Finding Your One Story

Every mother on the block loved me but secretly hoped that their children, especially their daughters didn't become like me - rebellious, daring, and useless at chores. I was smart, funny, skinny, playful, respectful, and quite popular because no one in all of Lagos Island could dance awilo the way I did.

I grew up in a public-domain type of house - we shared utilities with our neighbors. We had just one restroom, one bathroom, one kitchen, one backyard for over 8 families to use. The average family size was 5 - a mom, a dad, and three kids. But they were never really average. There was usually an aunt, uncle, or some cousins over. Some families had about 6 kids with another baby on the way. No matter the size of your family, everyone seemed to live together in peace and harmony.

In my family, it was my mom, my great-grandma, a different relative per time, and I. My mom was and is still a neat freak - no matter how clean your house was, it probably was still dirty in my mom's eyes. We'd come back home after visiting someone and her bone of contention is why there are cobwebs at the back of their sitting-room door. She loves chores - washing, cooking, ironing, rearranging, scrubbing the floor, cleaning cobwebs. If she was bored, she'd clean. If she was happy, she'd clean and sing loudly. If she was sad, she'd clean and woe betides whoever steps on the floor she just washed. If we were broke, she'd clean for more money. Chores seem to be a solution to many things.

That same woman raised me - I have flagella for hands. I can't move them to do any hardcore chores. Do I sweep? Yes. Make my bed? Yes. Cook? Sometimes. Do my laundry? Never. Wash floors? Never. Iron? I'd rather not go anywhere.

I remember my aunties telling my mom that she was spoiling me rotten. That I would be a useless adult and would grow up unable to keep a man. The neighbors too said it, especially Iya Bisi with four baby daddies. My great-grandmother used to tell them to leave my mom alone. That I was a good kid and that was more important than all these things.

My mom worked 4 jobs when we lived at the face-me-I-face-you. She would clean offices in the early hours of the morning, collect her daily wage and go to her second job. Her second job was in the heart of Idumota where she sold yam, eggs, custard, oats, beans, plantain, and noodles to the traders in the market. Once it was 2 PM, the food would have finished and she would resume her third job as an auxiliary nurse in a small clinic. And when she got home at 7 or 8 PM, she'd resume her last job at the back of the house till 10/11 PM. She cooked and sold food at night too because that part of Lagos never slept and they rarely cooked too. As Ramadan would approach, she'd change the tactic of the food because they were many Muslims in the area. She'd go buy fruits to sell and she'd made Moi-moi for people breaking their fast in the evening.

She would do all these and do all the chores. Did I help? I tried but she was never satisfied with my output. So I started to help in other ways - bookkeeping, letting her know about a new boss on the block. I started telling people about my mother's yam and eggs - how it was the best in Lagos. I started helping her do delivery. I helped with the inventory. Every night, my mother and I would sit on our creaky bed in our tiny apartment and count the cash we made for the day. We'd make plans with it and put it under the mattress and sleep. My mom trusted me with her many businesses and her money.

She didn't see why I should also be involved in the chores. I remember the one time I tried to help her peel yams because the one she had made was almost sold out and the day was still young. She came to me, laughed, and said the knife looked weird in my hand. That she'd rather I go calm people down, especially those who ordered their food already. So I remember that these adults would huddle around my mom's kiosk and listen to me share stories of what was happening in school and the recent classic movie I'd just seen at my dad's house. My mother would come out to the backyard to see the mob that was ready to stone her laugh at my jokes and ask me questions about the kind of life we lived.

As I grew, I found strength in other things. My mom and I had an unspoken rule in the house of each other's duties. I would introduce her to new things and trends and she'd cook me food, watch me enjoy reading, listen to my stories, and watch me help younger children with their homework. There was always a reason for praise every time she came to my school even when she shipped me off to the boarding house. Between you and I, I think one of the reasons she sent me to a boarding school was so I could learn how to do some chores. She knew I had a mind of my own but she wanted me to also be able to take care of myself.

Many people said different things about me and the way she was raising me but she did what she had to do. She didn't raise my other siblings this way. It was just me; the flagella-handed daughter God had given her 6 years after she promised herself she was done with kids. Now when I go back to my family house, the conversation is never about how I don't do chores or how I set a bad example for the other girl-children in the family. It is always about how they knew I was different and would do greater things. The question I get asked is how I am building a career and still involved in my family so much. The conversations are around how my mother still helps me today and how I take care of her. Somehow down the lane, the people caught up to the story that mattered.

The most important story here, however, is the one my mom kept telling herself. She told herself that story over and over again - that I wasn't useless, I just had other ways to be useful. She decided that doing well in school, being a good kid, being a kid involved in how she ran her business was more than useful. And she let me be.

Did she get mad at me? A lot. My shoes and clothes would be all over the place. One time, I almost burnt down the house because I was trying to help. She would have to announce and announce if she was bringing a visitor home because there was no assurance that I hadn't scattered everything.

But did her story change? No. She would yell at me, scold me and sometimes even spank me but after all these, she'll toss the inventory book to me. As I cried and cleaned my eyes after a beating, she would bring me food and juice on a tray.

If you don't believe in your story, it would be hard to get people to believe it. For every storyteller reading this, find your one story. That one forms the basis of the other stories. Build that one story. Tell it to yourself as much as you can. Then start to show others.

P.S: Tomorrow on Twitter, we are telling #lostintech stories. These are stories of non-techies in tech and how they navigated their first few weeks on the job. You can set a reminder here .