Life Story: What Is A Mother's Love? I only Know A Mother's Hate

My parents had a son before they conceived my twin brother and I. My big brother is three years older than me. According to my father, the day we were born, he knew I would command attention, and be larger than life. I was born seven pounds nine ounces, and the wail I let out let the entire hospital floor know, “she is here!”

My twin on the other hand was small, he was barely two pounds, and his cry was weak and frail. He was immediately put in an incubator. Doctors told my parents I had laid on him for the better part of our stay in the uterus. I had cheated him out of oxygen and whatever else.

My twin fought for his life. I and I fought for mine. I am told when we were discharged from the hospital, my mother refused to breastfeed me. Her reason was, she needed to reserve her milk for the twin who needed it most. So my grandmother fed me corn porridge made with cow’s milk.

My twin fought for his life. And I fought for mine. A hundred and twenty days later, my twin gave up. He was found unresponsive by my mothers side. My mother never forgave me.

She nicknamed me ‘kumnipa’ which translates to murderer.

I don’t know why my father never stepped up to protect me. I think he checked out for some reason. Maybe they never got over my twin’s death. Let me tell you, one of the worst things anyone could ever do to a person is to compare them to a dead person.

“If Kakra was here, I bet he would be helpful. I bet Kakra would be more intelligent. Kakra would be more handsome…”

And then the comparison to my older brother and his abuse of me. My mother relished my brother beating me to no end.

I don’t talk about the physical abuse much. Because it doesn’t linger as much as the mental and emotional abuse. I tried to please my parents. I studied, did my chores, and stayed out of trouble. But regardless of whatever I did, my mother found the tiniest reason to criticize and verbally abuse me.

The most painful part of being an abused child is, you don’t know the dysfunction is not your fault, so you keep trying to fix it by being good. Because you don’t know it isn’t you, it’s the adult, and you can’t fix them. So I kept trying, and she kept breaking my heart.

When I was in High school, I participated in an art competition sponsored by the Canadian government. I drew a little girl in tattered clothes, barefooted and dirty, looking expectantly at the sky, waiting for sunrise. I named my piece, Expectant Hope. I think I channeled my inner turmoil without even knowing.

The Canadian government offered me a full scholarship to Canada to study fine arts. But my mother vehemently objected, and she got my father to back her up. She told my teachers I was too irresponsible to embark on such a journey by myself. I lost the opportunity.

In private she told me, if it were my brother she’d have happily let him go, and that airplanes weren’t made for nonentities like me. Talk about love from a mother!

My big brother didn’t do so well in school. He repeated a lot of his classes and so I eventually caught up with him in academics. We both applied to universities at the same time. When my admission letter from Legon arrived, my mother hid it. She hated that I got in and her darling son didn’t. It was a school mate who came to our house to inform me he’d seen my name on the school’s notice board for admissions.

I later found my admission letter under a sack of cassava.

My father took me to school and said, “Make the best of this opportunity and do not come back to this house.”

When I went to say goodbye to my mother before I left for school, she said, “Kumnipa is going to University. I weep for people’s innocent children.” 

I left home for school in 2010. I never went back home. I have done things I am not proud of. But I made it. I live, I survived. I now live and teach fine arts in a high school in the USA. My life is peaceful and content.

For my healing and my peace, I chose grace and forgiveness, but I also chose ‘no contact’. I never got my mother’s love, I am not going to chase it anymore!

My family does not have my contact details. They don’t know where I live and how I live. My father has my email address and emails me every now and again. I read, but I do not respond ever. About two years ago, he sent me his account number; they needed money. I put a standing order on my account to send them a monthly remittance, and he emails to say, “thank you”, everytime.

I don’t miss them. Where the love of my family should be, there is a vacuum. My brother and I have no relationship, it is sad, because I recognize we are both victims of our parents. But at this time, I choose me, my peace, my life, my joy. So no contact.

So tell me how a mother’s love feels? Because for me, a mother’s love is bitter. It stings. It hurts. It is cold, uncaring and abusive. For me a mother’s love can be done without.

If anyone is looking to heal their childhood trauma, I suggest they start by reading this book by Mark Katz. It put me on a path to finding my healing.