Searching for Belonging: A Journey Through Rejection and Resilience

It all began with a disagreement over food—sweet potatoes, to be precise—that I was removing from my grandmother Idah’s garden. What should have been a simple household matter quickly escalated into a heated confrontation. Idah lashed out, not only at me but at my mother, claiming that this was not our home and insisting that I leave. Her words were sharp and hurtful, cutting through whatever sense of belonging I had.

 

In the heat of the moment, I pleaded with her. “If I’ve offended you in any way, please forgive me,” I said, hoping to calm the storm. But my grandmother’s anger would not be quelled.

 

Desperate for clarity and resolution, I turned to my father’s brother, the man who, by tradition, should assume the role of my father after my dad’s passing. “If this is not my home,” I asked him, “please tell me where I belong. Write to that place so I can go.” To my dismay, he dismissed my plea. Instead, he told me to return to my maternal home, leaving the responsibility of resolving the matter to someone else.

 

With no other options, I approached my maternal uncle, explaining everything that had transpired. Rather than intervening directly, he advised me to take the matter to the Human Rights Commission or the police. Unfortunately, it was Christmas period, and the offices were closed. Once again, I found myself back at home, still grappling with the conflict.

 

The tension with my grandmother boiled over into further quarrels, and in the chaos, I accidentally set fire to my younger uncle’s house. That incident was the final straw. The family, already at odds with me, united in their anger. They beat me relentlessly, leaving me battered and broken. It was only through the intervention of a kind stranger, an onlooker, that my life was spared. This stranger took me to the police, but even there, justice seemed elusive. The police released me on medical grounds, and the case was never pursued.

 

Amid all this, my late father’s brother, Charles, uttered chilling words: “We would rather kill you before you kill us.” Those words have haunted me ever since.

 

Now, I find myself back in my maternal home in Ogom, seeking refuge. But even here, the help I hoped for is absent. My uncles show little interest in addressing the issue or helping me navigate this painful chapter of my life. I feel abandoned and alone.

 

My mother, a single parent to five children by different fathers, has her own struggles. She has left us, eloping with another man and leaving me and my siblings to fend for ourselves. With no stable family support, I have had to confront life’s challenges alone.

 

When I tried to build a new life with my wife, bringing her to live with me, the hostility persisted. No one welcomed her. The indifference and lack of support became too much, and she eventually left, returning to her own family.

 

For the past five years, I have been stuck in this painful limbo, struggling to make sense of my life. My paternal grandfather, Abonga, who should have been my guardian and protector, has remained distant and disinterested. The unresolved conflicts and rejection continue to weigh heavily on me. I feel lost, with no one to lean on.

 

Today, I stand at a crossroads, unsure of what steps to take. The pain of rejection and the burden of loneliness have shaped my journey, but I hold on to a faint hope that someday, I will find a path forward—a way to heal, rebuild, and finally find a place where I belong.

 

The image used is AI generated