I was not asked to be born.

“Push! Push! You are almost there!”<o:p></o:p>“No! No! I don’t want to come out!” That was everything my baby self said behind the deep bawling, but everyone around assumed my wail was an element of joy.<o:p></o:p>“Push! Push! The head is coming out.” The doctor kept motivating until, boom, I was truly out. I knew I had won the sperm race, but I didn’t know this was where I would stop. I knew I was a baby, but something didn’t feel right. I had an inkling I was born in the wrong place, to the wrong person, and into the wrong system. Anyways, I had been born already; the deed was done. All I could do now was cry my lungs out. I cried so hard that I hoped I could either take my own life or convince the doctor I wasn’t worth living so he would take me out.<o:p></o:p>No matter how much I cried, these people still sheltered me in their arms, passing me over like a ball from one well-wisher to another. I could swear I was the child who cried the most after coming into this world—for two weeks straight, that is. But the people I would come to discover were my parents didn’t care; if anything, they thought it was a good sign that I was healthy.<o:p></o:p>I had to make myself stop crying, not because of the enticing toys and gifts around me or my dad tossing me up and down in the air; they just couldn’t understand my plight, so I gave up. The crying wasn't worth it. I needed to “chest” life from only three months old. I was only a toddler, yet I knew there was fire on the mountain.<o:p></o:p>As I grew a year or two older, my parents came to notice that I barely smiled, and the only time I giggled was when they tickled me—because, understand, I was still a baby. But I got used to it, and knowing that was the only way to get me to show my newly formed teeth in public, I would force myself into a deep wail whilst giggling slightly to express my discomfort. They would stop altogether and accept that I was just a child who loved frowning.<o:p></o:p>And by God, I enjoyed torturing them; from forcefully snatching the feeding bottle from my mum and serving myself, to slapping and punching my dad when he tossed me up like I was some baby doll. I inflicted so much pain on them that they found a name for me: ọmọ alágbídí (stubborn child).<o:p></o:p>I could have cared less because I knew what I was born into, and it didn’t get any better when I discovered there were four older people who had come before me. No one was above ten yet: the eldest was 10, the second was 8, the third was 5, and the fourth was 3 years old… all of whom I figured out later were my siblings. How do you open the net and score a goal a year after you have just netted? It didn’t help that my parents were victims of Nigeria’s tumultuous economy. And so, it baffled me that they knew they were barely trying to keep their heads above water, yet they insisted vehemently on scoring goals. That is wickedness, if you ask me.<o:p></o:p>Unlike my siblings, I wasn’t going to be fooled. I could see they were fine with their reality and thrived as though this was their fate. Sometimes I wanted to call their attention and talk to them, but I feared they wouldn’t get it. How was I the youngest, yet I was the only one who could see our parents had put all our lives in danger for a few moments of ecstasy? Sometimes I wondered if I was reincarnated and knew I was getting back into the same rabbit hole. It must be my fault. I blamed myself more than my parents.<o:p></o:p>You see why I always frown, even now at 13. What is there to be happy about? I go to a government school where there are about 109 of us in a class. I can barely see the teacher, let alone hear him while seated on the 80th row. I have to leave immediately after the closing bell—or sometimes before school closes on Fridays—to hurry home and hawk groundnuts in the heat of the traffic, because Friday traffic in Lagos is always a bit special.<o:p></o:p>I would then close late at night, come home to grab whatever was left in the pot, shower, and go to bed. Rinse and repeat; the cycle always continued. That was my everyday life. Sometimes, while seated alone, I reminisced about moments when I saw kids of rich parents my age staring pathetically at me while I hawked by the back seat of their father’s car, some jeering.<o:p></o:p>It has gotten to a point now where I think I just might be a good-for-nothing. Of course, everyone can’t be rich, so why blame anyone? Maybe this was my destiny, you see. To come from the mud, work my way up until I hit the jackpot, even if I was just a girl. The grass-to-grace story is always sweet after all.<o:p></o:p>But right now, I am hungry—like, heavily famished—and there is this woman, who should be in her 40s, alighting from her car. Her handbag is very nice, brown, and coated with a feathery texture. It looks enticing, the kind of bag you think would be fully “loaded.” It seems like the perfect moment. Bustling market noises erupt through the heavily crowded area, enveloping multiple stalls housing market products. I just need to be very careful and accurate, just like Ola, my elder brother, coached me.<o:p></o:p>“You observe the person closely; they can’t be security-conscious every time. Study their movement and adjustments carefully. Watch out for when they slack, and when they do, ensure you have already moved stealthily towards them. So, when their hand lowers or rests, you launch with one swift grab.”<o:p></o:p><o:p> </o:p>The last three words always lingered in my head: “One swift grab.”<o:p></o:p>My chest punched heavily against my ribs like a thud; cold sweat lined my face as I stealthily made strides, looking everywhere else but at the bag I aimed for. When I got close enough to the point where I could go no further, I stopped. I glanced at the bag, and when I saw her lower it from her arms to hold it in her hands, I disrupted the process, made a swift and forceful launch at the bag, took it, and ran like never before.<o:p></o:p>The grab was followed immediately by deafening screams and bellows of “Thief! Thief!” that reverberated in my direction. She hadn’t even finished crying out before I heard thunderous steps striking the earth behind me. That was when I knew I wasn’t a good runner. I was chased down successfully by two hefty men; you would think I was a huge splash of dollars. They pinned me down and collected the bag. I wanted to bury my face deep into the earth and never get back up.<o:p></o:p>The woman finally reached where we were after about two minutes, and she shrieked, “Thank you, my sons. God bless you. Let me reward you.” She rummaged her hands inside, and from a wad of mint-scented notes, squeezed out 5,000 naira and gave it to each one of them. One of them immediately curled his shoulders forward, and the other was already halfway to a prostration when she signaled them back up.<o:p></o:p>The audience around me had now multiplied as the grumbling onlookers folded their arms, wondering what would happen next. The woman hauled my dirt-caked body off the ground and, tugging me by my shirt, pummeled a resounding slap that ruptured my eardrums. “Get me those tyres,” she ordered the boys. The crowd grew raucous, chanting, “Ole! Ole! Burn am die!”<o:p></o:p>The hefty boys rolled the tyres towards me, and the woman pushed me down from behind. “You thief of a child. I don’t blame you. I blame your mother who didn’t train you well. You wanted to steal my dollars, abi? Plenty money wey I go change.” The crowd exclaimed.<o:p></o:p>It looked all mapped out. A man wriggled his way out of the crowd with a kerosene jar, and just some seconds later, a lighter was thrown from somewhere in the crowd onto the scene. The crowd cheered.<o:p></o:p>To be fair, I didn’t mind that all my suffering would end after all, but I didn’t know when tears began to roll down my eyes. I think it was because I didn’t expect this large number of people to be so enlivened by my impending death. I don’t think I had ever stolen from them before; notwithstanding, this was my first time ever. I wanted to open my mouth and utter apologies and pleas for mercy to the woman and the people, but words wouldn’t come out. It was as if someone had shoved a huge lump of rock down my lungs. I just succumbed to my fate. I mean, what would begging do anyways?<o:p></o:p>The cheers heightened when one of the boys clicked the lighter open while the other began pouring kerosene on the body of the tyre with vigorous effort. The strike of the lighter that lit the flame felt like a clonk in my ears. I slowly rolled my eyes closed and shut them ever so tightly; the last thing I saw were the boys, the woman, and the crowd drifting backwards right after they set the fire.<o:p></o:p>The tyres took some minutes before ignition, and those minutes, I must say, were the worst minutes of the life I would soon be leaving. I began puffing and panting as I felt the heat searing through my skin. The tears rained down uncontrollably now as I folded my trembling hands. I didn’t want to see how the fire would eat up my body, but I opened my eyes to look at the crowd. Some of them wore expressions of compassion, shaking their heads like their pity was greater than the sight they enjoyed. Others covered their noses like I reeked of garbage, only for me to turn to my legs and see that the rubber had burst open into flames and the fire had begun to spread. Excruciating shrieks escaped my throat when the fire slowly burnt me up. The pain was agonizing because it started with my legs, giving me enough time to seep it all in.<o:p></o:p>I stretched out my hands as if hoping someone could pull me out, screaming “Please, help!” bitterly, but the crowd was long gone into my torturous reception to do anything. It was like turning off the TV when football fans are watching Argentina vs. Portugal in a World Cup final. Half of them had their phones out, recording me. “Is this how Jesus suffered?” I muttered innately. The smoke had now gone far up into the air and had attracted tons of more people.<o:p></o:p>Suddenly, someone ran forward, coming toward me. My vision was obscured like a haze from the rising smoke, but I was somehow able to make out Iya Ola, my mum, running from a distance. It was as if she had joined in watching before she discovered it was her daughter. Anyways, it was already too late because by the time she got close to me, it was only my head that had not yet been roasted.<o:p></o:p>She opened her mouth agape, folded her arms behind her back, and drooped to her knees. “Yewande, ọmọ mi, kí lo șe?” (Yewande, my child, what did you do?) she yelled.<o:p></o:p>“Ebi lo n pa mi,” (I was hungry), I muttered under my ragged breath. I shut my eyes again, and this time, they never opened.<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p>

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