I want to believe I’m not selfish, I just want to live for myself.
…
There is nothing I hate more than being my parents’ first child. I love them. I truly do. But I hate my position in the family.
As the firstborn, I was crowned with expectations, one that felt like a heavy shackle around my spirit. My parents never sang their dreams for me like the lyrics of a song, but I heard them all the same, rumbling in the moments when their eyes met mine. Those unspoken hopes were the ghosts that haunted my nights, never letting me forget the knot of dependability that came with being the first child.
I dream, too, of course. I dream of escaping this poverty, of stepping out of the confines of our small world. But my dreams are different. I want to live for myself, not just for the family. The struggle is constant, the push and pull between duty and desire. It’s like a river that flows within me, sometimes calm, sometimes raging, but always there, cutting deep channels into who I am.
The worst part of it all is having three younger siblings who seem to move on with their lives based on the shape of mine. It’s a strange thing, to be both a path and a person. It’s all well and good to be a role model. But I detest it. There is a certain resentment that boils within me, not towards them, but towards the role I’ve been forced to play.
When I was in university, my weekends weren’t spent in the joy and freedom that should come with being young and away from home. Instead, I returned home during weekends to sell corn. That task, that seemingly small obligation, burned me from the inside.
“You know you’re the first child,” my father said. “The son for the matter. You must help sell corn during the weekends to cater for the burden of your weekly upkeep money.”
The thought of it still makes my blood boil — those long, hot days at the roadside stall while my peers revelled in the pleasures of school life. I was forced to duty, and in doing so, I missed out on the simple joys that others took for granted: going to a hall party, clubbing, or just simply doing things of my own.
And then, my father died. And everything fell apart.
My role as the first child was no longer just an expectation — it became a reality, a mantle I couldn’t cast off. The nights became colder, and the cold settled in my bones and in my soul. I would lie in bed, feeling the warmth of my body curl around itself for comfort, and tears would drip down my face in the dark. There was no privacy, no sanctuary from the demands placed upon me. It felt like the freedom I once dreamt was slipping, disappearing with smoke in the wind. I had no life. At least, not the life that young people usually have.
Instead, I was thrust into a role I never asked for, a life dictated by the hopes of others.
In the Ghanaian traditional system, when a man dies, the widow is expected to do nothing. Everything, such as touching money, greeting visitors, cooking, and more depend on the relatives.
Here, it was me, as my mum had little to no relatives.
Every decision needed my approval. Every burden fell on my shoulders. You would find me calling burial homes for coffins and planning our daily meals to feed the guests and us in the house. My siblings were too young to fend for themselves. So, I became the head of the house, a position I neither wanted nor was prepared for.
The banter with the guests who came to see my mother was another thorn in my side. These were people I didn’t know on a personal level, and there was no need to converse with them. Yet, I was forced to engage, to perform the role of the dutiful child.
The hardest part, the part that still stings like a fresh wound, was dealing with my father’s family members. They were a source of constant pain, a spike that pierced my side with every encounter. Their actions didn’t just sting — they were peppers in my eyes, burning and searing, but I held my eyes open, refusing to let the pain blind me.
I remember the first day my dad died. We were accused of being the reason for his death.
“Linda and her children killed Emmanuel,” as they put it.
It was so hurtful to be blamed for the death of someone you love. Someone you love deeply. Someone who was your pillar.
There were continuous bits of pepper: the thrashing of my dad’s clothes (could have served as a memory), the fact that the family never supported us in the funeral fees and the indirect insults during meetings. I felt my self-esteem crash. My father was dead, and in his absence, it felt so unjustifiable to think of myself.
But I needed to, more than ever. I needed to be self-centred. I’ve never had my freedom, never known what it’s like to be a teenager, to experience the reckless abandonment of youth. My life has always been about duty, about living for others, about fulfilling roles and instructions with no sense of care for my privacy.
One of the things that clearly made me wish to be anyone but myself was the supposed words of “comfort” people threw at me after the funeral.
“Now, you’re the man of the house. Act like one and take care of your mother and your siblings,” they said, as if I could suddenly grow into the shoes left behind by my father.
“What about me?” I didn’t ask.
I needed protection, too. I was still so young, still trying to figure out who I was, let alone who I was supposed to be for them. Wasn’t I too young to be anyone’s protector? How could I be strong enough for my family when I hadn’t even learned to be strong for myself? I wasn’t done with school. I could barely decide for myself. Yet, somehow, every important decision had been left to me. Even the final word was mine.
The small request started as a favour and continued as a fixture. My mom’s requests began as those small drops — little things I could do here and there, small acts of assistance that didn’t seem too burdensome. She would ask for help to pay the electricity bill, a percentage for the fees of my younger siblings, the water bill, buying household items and some upkeep money. I would help out when I could, offering a hand whenever she needed. But those drops slowly gathered, forming into something much larger, much heavier, until I found myself fully submerged in a role I had no desire to be in.
What started as small favours grew into a full-fledged “daddy” role. I became the one reading my younger siblings’ exam reports, the one giving out advice on how to improve, how to do better next time, and I would caution them on certain things, as well as on behaving right and taking their studies seriously.
At first, it was satisfying. There was a quiet pleasure in being needed, in doing something that felt consequential. But as the requests multiplied, so did the weight of responsibility. What I had taken on was no longer a string of tasks. It became a metamorphosis — a slow turning from who I had been, uncomfortably, into who I was expected to be.
Post-national service took a toll on my mind. After earning my bachelor’s degree, I completed a mandatory year of national service (a civic programme in Ghana that requires graduates to work in public or private institutions as a contribution to national development). I found myself standing in the wilderness of uncertainty. I wanted nothing more than to rest for three months, to pause and find my purpose, to discover what my goals were in this life. But I was lost, and I had no clear vision of who I wanted to be, no idea which career path to take, and no sense of what kinds of jobs I should even apply for.
Nevertheless, my mom said a lot without saying much at all. Her silence was filled with expectations, of helping, being her financial partner. And, though she never voiced them outright, I heard them loud and clear. My siblings, too, were looking at me. Not directly, but from below, as if I were a pillar they depended on. Even if they didn’t quite realise it, I was to be their guardian.
My younger sister had just completed senior high school, and she needed to go to university. However, financial challenges were constant. So, she stayed home for two years, taking up job after job while I finished my own studies and completed my national service. I had the privilege of going straight to university after senior high because my dad took out a loan. I was able to work by selling corn to help make ends meet.
But when my sister finally saved enough to start school, the “enough” wasn’t really enough. I took up a job that didn’t pay well, but I never considered other options. It was the first offer I got, and the first I took. My salary was thinly spread. A portion went to my sister for her expenses, some to my mom for upkeep, and more to pay the electricity and water bills. Whatever was left was for the things I wanted, which often went to the household, too.
I despised the way I lived with them. Every small indulgence came with a price. If I bought drinks or sweets for myself, it meant sharing them. If I went out to a restaurant, it meant bringing something back for everyone. If I bought clothes, it meant I had to buy for them too. The most suffocating moments were during my breaks from work or the days I stayed home. That meant I must give them money for milk and bread for breakfast. If I decided to fry eggs for myself, I had to share them with my three siblings and my mother. If I didn’t want to share, I had to buy for everyone.
It’s a constant struggle between duty and self, between the expectations that weighed me down and the dreams that felt ever more distant. And in this tug of war, I felt myself slipping, losing sight of my youth.
I want to go for a postgraduate programme in Ghana, but I have no source of financing to support my education. I can’t even afford application fees or the exchange rates to even consider schools outside of Ghana. My mom keeps pushing my plans aside, insisting that I wait until my younger sister finishes school.
During the nights, the only time I had to myself, the only moment of privacy in a life that often felt too crowded, I would sit outside and look up into the sky. Inside the house, they were absorbed in Indian soap operas, and there was nothing I could do with the TV. So, I retreated to the calmness of the evening, where the stillness sent a wave of quiet over me.
The stars and moon, in their distant isolation, looked down upon me, offering a strange kind of comfort, as if they were speaking softly that it was all going to be over someday. Maybe if I had had a better job with a higher salary, I wouldn’t have felt this wave within me. Maybe if I had been born into another family, I wouldn’t have had to carry this weight. I longed to live for myself. I wanted to rent a place of my own, to have my own space where I could breathe without the constant pull of others.
…
In my next life, I want to come back as the last child of a wealthy family. ♦
Bright Aboagye counts Aja Monet and Akwaeke Emezi amongst his influences. He dreams of becoming a surrealist blues poet, writer, and restaurant entrepreneur. Bright hopes that his work inspires and gives hope to all who engages with it. He is currently looking for a publisher for his nonfiction memoir-in-essays manuscript tentatively titled I want to cry blood but my veins refuse, which approaches his search for a purpose.
