The joy and pain of being a first daughter

The Weight of the Crown Ezinne was born under a mango tree’s shade, her mother’s cries mingling with the hum of a humid Nigerian afternoon. The midwives whispered blessings, and her father, Chukwuma, beamed, naming her “God’s gift.” As the first daughter of the Okoye family, Ezinne was their crown jewel, destined to carry both their pride and their burdens. Growing up in Enugu, Ezinne’s childhood was a tapestry of joy woven with threads of duty. Her laughter filled the compound as she chased her younger siblings—Chidi, Nkechi, and little Obi—through the dust, her braids flying like ribbons. She was their sun, the one who taught Chidi to read, braided Nkechi’s hair for school, and sang Obi to sleep when their mother worked late at the market. The neighbors called her “small mama,” and her heart swelled with purpose. Being the first daughter meant she was never alone; her siblings’ eyes followed her, their trust a warm weight on her shoulders. But joy came with shadows. At ten, Ezinne noticed her mother’s tired eyes when school fees were due. “Ezinne, you’re my strength,” Mama would say, handing her the family’s ledger. By fifteen, she was balancing the household budget, skipping her own treats to save for Obi’s shoes. Her father, a civil servant, drank more palm wine than he earned, leaving Ezinne to fill the gaps. The first daughter was the bridge between want and survival, and she learned to walk that narrow path with grace. School was her sanctuary. Ezinne devoured books, her mind a sponge for history and mathematics. Her teachers whispered of scholarships, of universities in Lagos or even abroad. At night, she dreamed of lecture halls and city lights, but dawn brought reality: Mama’s arthritis was worsening, and Chidi’s school fees were overdue. “You’re the eldest,” her father said, his voice heavy with expectation. “You must set the example.” The joy of her potential clashed with the pain of sacrifice. She wondered if her dreams were hers alone or borrowed from a family that needed her more than she needed herself. At eighteen, Ezinne faced her first true heartbreak. A scholarship to study engineering in Abuja came, a golden ticket to a life beyond the compound. But the same week, Nkechi fell ill, and the hospital bills piled like storm clouds. Ezinne overheard her parents’ hushed argument: “If Ezinne stays, we can manage. She’s strong.” The words cut deeper than any knife. She wanted to scream, to demand why her future was the price for their survival. Instead, she sold her admission letter’s promise, taking a job at a local pharmacy. The joy of her siblings’ health battled the pain of her deferred dreams, and Ezinne learned to smile through both. Years passed, and Ezinne became the family’s pillar. She paid for Chidi’s university, Nkechi’s nursing school, and Obi’s art supplies. Her hands, once soft from turning pages, grew calloused from work, but her heart stayed soft. At family gatherings, relatives praised her: “Ezinne, the backbone of the Okoyes!” She basked in their pride, even as it stung. The first daughter was a title, a crown, but it was heavy, forged from missed chances and silent tears. One evening, at twenty-five, Ezinne sat under the same mango tree where she was born. Obi, now a teenager, sketched beside her, his pencil scratching out a portrait of her face. “You’re my hero, Sis,” he said, his voice quiet. Ezinne’s eyes welled up. The joy of being needed, of being loved, was a fire that warmed her soul. But the pain—of dreams delayed, of a life shaped by others’ needs—lingered like smoke. She hugged Obi, her heart a battlefield of love and loss. Ezinne knew she’d carry both forever. The joy of being the first daughter was in the laughter of her siblings, the pride in her mother’s eyes, the strength she found in herself. The pain was in the dreams she shelved, the nights she cried alone, the weight of a crown she never chose. But under that mango tree, with Obi’s sketch in her hands, she realized something: she was not just their bridge or their backbone. She was Ezinne, God’s gift, and she would find a way to claim her own joy, even if it meant redefining what it meant to be the first daughter.

Other insights from Chidinma Emilia