Colour Blind (2)

It’s interesting to note that this drama started way back but nobody heard or said anything when I held the shorter end of the stick. The table turned and everyone suddenly had an opinion.

Marcus and I had just started dating when I first met his mum. It was more of a chance meeting and I knew from that first moment that she didn’t quite like me. Her body language spoke volumes but I didn’t take it to heart. Since I wasn’t joined in the hip to her son, I could always walk away if she posed too much wahala.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough time to consider that option before I landed right inside her pot of soup.

I became pregnant.

She didn’t spare me her acidic thoughts at all. She said she knew I was trouble right from the moment she saw me and that I wanted to trap her son with pregnancy.

According to her, people like me are promiscuous leeches.

The news of my pregnancy spread faster than wildfire because my boyfriend’s mother lived and worked right on campus where we schooled and she made it her business to smear me all over the place.

“Hoo-ha Part 2” started when I gave birth and my son came out “as white as wool”.

Ah, what didn’t I hear?

She called me a slut and my son, a bastard because of his extremely fair complexion.

Hello, I’m biracial so what do you expect?

She also said my son didn’t look like her other grandchildren (Marcus’ nephews and, oh wait, I eventually found out that Marcus already had a kid), so he could not be her son’s.

When I insisted that Marcus was the father, she demanded proof of paternity. Thank God, DNA proved her wrong but she rejected the result and my son. She insisted that she’d never accept him or be a part of his life because as far as she was concerned, he was “too white” to be her son’s child.

By the way, did I tell you that I also got to know that Marcus’ dad was biracial? Go figure!

Mr “you’re the giga in my byte” boyfriend didn’t do anything about it so I took my child and disappeared from their lives.

Now, after almost two decades of no contact, he tracked me down with a request.

His mum needed urgent bone marrow transplant but no donor in sight because they couldn’t find a match.

However, the hospital record of my son at birth (he was born at the university’s teaching hospital), indicated that he might be a match and they wanted him, my son, who was too white for his grandma, to get tested and (if he’s a match) be her donor.

Of course, I declined, and that was why the whole world wanted to crucify me.

Marcus’ sister, in her story, carefully edited important details. She conveniently painted me as the villain who disappeared with her brother’s child because of mere misunderstanding and now denying her mother another chance at life.

Instagram people called for my hide. Facebook said, “away with her”, and twitter savages had me for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I thought of taking to social media to tell my side of the story but changed my mind. I didn’t owe anyone any explanation and if Marcus’ sister thought that what she did would force my hand, she should think again.

Ponmile tried to persuade me to change the narrative by forgiving and forgetting. In my mind, I sent her to blazes, but she didn’t need to know. I told her, “not in a million chances.”

She abused me. She called me heady. I agreed.

My family swooped down on me. I managed to send some of them to blazes (in my mind, of course) but they were too many, they wouldn’t just let me be. In fact, the more I flung them, the more forces joined them to combat me.

Then came the begging and appealing.

Oh, they got tired of making demands? Social media didn’t deliver. I absorbed the insults and added weight. They got nothing on me. No shaking.

Marcus slid into my DM, wrote a long appeal that was expected to move me emotionally but every offensive word hurled at me on social media had contributed to my insensitivity.

I told him to tell his sister to undo what she did.

She owed social media the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

I told him that instead of painting me as the devil, she should have painted the real story and garner some pretentious pity party.

That might have worked.

But now, no name wey dem never call me so wetin remain wey dem wan do me? Let she who wan pai, pai.

After all, she ain’t young no more.

May heaven receive her “black” soul, amen.

My son waded in. Oh, my precious lil’ man. I tried to shield him from the brouhaha but social media surely dragged him in. What did I even expect? How did I think a teenager who had access to phone would not come across the posts?

He knew the story about his birth and his father’s absence in his life. Yes, I made sure I told him once he could learn and understand the concept of ABC.

I didn’t stop him from connecting with his dad, though. He just didn’t try.

He mentioned something about doing so when the time was right. I didn’t give a rat’s ass. Not my business.

I used to crave that when he was just born but not anymore.

I gave the excuse that I was not willing to risk his life donating bone marrow to some prejudiced woman.

Son told me it was his decision to make and his choice was to help his grandma.

I told him, “bullshit.”

Boy, don’t play with me. You na minor (he was close to but not yet 18), and I call those kinda shots.

Then, I got a text from him.

“Blessed are the merciful for they shall obtain mercy.”

I broke down. I melted. I cried.

The pain and hurt of many years washed over me like a torrent.

Left to me and by God, I was gonna deny that woman till the end because she first denied my son.

But he said no.

I guess God said no too.

Perhaps mercy also said no.

If I insisted, my son would resent me forever. I could not take that chance.

At that point, I honestly didn’t care what others thought of me. They already called me a monster anyway.

Not my son.

I could never bear to have my son think of me that way.

We spoke about it.

He told me he understood my actions and reactions perfectly.

He didn’t judge nor criticize me.

He even said he’d do whatever I wanted and that it would not change his opinion of me. Oh, my sweet boy.

Bhet na lie!

Somewhere deep down, he’d struggle with resenting and loving me at the same time.

I would never allow my son carry such burden.

I gave up. I gave in.

Go and help your grandma, son.

He got tested. He was a match.

He donated bone marrow to his grandma.

The transplant was succesful. No hitch. No pre-op/post-op complications.

No life lost. All glory to God.

My son finally connected with his paternal roots. Great turn of events.

Every child deserves the best of both worlds.

They tried to mend fences. Son’s grandma tried reaching out. Son’s aunt went on social media to do some damage control while still playing the victim card.

I was done with them.

I told them to maintain their lane and not get it twisted.

I did it for my son, not them.

Dey your dey make I dey mine.

My “too white” rejected son became the hero of his father’s house.

Talk about the rejected stone becoming the cornerstone.

That was enough compensation for me.

END.

© 2019 AyotundeElegbeleye

Jesus is LORD!

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