I grew up in an orphanage. What I remember most was the noise. Children running, laughing, fighting, crying. It was never quiet. At night, I would lie on my bunk bed, staring at the slow ceiling fan, and wonder what life would feel like in a real home.
It was one Sunday when the matron beckoned me to her office. She had a serious tone in her voice although her face was beaming. "Chioma," she uttered, "you have been selected by a family."
I was in shock. I, a twelve-year-old, skinny and timid, had stayed there from the age of three. The idea of departure was very scary and thrilling at the same time.
That moment was my first encounter with the Adeyemis.
Mr. Adeyemi was a tall man with glasses. He wasn’t really a person of smiles. However, his wife was. She was the one who gave me her hand on the very first day and said, “You are going to be happy with us.”
Their house was a quiet one and was very clean. Actually, it was too clean. My room consisted of white sheets, a desk, and a lamp. Everything seemed to be perfect, but still, it didn’t give me the feeling of being mine.
I wanted them to like me, therefore, I tried to be good. I sat straight at the table, and used a fork and a knife. Also, I said “yes ma” and “yes sir.” Furthermore, I kept my room tidy.
But inside, I was restless.
The Adeyemis had rules for everything. No playing outside unless it was planned. Homework done the moment I got home. Even my laugh seemed too loud for Mr. Adeyemi. His look could silence me in a second.
One evening, I drew a flower on my wall with a crayon. Small, simple, nothing big. Mrs. Adeyemi found it. Her smile disappeared.
“Chioma,” she said sharply, “good children don’t destroy things.”
I wanted to tell her it wasn’t destruction, it was decoration. But I said nothing.
After that, they observed my actions in a more detailed and careful manner. They not only loaded my schedule with piano lessons, ballet, and speech classes but also wanted me to be "presentable" and "upscale". I had done everything they asked, still, I felt like I was locked. As if it was a bird in a cage.
I was outwardly perfect, silent and well-behaved. But inside, I hadn't changed from the naughty and bored little girl. I was filling pages with sketches. I was singing quietly to myself when no one was around.
When I turned seventeen, it was as if a switch had been flipped and everything shifted.
It was a rainy afternoon. While I was looking for a sweater I found my adoption file in a thin folder in my drawer. There was a photo of a woman with big eyes and an open smile in the file.
Her name: Ngozi Nwosu.
She was my mother. The document said she had been an artist. A painter. She must have lived the life of a bohemian in the studio and led a hustling life. She had me too young, was too poor to take care of me, so she left me at the orphanage.
I looked at her photo avery long time. She resembled me. Suddenly, I saw the light.My liking for drawing, my need to shout with joy, my hunger for liberty it was all from her.
That night, I asked Mrs. Adeyemi why she never told me. She sighed.
“We wanted to save you from becoming like her,” she said. “We gave you everything she couldn’t.”
“But you never asked me what I wanted,” I whispered.
She didn’t reply.
From then on, I stopped hiding. I drew openly. I sang in my room. Sometimes I snuck out and painted murals on old walls. For the first time, I felt alive.
The Adeyemis weren’t happy. Mr. Adeyemi scolded me often. “You’re wasting your future,” he said. “Art is nothing.”
But I didn’t care anymore.
When I turned eighteen, I applied to art school in secret. I got in. I will never forget their faces when I showed them the letter.
“This is not the life we prepared for you,” Mr. Adeyemi said.
“I know,” I told him. “But it’s mine.”
The day I left, I carried one small suitcase. At the door, Mrs. Adeyemi hugged me tightly. For a moment, she smiled again.
“I only hope you’ll be happy,” she said.
“I think I will,” I answered, holding my sketchbook close.
Life wasn’t easy after that. Art school was tough. Some days I had no money for supplies. Some nights I felt lonely. But every time I picked up a pencil or brush, I felt closer to my mother. I imagined her smiling, telling me not to give up.
Now, when I look back, I know something for sure. People can shape you. They can guide you. But they can’t erase who you are inside.
Nurture builds the walls. Nature finds the cracks.
And for me, nature always led me back to art. To freedom.
This story was carefully written. I enjoyed every bit of it. Well-done