Family Secret: My Mother's Secret Child

A secret child is not the kind of thing you’d expect from the family I come from or the mother who raised me. I grew up the first of five siblings, in a pretty decent middle class home, two parents, structure at home, discipline and lots of love. Oh did I add there has always been abundance of food? My father had a great career, which allowed my mother to be a stay-home-mom.

Dad, he is the kindest, most generous man I know. My father is loving, patient and wise. He believed in leadership by example, and always led us by his deeds. He taught me how love should look like in relationships by the way he loved my Mom.

My mother, she always has a prayer on her lips. She was and still is Mama bear. And she fiercely protected her cubs, made sure we had the best she and Dad could offer, and she taught me to always pray. She would always insist to me to speak the truth no matter what; she would say let your reputation precede you, let people take your word to the bank. I used to have the utmost respect for her. She is not the kind of woman you’d think would have a love child, let alone hide her.

My grandmother, the epitome of grace and warmth. She lived a few hours from where I was raised. And would always visit us with baskets laden with foodstuff. She was a baker, so of course she never visited without baskets of delicious bread and pies. I adored her because she raised my Mom and since Mom was perfect in my eyes, so was Grandma.

My big cousin, she lived with my grandmother and helped her with the baking business. The age gap between us is about fifteen years. She was always so shy and unsure of herself. And she was always working; cleaning, cooking, kneading, washing. Not a word of complaint ever escaped her lips. She has the most beautiful smile you ever saw, the most beautiful melanated skin I have ever seen, smooth and firm. My cousin is a gentle spirit, not a bad word out of place. I loved when she visited with Grandma, because she would play whatever game I wanted and indulge me to no end.

As I grew older, I began to notice my cousin’s deficiencies. I taught her how to use cutlery at table, how to present herself with confidence, to speak up and show up with self-assurance. I tried to rub off some sass on her, but she is modest by nature so I failed again and again. She never spoke about her parents, she would always say she didn’t know them whenever I asked. My Grandma was the only mother she knew.

It always saddened me why she didn’t go past Junior High School. She said she would have loved to be a nurse but no one would pay for her education.

I once asked my mother why she didn’t help her further her schooling, her response was, “she failed her Junior High exams.”

Of her parentage, Grandma said one of her distant relatives had a child too young and didn’t want her, so she adopted the child. It always, always saddened me that she didn’t know her birth parents, because I couldn’t imagine not knowing mine.

Around the time I was about twenty years old, I was in my second year in medical school when my mother and I visited Grandma. She was old, frail and bedridden. We stayed by her side and talked, laughed and cried, it was hard to miss the end was near for her. Then abruptly she found an excuse to rid of me, “Go and get me grapefruits from the roadside, make sure you buy me grapefruit before you show up by this bedside,” she said.

Now Misskorang listen, I didn’t get to medical school by being a doofus, I instantly knew she wanted to divulge something to my Mom which she didn’t want me to hear. So I made a show of running to go do the errand, slamming doors and banging gates as I went. My mother even came out to make sure I was gone, which heightened my interest in whatever was a bout to be said.

So of course I circled back and crouched behind the window. That’s when I heard the secret child bombshell!

“I have little time left, you have to tell Mensima she is your daughter,” Grandma said.

“No I cannot. Too much time has passed. This isn’t about Mensima and me. What about my family, my husband, what would I tell him?” my dear Mom protested.

My jaw fell to the floor. I was sick to my stomach, and couldn’t listen anymore.

All this while she was preaching virtue, she was living vice? My mother had a child and hid her? Secret babies? A secret child? My beloved cousin has been my big sister all this while? And all the while we lived well and enjoyed being children, she slaved away for what?

Hot tears stung my eyes and ran down my cheeks as I wandered the village, looking for my sister. I found her selling pastries in the market square. I collapsed in her arms and cried for all she had lost, for all she had been deprived.

“Mensima, you are my sister, my Mom is yours too,” I said, finally regaining composure.

She smiled. I was confused.

“Did you hear what I just said?” I asked.

She smiled broader and she held me tighter.

Bless her heart, she knew. She had known for a longtime.She chose to let sleeping dogs lie, to not disrupt the peace, the artificial peace.

I confronted my mother one Sunday when she harassed me to go to church. “What is the point of all that church going when you live a lie?” I stated.

“Excuse me young lady what did you just say?” she inched closer and demanded.

“Who is Mensima’s mother?” I spat out.

She froze.

“That’s right, I heard you and Grandma, really Mom, secret babies?” I said.

“Don’t you dare let your father hear this,” she hissed.

But she needed not warn me. I had and still have no desire to break my father’s heart. It is not my story to tell, it’s hers. And if she intends to be a coward to the end, that’s her cup of tea not mine.

Yep. As I write this, my mother has a forty five year old secret child and my Dad is none the wiser.

It is not my secret to tell, but I can tell you this, where there used to be respect for her, I now have disdain. The best I have been able to do is love my sister, push her towards opportunity and be her family in any way I am able to be.

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