THE RAISING CANE
LESSONS FROM MY DAD AND MUM: THE BIRTH OF VOLTRON F – DEFENDER OF THE UNIVERSE
One of my most unforgettable childhood memories stars none other than… my dad, in a moment so heroic it might as well have had theme music. It was the day he stood up to a known neighborhood tyrant—and in doing so, unlocked my transformation into Voltron F: Defender of the Universe (and abused women).
Our neighborhood was a quiet, “don’t-ask-don’t-tell” sort of place. Behind well-kept hedges and celebrity sightings (Sir Victor Uwaifo’s musical-horned Citroën was a regular), secrets festered like mold in a forgotten Tupperware. One of them was that Mr. Next Door was a serial wife-beater. His stunning, elegant wife would often emerge with dark sunglasses that tried—but failed—to hide the pain behind them. Everyone knew, but nobody said a word.
Until that night.
She came tearing through our gate like a woman in a Nollywood drama—robe torn, hair wild, one eye bloodshot, screaming, “Help me! He’s going to kill me!”
We were having dinner.
Mum swept into action, comforting her. Dad, calmly chewing his last bite, stood up and headed for the door.
Seconds later, the beast himself stormed in, panting like a poorly-trained Doberman: “Where is she?!”
And then… my dad transformed.
He looked him dead in the eye and said, “Do not take another step, Mr. X. She is in my house. She is my guest. And while she is here, you will not lay a hand on her.”
Boom.
The man—suddenly deflated—turned around and walked away like a balloon someone had accidentally sat on. From that moment, my dad went from being just “Dad” to being a capeless superhero in my eyes. That day, a lifelong lesson was etched in my heart: never be afraid to confront injustice, especially when no one else will.
A few weeks later, that family moved out. Peace returned. But something had changed forever—I had caught the justice bug, and Voltron F had been born. And she had come to stay, even after Dad passed away almost twenty years ago.
THE ‘KOBOKO’ CHRONICLES: HOW I SURVIVED NIGERIAN MOTHERHOOD (AND LIVED TO TELL THE TALE)
Let’s just say this upfront: growing up in my house was… character-building.
I’m talking koboko-level character building. That’s right—the infamous braided horsewhip that left artistic welts on your skin and “discipline” in your soul.
I wasn’t exactly a wild child. More like thoughtful, introverted, dreamy… but in a house where obedience trumped introspection, I was a bit of a square peg. My brother (a cool seven years older and my personal hero) dubbed me “Why, Dad, Why?” because of my constant questions. Meanwhile, my extroverted sister was doing Beyoncé impressions in the living room. Guess who got the whoopings?
Yep. Me.
My mum? A no-nonsense disciplinarian with the spirit of a drill sergeant and the hands of a professional slapper. But her iron resolve didn’t come from nowhere. You see, my grandmother was a trailblazer: the first woman to preach on a pulpit in her region, a missionary-school escapee who defied ancestral obligations to serve the gods, and instead served God. She later ran a finishing school for girls in Ekiti, raising generations of well-trained, impeccably-mannered young women.
Unfortunately for me, my mum took that legacy and went full throttle. And I? I became her project.
Grinding peppers on a stone mill (despite having a blender), re-washing entire sinks of dishes because of a rogue oil streak, setting tables like we were hosting Buckingham Palace… this was daily life. Our househelp could only help after I had done the work—and done it perfectly.
When I finally mastered the art of hostessing and cooking, I dared to suggest I should also get to wear nail polish like Mrs. So-and-So’s daughter—my apparent rival in all things domestic. Mum looked me dead in the eye and said: “She’s six years older than you.”
Wait… wasn’t she my age last week?
MY PLANS FOR SWEET REVENGE (A.K.A. FAKE DRAMATIC DISAPPEARANCE)
At 14, I had enough. I plotted my teenage rebellion: not actual suicide (I was too chicken for that), but a fake disappearance—complete with a sad note and a strategic hiding spot. The goal? Make her miss me. Real Shakespearean levels of melodrama.
Sadly, my acting career never took off. The closest I came was a teary monologue: “Why do you hate me so much? I know you’re not my real mother!” (Cue dramatic pause.)
To which she calmly replied: “Well, if I’m not your mother, then your real one must not want you.”
Game. Set. Match.
THE PLOT TWIST: BEST FRIEND, MENTOR, NO-FILTER CHAMPION
Fast-forward a few decades and my once-hardcore mum became my greatest cheerleader.
She wasn’t the kind of grandma to move in and bathe your baby while humming lullabies. Nope. When I had my first child, nurses asked, “Where’s your mum?” I just smiled. She did visit, stayed for two weeks (a record!) and even found me Nigeria’s Mary Poppins who was with me for years later.
Over time, she mellowed. Gave me space to raise my own kids differently—no koboko, no comparisons, no cooking competitions. And yes, all the kids (boys included) share chores. I still have the yam-pounding skills, though. Some habits die hard.
In 2024, at 88, she passed away. And while I miss her deeply, I now see everything she was trying to build: a woman of grit, grace, and gumption. Her lessons shaped me—and they still guide how I parent today.
ABOUT THIS BLOG
These are stories from my past—hilarious, heartbreaking, and healing—about growing up Nigerian, the lessons my parents taught me (sometimes with koboko!), and how those lessons are shaping the way I raise my own kids today. Expect laughter, occasional tears, and plenty of “Did that really happen?!” moments.
Welcome to the journey.
