I was raised by my paternal grandmother. She pampered me with love and care and treated me like her own, even though my parents were alive and well. My father wasn’t much in the picture. He had another wife, and he and my mother had separated. I remember a woman who used to visit us often. Then one day, when I was eight years old, my grandmother introduced her to me as my mother.
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After that, my grandmother began sending me to her place during school breaks. That’s when all the trouble began.
My mother scolded me at every chance she got. She told me she had considered aborting me but didn’t. She reminded me that she once wanted to give me away to a richer man than my father but couldn’t because I resembled my father too much. As if I had chosen to look like him.
There’s one day I remember clearly. She called and told me to ask my father for property: land and houses. She said he would eventually die and leave me something, so I should ask while he was still alive. But her real aim wasn’t for me to receive the property. She wanted me to transfer it to her name. When I refused, the insults and curses she hurled at me made me cry like I had lost someone dear. She even hired people to insult me.
The only time my mother seemed proud of me was when she was fighting with my stepmother or my father. She would say she had done my father a favour by giving birth to me, since I was his only daughter at the time. She would brag about my beauty and call me a trophy. I heard her say it many times: “Look how beautiful she is. She is a trophy.”
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Yes, my mother provided for me. But almost everything she gave came with insults. The only gifts I remember receiving without being called stupid or reminded of how I looked like my father were a mirror and a wrapper when I was joining university. I held onto them dearly because they were the only good memories I had of her.
Her words affected me deeply. During my three years at university, I struggled to enter and maintain relationships. I was insecure and lacked confidence. I believed men saw me as a trophy too, and I hated it. To me, a trophy is something you win, show off for a while, then forget about until you need to brag again. That’s exactly how my mother treated me.
On my traditional marriage day, my mother cried bitterly, claiming I hadn’t instructed my husband to build her a house before the ceremony. My relatives had to calm her down to save my face.
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When I got a job, I did my best to support her financially. I even covered her medical bills. But on the days I couldn’t help, she forgot everything I had done and treated me like I had never cared.
She is gone now, joined her ancestors. But I haven’t fully healed. I’m married, but sometimes I find it hard to trust my husband when he compliments me. My mother’s words echo in my mind—I’m just a trophy. And that dims my confidence.
I’m sharing this to help me heal completely. I have forgiven her.
—Olive
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