Replies: 4 - Views: 16
adej: 20/03/25 - 11:35:01
MY WICKED MOTHER
EPISODE 1
Hello, my name is Justina Ebaah, and this is my story. Its a story I havent shared often, but it has shaped me into who I am today.
I grew up in a lively village where life was simple yet full of energy. The sounds of neighbors chatting, children laughing, and chickens clucking were the back of my childhood. My parents loved me deeplyat least, thats how it felt to me and my sister. But looking back, I realize not everyone in our home felt the same warmth.
You see, my father had been married before. His first wife passed away, leaving him with three sons. When he remarried my mother, my stepbrothers came into our lives. But from the very beginning, they were treated differently.
My sister and I were pampered. We went to school every day, our uniforms neatly ironed, and our lunchboxes packed with food. But my stepbrothers? They didnt have those privileges. Instead of school, they were sent to the farm. Their days were spent under the scorching sun, planting yams or harvesting cassava, their hands calloused and their spirits worn down.
I didnt understand it as a child, but I could see the unfairness. One moment still stands out clearly. I was about eight years old, returning from school one afternoon. My mother had prepared a delicious lunch for my sister and mejollof rice with chicken. I couldnt wait to dig in.
As I stepped outside to call my sister, I saw my eldest stepbrother, Amand, sitting under the mango tree. He was covered in dust and sweat, his face pale and tired.
Amand, are you okay? I asked, walking up to him.
He gave me a weak smile and nodded. Im fine. Just resting before I head back to the farm.
I felt a pang of guilt. How could I enjoy my meal knowing he hadnt eaten all day? Without thinking, I ran inside, grabbed a portion of my lunch, and brought it to him.
Here, take this, I said, handing him the plate.
He hesitated, his eyes wide with surprise. Justina, Ma will be angry
EPISODE 1
Hello, my name is Justina Ebaah, and this is my story. Its a story I havent shared often, but it has shaped me into who I am today.
I grew up in a lively village where life was simple yet full of energy. The sounds of neighbors chatting, children laughing, and chickens clucking were the back of my childhood. My parents loved me deeplyat least, thats how it felt to me and my sister. But looking back, I realize not everyone in our home felt the same warmth.
You see, my father had been married before. His first wife passed away, leaving him with three sons. When he remarried my mother, my stepbrothers came into our lives. But from the very beginning, they were treated differently.
My sister and I were pampered. We went to school every day, our uniforms neatly ironed, and our lunchboxes packed with food. But my stepbrothers? They didnt have those privileges. Instead of school, they were sent to the farm. Their days were spent under the scorching sun, planting yams or harvesting cassava, their hands calloused and their spirits worn down.
I didnt understand it as a child, but I could see the unfairness. One moment still stands out clearly. I was about eight years old, returning from school one afternoon. My mother had prepared a delicious lunch for my sister and mejollof rice with chicken. I couldnt wait to dig in.
As I stepped outside to call my sister, I saw my eldest stepbrother, Amand, sitting under the mango tree. He was covered in dust and sweat, his face pale and tired.
Amand, are you okay? I asked, walking up to him.
He gave me a weak smile and nodded. Im fine. Just resting before I head back to the farm.
I felt a pang of guilt. How could I enjoy my meal knowing he hadnt eaten all day? Without thinking, I ran inside, grabbed a portion of my lunch, and brought it to him.
Here, take this, I said, handing him the plate.
He hesitated, his eyes wide with surprise. Justina, Ma will be angry
