As the lastborn in a family of six children, I often faced negative stereotypes. A lot my friends believed I lived a pampered life with no worries. Some even said I never encountered any problems in my life, that everything was given to me.
One afternoon, in the hot month of October, I was sitting on the bench below the cassava tree in our compound, enjoying a piece of sugarcane. My eyelids were growing heavy when I heard Miandabu and Nathalie coming to my direction.
“You’re the one to cook in the evening!” Nathalie shouted in a spoiled manner.
”That does not change the fact that you only boiled tea water in the morning!”
They didn’t notice me. They rarely involved me in their arguments, and I rarely analyzed their problems. They had their daily routines and I had mine. I was thirteen years old and tried to think as little about what people assumed of me.
I went into the kitchen without looking where I was stepping. My leg hit the bucket and water spilled all over the floor. Nathalie looked at me with anger on her face. I thought she was going to shout or give me a hard slap on my face. My stomach tightened as I waited for her response. I felt sure I was going to be punished for my carelessness.
“You need to be careful coming into kitchen next time, Benjamin.”
If it had been Miandabu, she’d have told her to mop up the spilled water, but me? I just got a warning and gentle pat on the head.
When there was little or no food at home, my siblings always made sure to try all their means, so I could have something to eat. They often did this at their own expense. Sometimes, when we’d slaughter chicken at home, I was given the best piece of meat. I also received the better hand me downs, the ones without stains.
Everything seemed normal. I felt I was the only one being favored positively. If I complained about not being involved in something, my older brother, Alex, would tease me. “You’re the last born, so sit back and relax while we work on your behalf.”
He was joking, but there was a pride behind it too. Whenever I got sick, everyone in the house panicked. Alex would run into a sweat to get to drugstore for me, and Nathalie slept next to me to check on my temperature. Even Julie would stand by my bedside awkwardly and ask if I needed anything.
Every time I went outside our compound’s wall fence without telling anybody where I went, they become worried. They would start looking and shouting for me. “Benjamin!” “Where are you, Benjamin?”
It showed up in small gestures too. A towel would be placed for me to step onto when I got out of the big metal bathing dish so I wouldn’t slip. A caring hand was placed on my shoulder when I tripped. My siblings listened patiently to my attempts at helping, then corrected me by demonstrating the right way, without every making me feel I’d done anything wrong. There was always someone watching to make sure I was safe. Looking back now, I realize that what I once thought was favoritism was really unconditional love.
There was downside, though. Having older siblings meant I occasionally got left out and was told, “You’re too young to comprehend.”
I often wanted to stay up longer to watch nighttime television shows with my siblings. But I was sent to bed early with a smile while they stayed longer. And by the time I woke in the middle of the night, the television show was over, and they were on their way to sleep.
Back then, I did not comprehend why that frustrated me. I was at the bottom of the hierarchy among my siblings and I wanted to be taken seriously, I wanted to partake in family discussions, help with home chores, and argue like Miandabu and Nathalie. Unfortunately, my older siblings took me as someone who just sat and received things on a silver platter without doing any chores just because I was the baby of the house.
It was the rainy season, an evening in November, and it was hailing onto our old and leaking roof, drowning out almost every other sound. I was twelve years old. The storm had come so suddenly that the electricity went off straight away, leaving the house was in darkness. The rains water started soaking out the JVC radio and our Philips black and white television. Water pooled on the floor.
My siblings took charge. They scattered buckets and dishes around the house, below the leaking roof, but they filled up fast. My siblings ran around, and they were constantly being tapped by falling rainwater. They moved clothes from the wet areas, moved household items to safer areas, and kept emptying buckets whenever they got full.
I rushed trying to grab a small black clothes suitcase. But Julie saw me and she was faster and grab it. “You sit over there.” She pointed to the dry sofa against the wall. A dry blanket was on it. “We’ve got this.”
Below the war blanket I watched my siblings walking about the house below the old kerosene lamp. I can still recall their soaked, tired faces in that miserable yellow light. No one stopped working. My brother Alex climbed up on the roof with plastic sheets to try and cover the worst leaks. My sisters moved buckets and dishes and wrung out rags.
I really wanted to help out, hand over plastic sheets to my brother on the roof but I was told to sit and wait. I learned watching them doing all sorts of stuff, I picked up their techniques. Those were my first lessons in proving myself in patience, responsibility and problem solving.
I felt left out at the time. Now looking back, I realize something different. They weren’t leaving me out. They were protecting me. They fretted over the leaky roof. The waterlogged furniture, the rain pouring into the house, but their fret was that I would be warm and dry and safe.
I was not just protected, but being chosen for protection.
As the last born, I was often known to be fragile by people, but I didn’t feel that way. I received the advantage of my siblings’ experience. I learned from their errors.
I felt special but also kind of excluded. I liked the care but I also wanted to gain my place rather than being protected from challenges. Over time, I comprehended that pampering didn’t mean I was unable to do things. It meant I had the privilege of growing up into the responsibility of my family.
I understand the importance of those years now. Being the youngest, I learned empathy and resilience and observation skills that I carry into adulthood.
After my dad died, I did not have only my mum to look up to, and ask for advice. I had my brothers and sisters to look up to as well. They mentored me and were there to guide me.
Even when I did not fully comprehend it, I felt it inside me, like when Nathalie gave the sausage roll at the community play park. When Julie would have walked me on the traffic side of the road when we went to church or when Andrew would have waited for me at the gate until I safely inside. The baby of the family, bathed in love, with patience and purpose. The old good days taught me that the blessing wasn’t in being spoilt.
