Rivalry

 

My immediate older brother and I were almost identical as little children. We were often mistaken for twins: same height, same skin tone, same complexion—same “everything.” The difference was that he was far smarter, and there was a noticeable age gap between us.

He attracted a lot of attention. He was the light, and I was the shadow. My parents loved him dearly and paid little attention to me. I admired my brother immensely and copied everything he did. He inspired me; I wanted to be like him. Ironically, we fought a lot—over everything and anything. We could hardly have a peaceful conversation.

We competed over everything: who hugged our mother last at night and first in the morning, who unboxed new items in the house, who walked faster, who ate and drank more, who owned the brightest flashlight in the house. Naturally, he always had the upper hand.

I did not resent him, nor did I feel intimidated. He didn’t ask for the talents and abilities he had. He didn’t beg to be loved more than I was—so why should I hold a grudge against him? I looked up to him and learned a lot from him, until life took us on separate paths.

The people you resent because they seem better than you are often walking roadmaps showing you how to become a better version of yourself. Why not change your narrative and perspective? Those you resent will not be in your life forever. Adjust your mental attitude, learn what you can, and move on. Not everyone is born with a silver spoon—but whatever your spoon is made of, it is unique. Learn from exemplary lifestyles, stay open, but remain true to yourself and your identity.

As a child, I attracted a lot of trouble. I looked innocent and fragile, so my classmates preyed on me. In kindergarten, I wasn’t intimidated by anyone. I reported bullies quickly to my teachers, and in their absence, my fingers went straight to the face or neck of anyone who intimidated me. Fear spread fast. They kept their distance and switched to verbal attacks. I was equal to the task—I dished out sharp words.

I was nicknamed Pencil Mouth because although my lips were small, my mouth was sharp.

My eldest brother fueled my audacity by reading to me the part of the Bible where Moses said, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” I never accepted the myth that silence is the best response to fools. “Silence is golden, speech is silver”—I chose silver over gold.

I single-handedly took on all my bullies with my mouth until they decided to deal with me after school as a united group. My school was close to home. Near closing time, I would throw my bag out the window and tell my teacher, “I’m going to pee,” then disappear. 

On days that didn’t work and I had to close with everyone, I sprinted home with a mob of children chasing me. Sometimes I ran into random shops and reported to the owners.

The woman meant to pick me up—Aunt Favour—began to wonder why I never waited for her. When she found out, the school authorities were notified, and I had temporary peace.

Seventy percent of my classmates planned to attack me on our graduation eve—both those I offended and those offended because I offended their friends. I got wind of the plot and skipped my own graduation. My brother collected my awards and my result.

Entering primary school, I was relieved not to be in the same school anymore. I was still the smallest and youngest in my class. I vividly remember my Primary 1 teacher’s face, though I’ve forgotten her name. The first two terms were peaceful until I became well known. The children learned quickly that I was no-nonsense and kept their distance.

When boys like girls as children, they often don’t know how to express it—especially when the girl is unfriendly—so they resort to frustration tactics just to get her attention. That’s how I began beating up boys. I punched, bit, and scratched them so badly that their parents showed up the next day. I was terrified. I often returned home with a dirty uniform, and my mother assumed I played too much.

When the parents saw it was a tiny, fragile, innocent-looking girl who beat their sons, they dropped the matter. To this day, my mother still doesn’t know I fought in primary school. I stopped fighting boys in JSS2 when I stopped behaving like a tomboy and became aware of my body development. Besides, my older brother’s classroom was nearby—no one wanted trouble.

Sometimes I was framed for things I didn’t do simply because I boldly wrote down the names of noise makers in class. The stress affected me so deeply that I sometimes abstained from food. My brother taught me not to worry.

“Hakunamatata,” (No worries) he would say.

Whenever my hand rested under my chin, he would come by and say, “Hakunamatata.” I watched how he laughed even when he was in serious trouble, and I adopted that same mindset. He dragged me into adventurous, forbidden situations, fully aware of the consequences, and still said, “Hakunamatata.” We visited friends we weren’t supposed to visit.

 Consequences followed—but still, "Hakunamatata."

Even today, we still fight—and I don’t apologize. "Hakunamatata." I simply show up at his place unannounced. No security restrictions; my face is proof enough. He opens the door, and I act like nothing happened. I am entitled to his life as his younger sister. I sit down and eat his food.

I always want him to be better than me because I want someone to look up to. I want to be taught, inspired, and upgraded whenever we part ways. Two people can complement each other. I don’t dwell on his wrongs or recount his misdeeds. He can hurt me, but he can never offend me—because I want us to be "One Big Happy Family."

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