She knows I wanted to be a writer. She had asked me one time that who would I dedicate my first novel to. I told her I will write “To Almighty Allah, the giver and sustainer of life; to my mum for getting things right; to my dad for pushing when things are tight; to my brothers and sisters; to Toun, the best thing that ever happened to me.” Toun laughed when I said this. I love her and thought I would marry her even when we don’t have the same religion.
Almost everyday, I read curse-messages from my parents. This affected me. I tried to hide it and I don’t know why Toun did not detect my mood change. Then today, this night, I am finally taking my life. Maybe everything will change. I’m really sorry Toun. I’m really sorry. I wished I had slept with you when you requested I should. Maybe you will be pregnant and have my child after I’m gone. But I thank God I did not sleep with you. Because I don’t want you to be in tatters after I’m gone. Because I don’t want to give you, Toun, a bad name, I choose not to hang my neck in your room. I’m off to Awba Dam. I’ll jump into the dam and drown. When you read this letter, my body will be at the bottom of the dam and maybe you’ll be lucky to find my corpse, if the alligators and hungry fishes haven’t devoured it before anyone can retrieve it.
Good bye.
