🤫 Confess💔 Relationship Wahala
My Father's Other Family Showed Up at His Burial in Kano. Our House Has Never Been the Same.
Q
Quick Mamba from Osogbo
about 1 month ago
I was 34, working as a civil servant in Kano, and I thought I knew my father. He was a quiet man. A retired teacher. Every Friday he went to the mosque, every Sunday he sat in his chair and listened to the radio. That was Baba. That was the whole story, or so we thought. He died in March 2022. We buried him on a Tuesday. And on that Tuesday, a woman walked into our compound with three grown children. She was wearing the same white lace we were wearing. She knelt in front of my mother and said, "I am sorry for your loss. We are also his family." My mother did not scream. She did not cry. She just looked at my father's picture on the wall and said, "So this is what you were doing all those years you said you were going to Bauchi for seminars." We found out Baba had another wife in Kaduna. Married in 1998. Three children. One of them was older than me. He had been paying their school fees from the same account he used for ours. My mother checked his old bank statements after the burial. Twenty-four years of lies, and the man never even slipped once. The inheritance? The house in Kano went to my mother, but the land in Kaduna that we never knew about went to them. My brother wanted to fight it in court. My mother said no. She said, "Let them have it. I have already lost the only thing I cared about." What I learned from this is simple: you can sleep in the same house with a person for thirty years and still not know them. And when the truth finally comes out, it does not come gently. It comes wearing white lace at a burial, smiling like it has every right to be there. I still think about my father sometimes. I do not hate him. I just wish he had told us himself. The dead cannot explain, but the living can. That is the part that hurts the most.
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